Life

It is not supposed to make sense,
this odd art that surrounds you,
flush with color and line, designed
to wrench out emotion, to
send your thoughts
along it’s own paths,
making mockery of the artist’s design
as you create something so new
you leave the creator
baffled

About this poem

I have said it before – that the writer or artist loses control of their creation the moment it is seen or read. At that moment, it becomes the property of the reader or viewer, who will make it their own, depending on their state of mind. It may or may not bear much resemblance to what we thought we created. .

It happens in life. It happens in art. How often, I wonder, does God scratch his head when he hears what we think of him?

Tom