Music plays. Today it is the Stones.
Just yesterday it was Brubeck.
The specifics matter less than the lostness,
than the way it fills the air,
the way it takes your heart
and like a bad cowboy movie,
makes it dance.
The afternoon light comes through the window,
Bright and low, magical for a few short hours,
with a light that exposes color and line
as something more, a light
that pulls the emotion out of brush and paint,
out of your soul
and leaves them wet and glistening on the paper,
those demons you could not name finally exorcised,
captured at last, leaving room
for the next one to appear.
About this poem.
I have said it before. Painting. Poetry. All of it is more therapy than art. And the studio is my padded room.