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. … Continue reading "Driftwood"
The once-timid, the quiet girl.
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
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 … Continue reading "Art Class"
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 … Continue reading "Colors are like touch…"
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 … Continue reading "Driving Through Villages"
expressive movement weightless hope beautiful yearning © Andriy Bezuglov | Dreamstime.com – Ballerina in black
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
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 For more