contemplativeOld Man Young Artist
Poem for Day 240 – 20150829
Why couldn't I produce the art
that flows from my hands and eye
in years more youthful than now?
I've lost the years I could have had
to build my brand and fan my fame
so the world could know who I am.
Another path I had chosen,
left brain slanted for good cause,
not the artistic by and large.
To turn round to the right side,
the domain of artistic types,
came much latter in this mortal life.
Time flowed under the bridge,
revealing the world to my heart
so I may know humanity.
Spilled ink without this magic
is so many words that cannot speak
to others in a voice showing truth.
The public artist is a fool,
the spectacle for the world to see,
exposing themselves in imagery.
I was not so in younger years,
no so brash or ready to say
the words meant for a world to hear.
In the artist the flame must burn
quenched by creation's sharing
even as they are inspired by the same.
This was absent in the years past,
the talent may have been present
but the desire was submerged.
Now I produce to my heart's delight
words and pictures dribble out
bounty harvested from the years.
I am happy to be in this place,
older yet wiser would be the phrase,
and the world now knows who I am.
© 2015, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.
