She asked me, “So —
Is that a work of art?”
I said I thought it was,
She said, “It’s broken —
Even kind of random –“
“But broken’s beautiful
all life is either
the rests in between
(“Young Dancers” – 8-3-2015)
We reproduce the world, and see
What isn’t oughta shouldn’t be –
Then reproduce, on screen and page
A type of social macrophage
To crush the infamy, and try
For greener grass and bluer sky:
Artistic license, at it’s core —
Though we be small, we hope
I wanted to be an artist.
Artists make entirely new things.
Things people enjoy for the things themselves.
Things that are intended to be used, but not used up.
Too many parts of life – things, moments, relationships – get used up.
I drew, colored and painted every spare moment, but art would not come.
There I am, sitting in a summer day camp class after fourth grade.
A woman is showing us how to make art out of driftwood.
Where we lived, driftwood was everywhere.
This was art, but not entirely new.
In fact, it was very, very old.
I still remember the smell and feel of it.
Driftwood taken from a timeless beach on the edge of forever.
You mix in other things pass by without noticing, and make beauty.
Not the beauty of perfection, but the glorious beauty of the commonplace.
There is a joy in simply noticing and taking in our surroundings.
Surroundings that simultaneously take us in, as well.
To both make, and be made, in the same moment.
To know that we are where life placed us.
Both artist and work of art.
Living tree and driftwood.
You want to be an artist.
patterns, colors all,
a stopping place for druther —
for beauty is its own excuse,
it really needs
If I could paint a picture true
Of sunny day, and waterfall,
I’d surely give it then, to you,
To hang up in your favorite hall
I’d my pour my love into this art
So you would see it, and recall —
Then you’d walk by it, every day,
And never look