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Tuesday, November 08, 2011
Life Behind a Painter's Brush
I received this beautiful poem today from my friend Sylvia, a poet.
With Sylvia's permission I thought you all might enjoy her work.
By: Sylvia Lain
The movement on the brush begins,
Well before the first swath of paint wets the canvas.
And life is born solely at the artist’s whim,
The journey being where our mind decides to take us.
Be it a recognized form we love,
The shape of rock, flowers or trickling water,
Or the beautiful form of human kind
A beautiful woman, burdened man, a woeful child,
The beholder determines its final chapter.
The emotions that flow from the colors released
Escape the palette and spring forth from the brush,
Giving way to a torrent of vivid turmoil,
Or the delicate whispers of a gentle hush.
Clouds of lavender billowing in splendor,
Or thunderheads burdened with ominous impending rain,
Or a preacher shaking his fist at a congregation,
Or a lost dog searching for a home he won’t find again.
The joy of a clown all painted and smiles,
And children gathering his twisted balloons,
Delight the viewer just the same,
Be it a circus tent, or an orphan’s solitary room.
Chef’s cooking with abandon,
Ingredients flying in a dust of flour
Metal spoons stirring delectable, fragrant sauces
Mouths watering for a taste in about an hour.
The painter’s brush is alive and guided
By the gift of a true and living spirit.
I embrace the talent, and feel life within each piece,
Not only do I see its beauty, but my soul can hear it.
With Sylvia's permission I thought you all might enjoy her work.
By: Sylvia Lain
The movement on the brush begins,
Well before the first swath of paint wets the canvas.
And life is born solely at the artist’s whim,
The journey being where our mind decides to take us.
Be it a recognized form we love,
The shape of rock, flowers or trickling water,
Or the beautiful form of human kind
A beautiful woman, burdened man, a woeful child,
The beholder determines its final chapter.
The emotions that flow from the colors released
Escape the palette and spring forth from the brush,
Giving way to a torrent of vivid turmoil,
Or the delicate whispers of a gentle hush.
Clouds of lavender billowing in splendor,
Or thunderheads burdened with ominous impending rain,
Or a preacher shaking his fist at a congregation,
Or a lost dog searching for a home he won’t find again.
The joy of a clown all painted and smiles,
And children gathering his twisted balloons,
Delight the viewer just the same,
Be it a circus tent, or an orphan’s solitary room.
Chef’s cooking with abandon,
Ingredients flying in a dust of flour
Metal spoons stirring delectable, fragrant sauces
Mouths watering for a taste in about an hour.
The painter’s brush is alive and guided
By the gift of a true and living spirit.
I embrace the talent, and feel life within each piece,
Not only do I see its beauty, but my soul can hear it.
Monday, November 07, 2011
Saturday, November 05, 2011
Thursday, November 03, 2011
Tuesday, November 01, 2011
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