Artists; The Dead Still Living

"A man paints with his brains and not with his hands."
Michelangelo

The power of the wilting flower;
all that we are fades away.
The gift of the artist is simple;
to leave behind whispers.
Project that which lies beneath
the placid surface, but only in
broken, often misplaced splinters.
Paint or sing or write with small
shards of spirit; little frosty
windows into that hidden place.
As the petals slowly turn to ash,
try to capture their vitality
in the confines of a still life.
Draw the hands of the clocks
with great care, as they tick
the life from the hands that,
in turn, put new life into them.

"Art is the stored honey of the human soul, gathered on wings of misery and travail."
Theodore Dreiser

Silence of the midnight hour.
Black lonely boxes sprinkled
by the shining light within,
sit in clusters atop the grey
concrete rivers that connect
this world. In a ghostly crowd
of solitude, the artist grasps
at the wilted stems within.
Stems of innocence and of
understanding; stems of soul.
Trying to taste the sweet nectar
of realization; to create
something that transcends
the frail human frame,
with all of its faults and fears.
It is a form of release, a burning
desire to pour out onto the earth
that which is untainted.

"An artist never really finishes his work, he merely abandons it."
Paul Valery

The ripeness slowly turning sour;
shadows melting into shadows.
Faces disappearing into sunlight,
or into the misty unknown that
watches silently through the moon.
The only comfort is found
in the sun rays or moonbeams
that the faces left behind.
While they are mere trickles of light,
they are quiet proof of the life
that abandoned them. Hanging
on the walls in the empty rooms
where vanished minds once slept,
they timidly reflect the voices of
those passed and gone.

"I could have been rich, but being an artist was more fun."
Jack Jackson