Poems framed in gold, or behind glass, wait to spark an internal light. Born from the time in dreams of hope, embers glow from generation to generation. Over time colors fade, waiting to spark in a new soul open to the poets gift.
Art is the love artist’s pass on through colors and pain, to kindle embers waiting in others souls. Van Gogh’s work stirs the sleeping embers in me at times. Ablaze, my hand works as my poem comes to the canvas before me in the shapes given me by day lilies. Words from Mom lift my loaded brush to the canvas with the colors forming my poem. Her canvas was the black earth, prepared with rich manure from Mr. Vargos’ pony farm. Canvases of sweetness filled with dreams are loaded in the trunk of the car. They raise visions of a long forgotten flower.. Embers of the past are ever present and quite welcome as my poem comes forth. A pony nudges me as I paint the words. Next subject maybe,? It forms in my head as I rest my paint brush.
