Poem: Where Spirits Reside

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Mystic Time

Here the light.
There the dark.
A thin brush.
A thick brush.
Time and light and color.
You lose yourself.

“The work” they call it.
But you know the truth.
It is a holy spirit
unleashed in paint and word,
A holy time
when you are neither yourself,
and more yourself
all at once.

About this poem.

When I write or paint, I lose all track of time and space and self. It seems to happen almost outside of myself.

The word inspiration means “God breathed”.

From those two things, this poem.

Tom

PS: The photograph was taken at Oleana, the home of Hudson River painter Fredrick Church.

 

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