Painter of Light

there’s no time to cry; happy, happy

—R.E.M.

I want to live in a painting

by Thomas Kinkade.

The critics all

hate his guts—

and that makes me

feel at home—with his

pastel potpourri, gauche

tranquility, his snowfalls

always tender, no one

with a cause to

shovel drives.

I want to linger forever 

in his cobblestone

house, open a Tudor window—

feed the pink & yellow birds;

keeping the fire stoked,

smoke arising

from the chimney

and the roast of

perfect mallows.

Everything is always perfect

in the village. There’s Sam

en route to the lighthouse,

guiding pleasant boaters

to the dock. Dorothy

with her bulging, market

bag—willing & eager

to prepare

the family dinner.

No one ever drinks or

pops a fentanyl—

there’s too much cheer in the valley

to even think of such a thing.

And though rock ‘n’ roll's too jarring,

they’ll permit a mid-day blast—

of Shiny Happy People—goes well

with a Brahms allegro.

You might be shocked to learn

it wasn’t always this way for him—

pretzeled, severed limbs;

the napalm

burning flesh

in Vietnam; a mother’s eye

a-swell from a drunken

punch;

that after it was viewed,

his teacher was aghast—Tommy!

Put your paintbrush in the jar!

Go and stand in the corner!

It is said

he couldn’t leave

until his tears were

warm with joy,

before the shrill of the final bell,

embarrassed

by his stomach’s

grizzly growl, smiling

ear-to-ear

as though he meant it.

Andreas Gripp

May 11, 2025

Thomas Kinkade