My Poem of Colors

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.  

Strengthening the "Brain Muscle"

Benson & Hedges cigarettes was a class assignment in Father Steven's algebra class. We had to write an essay on their TV commercial. Every other weekend Father Steven gave his students a thinking assignment. We had a full week to write an essay on one of several subjects he posted on the black board. I picked TV commercials for my essay. My eyes and ears were glued to commercials between episodes of Gunsmoke, Sugar Foot and I Love Lucy, for hints of what to write. I ended up writing about Benson and Hedges claim of filtering through its length. Mom was there as my spelling guide, as usual. "Sound out the word,” was her response to my spelling question. Sometimes Dad would look up from his crossword puzzle and chime in, asking if there were any words I could replace the one I needed help with. Homework was a family project some nights…

Thinking was Father Steven's goal in class. When he became aware of my interest in art, he picked art related subjects for my weekly essays. Looking for Math in a painting took the joy out of a painting for me though. An essay on one of Jackson Pollock's paintings was a real stretch for me, that somehow I got right. I learned there wasn't any correct answer coming from these essays. Dad smiled when I told him anything I wrote seemed to be correct. I didn't know then Father Steven was just strengthening our “brain muscle”, as Dad put it.

I looked at Kathe Kollwitz art differently after Algebra's class. Her drawing of "Woman with Dead Child" suddenly became a drawing of intense love. I took the time to really look at her drawing and read up on her. Father Steven, who hoped I would make a career involving math, had turned my choice of careers towards the arts. I wanted to move people with my art, like I was moved by that drawing. Mike the Barber helped me with that. When dad realized I was serious about going into the field of art he went all out making sure I knew what I was doing and set me on the right path. 

The guidance counselors at Marmion Academy washed their hands of me when I told them what I wanted to be... If one wasn't going to college they had no time to help you. Today Marmion has an art class.