Evelyn Judy Buehler

March 18, 1953 - Chicago
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Faces in the Crowd

I was a vibrant, portrait painter, bringing cherished profiles to eternal life,
Like undying life of balmy springtime, recurring in shades of green so rife.

I had long been fascinated with new faces, for it is seldom, two are alike,
As vague wonder, and deep mystery, follows each zigzag, lightning strike.

Happy, sunglow days were active, since I had a large, fastidious clientele,
Like the starry nights of moonlit magic, which put nature beneath its spell.

I lived in the house of pleasant afternoon, built to await a stunning sunset;
And rooms echoed our laughter and joys, as beloved homes never forget!

Birds sang in enchanted gardens, all along that fashionable, Sunny Street,
And hued 4 o'clocks, beautiful blooms, brought bliss in ways more discreet.

My walls held precious, family portraits, painted by none other than myself,
As pure earth soaks up golden sunshine, adding to its store of vast wealth.

Butterflies were flitting, green trees were barking, in dog days of summer,
And dark magic of moonlit evenings, abided in hands of guitar strummers!

Paved sidewalks were sidelined, by the greener natural paths and gardens,
And smoky, purple sunsets were joined, by the songs of the purple martins.

I had gone to bed, one serene night, after sunset colors touched the black,
And I had soon slipped off to dreamland, like pretty autumn's sudden lack.

Soon I was dreaming of many faces, gathered together in a motley crowd;
Then I saw one, more clearly than the rest, like colors when they are loud.

The face had captivating eyes, and it haunted me long after I had awoken,
As azure, misty mountain captivates, in zones where no words are spoken.

At last I knew I must paint that face, and with great satisfaction, I soon did,
Resulting in a great product of the night, and its spaces where beauty's hid!

Like lying upon the purple hills of summer, seeing faces in the milky clouds,
With the kind of absorption possible, when far from giddy, bustling crowds.

As striking, diverse faces in the throngs, strangers kept visiting my dreams,
Coming and going like still, golden hours, when I languished in moonbeams.

The numerous faces from out of my dreams, soon made mine quite famous,
And though I yearned to meet each one, of course, they stayed anonymous.

Sometimes, in silent hours, I wonder, is there a doppelganger for each one,
Like these lookalike, varicolored days, caused by the rising and setting sun?

I will never know the answer to that, in this world full of invisible mysteries,
Like the ebony, satin nights of dreams, with no future, present or histories!
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