Poem: Where Spirits Reside


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.


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


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