Why should artists find it hard
To make an honest living,
When everyday, they spend themselves
In thoughtful, heartfelt, giving?
Each Artist is an Alchemist
Transmuting pain to gold;
The searchlight of their consciousness
Mining wonders to behold.
Each Artist is an Architect
Raising glory out of thought;
Building hope, uncircumspect
Manifesting substance out of nought.
Each tiny win, each bitter tear,
Each emotion holds its pearl;
Each tiny step, forward or back,
Defines my Artist’s World.
To staunch the flow, I’d have to hold my breath
Until my lips turned blue;
My Art must spring, unblocked, unbidden
As, to myself, I’m true.
My Poetry, My Paint, My Prose
Is my exhalation of each spark inspired!
Released, expressed, I so plant my seeds –
Bemused by what next transpires…
For some words take root, push forth green shoots,
And others fail and fall;
Some rhymes bear fruit and touch the heart,
But my soul loves one and all.
You see “I Am An Artist” – in bone, in blood,
In thought, in deed, in word;
To deny this fact, denies myself:
A thought, I judge absurd!