chris english
The Anchor and Kite, oil colour on canvas, 48 x 36 inches. © C. English.

The Anchor and Kite

They are the anchor that tugs my kite.
In all the clever tricks to play
They are the ones that pull from beginning to end.
Those who had nothing gave me so much.
Having lived amongst the less fortunate,
Losing even life itself without dignity.
Knowing that at least there was the chance
To climb up and leave behind the forgotten
That could not. Little did I know.

Only, of course, you don’t forget them.
Those who had nothing gave
The gleaming jewel to carry on
Behind an iron mask.

In the ability to fortify himself
With the dignity, ego, vanity and pride,
A persona totally cloaked in an image
In all its absurdities,
The make-up man put on his armour-plated helmet,
Masking inadequacies, living out fantasy in confidence tricks.
The fragile talent only granted by the grace of ability,
Expectancy only by its means.

The kite as mask, masked by life,
Pampered by normality, moaned like a pet.
He remembered those from his past, people who knew
Depression was a luxury they could not afford.
And in the present, noticed those who complained the most
Had the least wrong with them,
and those who complained the least had the most.

So my strength was drawn from the forsaken,
and from those forgotten.
Not from those whose life was so full of expectancy.

In comparison what did I want?
The life of a floating clown, adrift without anchor, had no meaning.
Having the mask of agility, a life granted by the grace of ability.
So dreams become true.Yes. Was the answer instinctively,
As nature is only designed to survive.
Though only the anchor within my heart behind the mask
Really means anything.

© C. English