On Art

The bright colors of imitation

Eventually lose their luster.

The canvas sags under the 

Proud weight of haughty kings, or 

Can bear the hungry eyes

Of the blind no more.

Mortar tires of binding stones together

And, instead of keeping it out,

Learns to accept the weather.

Gaudy flowers and their 

Manicured show sicken the soul

That yearns to be solitary, and

In her silence, tranquil and whole.

But, the self-same force 

That compels us to obey 

Nature’s course,

To pacify the lusty hunger, 

The thirst, and the thousand demons 

The flesh is cursed with,

Moves the soul 

To create herself anew!

In mirrors ever more accurate

To see herself reflected 

Naked and immaculate,

She impels the brush, 

The chisel, the pen in hand,

To paint, to carve, to write,

To dream herself her very own 

Promised land.

Reviews

[FGFRANKLIN]

The only commodities a writer has are originality and personal perspective. To take a thought and make it your own; painted your own color on your own blank canvas or crafted with your own chisel from a square block of marble words, that is a beautiful feeling. The artist gives birth to the creation and the children make the heart of the artist glad. This was wonderfully expressed. I enjoyed the read.

[Chris Shaw]

A fabulous piece of writing Laz. The artist in all of us is ever seeking to reach the pinnacle. Whether we are painters, poets or writers. If we are serious about our art, that is what we do. It also reminds me of a British mountain climber. Driven to reach the summit of Everest. Died in pursuit of his dream. That was George Mallory. Not an artist, but an adventurer with dreams. We all need dreams.

Chris

[Lorry]

I am most likely way off the mark with this one Laz, but I couldn't shake the fact from my head that entropy is as much a part of life, as anything else we value more worthy.
We value these masterpieces, hanging in important galleries, because we are told how good they are, not how they make us feel or understand the artist.
Perhaps that is why we hang on to the coliseum, which in today's world, is just a health and safety nightmare waiting to happen, slap bang in a busy city centre!
Maybe those pens, brushes and chisels are meant to be handed down, to an eafer new generation, to inspire us with their visions.
But what do I know. I'm from a country whose national flower is a weed and national animal is a freakin' unicorn!!!
We are a weird bunch, us Scots 😊

[jacob erin-cilberto]

The third stanza is incredible, Laz.
We as artists, painters or poets, seek that promised land.
The one that is like the Garden of Eden...back to the simple, the uncovered, where creativity roams free and easy.
j.