Abstract

It does not matter
that you do not understand,
that somehow God’s mix
of madness, sorrow, lust and tenderness
flows from your fingers,
that somehow you are not yourself
and yet
more yourself than at any other time.

It does not matter
what others see,
because this is not a rational thing you do.
It is a thing of emotion,
words and thoughts left behind
your more primal knowledge
of how the world works,
color and line,
less images than eruptions
of sacred truths.

About this poem. 

I also paint. Over thirty years, I have evolved from a very detailed pen and ink artist, to a full-fledged abstract artist.

When I do art shows, some stay and talk. Others shake their head and move on to the “real art” (A phrase I hear often). At one show I mother pulled her fascinated your son away from my exhibits, telling him tht my art was dangerous.

I like that. Most of my life is so gentle and quiet, that it’s nice to be dangerous every now and then.

Tom