art
Deep hands in eddied streams,
It all goes endless on,
Yet all the droplets bead,
Fine pearls the palms along,
A gift of other eyes,
So feeble and bemused,
Becomes so tactile, wise,
Lights on the fickle fuse.
A love of life so sprouts,
In fields of sewing paper,
All artistry a gift
And so the breath.
I am lost in modern chirps,
But adrift in olding text,
I must make but be first made
And so refined.
Created worlds that run so deep,
So plumbed with teeming ores that smote,
The very hearts of men in midst,
Of making and in being made.
These sure undending strolls conform,
To patterns rooted at the nape,
Of truth so blooming up the mind,
As beauty, joy, and providence.
The toil of all such loves to ink a page,
In furtive follies foil and fold a shadow,
Long looking lulls and lullabies a smile,
Have you seen the glory in a face?
The simple and the savoured joy,
Oh how it rings about the eyes!
The eyes so kept in drooping shadow,
To fashion face from all this inking
Mess. The order from the scribble,
Oh working working at the face!
The untrained eye takes long to see,
All folds and manifolds to dine,
With the created thing creating things.
I find again in tinkering,
The deep humanities therein,
A strange new craft we find ourselves,
Within - though we the same as old.
This is the colour of an artful life,
This is the hidden play of all the years,
To make and giggle with each hand,
So firmly resting on your tools.
Another day so spent on tinkering with bliss,
On forming from the edge of sight,
Forms unmeasured rising into light,
Such things inspiring - being inspired,
My very colours call to me to act,
This is some wonky part of art,
This is some muddled way of play,
This is quite something to be deep within.
It's getting comfy now,
This place of mine,
So full of colours and at last,
The walls are hung upon my art,
My words have found it,
A place within this boisterous bundle of wires.
Ever the strange pictures beside the views,
The tremors of the past made mute in death,
An iconography of old disused,
Becomes bewildered to comedic dread,
Why so many wings, why?
Scales, winding robes for what?
What proverbs did apply,
Within these jovial eyes and solemn lips?
Your blatant words are kept,
Your characters find few,
But who can know the depths,
I find the veil of time is truly shrewd.
Returning to the funny squares,
To play with the interpolation,
That whirrs away behind my eyes,
That makes the simple come alive,
The angles smooth, the motion filled,
With nuances that only dwell in the implied.
Animating shapes,
Until I form them into symbols,
Breathed upon to give them pace,
Symbolic of a running figure,
Jumping, stomping with a breath,
Finding in a static world a place to linger,
Though itself in motion none the less.
A taste for art, what kind, what kind?
Why, pictures made in words of course,
Why, pictures made in sparsely squares,
Why, pictures in a photo and a sketch,
The art became a techy taste,
Then beckoned me to learn with haste,
How to make art with such a taste,
How to make art at its own pace.