Said the Canvas to the Artist...

said the canvas to the artist:
"sometimes, I wish
you'd just pick up
that resting brush
and stroke me
with your lingering eyes
and uncertain hands,
splashing colours
across my bosom;
isn't the emptiness
that you see,
inspiration enough?
to feel and create
depths in surfaces
longing to be met
in quiet serendipity?

The Blind Painter

and I watched him closely
as he painted
not what he saw
with his shrouded eyes,
but what he felt
with his empty heart,
as the canvas came alive
with unnamed colours
to fill my senses,
and his broken art.

I’m not an Artist, I’m a Devotee

and when you asked me
if I was an artist,
I looked into myself and smiled;
and my eyes were led
to the gifts of an ordinary day,
to the vastness
and nothingness
of the sea, the sky,
the sun, the stars,
and all of creation,
that never speak aloud of their art,
but quietly go about their daily business
possessed by an unflinching devotion
to themselves, to each other,
and to Life.

Renewal

to listen
to the forest
is my homecoming -
building bridges
to a forgotten place
within
that breathes
silence.
solitude.
stillness.

I come to take
a part of you
back with me,
and instead
you give me back
my whole self,
in one piece.

the forest
is where
furtive thoughts
quieten
like a tired child
hushed to sleep
by a silent lullaby;
it is where
a broken heart
gathers
its scattered shards,
coming together
as one mural;

it is where
trees sculpt
ancient stories
and whisper them
to the distant sky,
brushed by silence
dripping slowly
over their changing canvas;
a renewal
of faith -
the artist's way.