A Country Autumn – 10

The paint begins to peel
Our stories start to fade
Our colors start to dim
Our fabrics degrade

But that can never mean
Though time be overriding
That paintings aren’t worth paint
A battles aren’t

Worth

Fighting

Art Class

Show the world what you’ve been feeling,
There are walls, but there’s no ceiling,
Hopes and fears with which your dealing,
Turn them into something more —

There is nothing small about you,
Show those who ignore or doubt you
All that is within, without you
Though you may be rich, or poor —

You are more than shows by seeing,
So by doing, show your being,
No more running, hiding, fleeing,
You’re no ornamental bird:

You’ve a voice that must

Be heard

Colors are like touch…

Colors are like touch, they can mean more
Than any words could say. When chosen well,
They may speak of the flags of ancient war
Of years ago, forgotten. Or may tell

Of pageantry, adventure, and romance –
The glorious and blazing sight of she
Or he, who braved the monster or the dance,
And kept throughout their great integrity.

Our favorite teams, or superheroes can
Always be told from others by the hues
In which they’ve long performed: woman or man,
Have colors known from helmets down to shoes.

  Other times, though, it is understood
  That colors just mean… colors. Which is good.

Driving Through Villages

They drove through villages for hours, and he
Was just a boy, but still he watched, enthralled.
What seemed like sameness wasn’t so to him,
Like models come to life, this row of toys.

The roofs, the windows, factories, and spires,
The bits of grass and trees, the shops and cars,
The animals, the kids out playing football,
The houses, big and grand, or small and fine —

His eyes, so sharp, discerning, saw it all:
The artist loves much others might find dull

Tiles

Entering for the first time, we saw a room, big and new, that smelled of newness and spare furniture; its most conspicuous feature was a series of brightly colored tiles covering most of the back wall. These followed no pattern my eyes could make out, but I was fascinated by them: it was as though, even then, my heart knew that art itself resides in the stories we imagine as much or more as any story explicitly told.

Is That A Work of Art?

She asked me, “So —
Is that a work of art?”

I said I thought it was,
Most certainly.

She said, “It’s broken —
Even kind of random –“

“But broken’s beautiful
To those
Who see”


Photo credit: © Elena Egorova | Dreamstime.com