Richard Krevolin

When I was a child, I smeared azure
blue paint onto dark concrete
and turned the cold tarmac
lemon yellow and emerald green.

Then, I went to school and
the Science Professor told me
we dream in Black and White.

So I dropped my brush,
Closed my eyes and got a cubicle.

Thirty years later, I opened my eyes
Once again only to see

That I had to paint myself back into a corner
For it is there on the edge of the palette knife,
the tip of a fan brush
on white canvas
where the answers live.

For how can you really know anything
until you paint it or see it painted?

I took up my old brush
And tried to render a watery
vase of crimson roses.

As I witnessed the radiant light
bouncing through the thick
curved lavender depression glass,

I heard the silent roar of
splattered glossy hues
defeating the deafening cacophony
of words

Yes, Science Professor,
You sir, may dream in black and white,
but no, not me.

My days are now suffused with
Shimmering light,
And at night, I dream in colors.

Yale, UCLA, USC, blah, blah, blah...