The Art of Magic

April 25, 2012

Imagination flows,
the mind, and the hand,
it grows,
as the mind controls the body,
emotion sweeping over,
as I bring life,
and is linked to me,
like a lover,
it understands me,
and is the gateway
to sharing my brain,
saving it,
storing it,
keeping it new.

Neat, black squiggles on a paper
cannot express the deep,
passionate images in my mind,
cannot bring tears to the gazer’s eye.
There needs color,
there needs life,
to elaborate the pure joy,
or painful strife.
A magician,
able to create from nothing,
and yet everything;
a simple idea,
elaborated,
to show its full potential,
and spread its wings,
soaring across the sky.
More powerful
than a room full of kings.
But more gentle,
Than a bird,
full of beauty,
as it sings.
It can change a war,
soften a heart,
en-richen the poor.
It’s symbolic, and meaningful
brushed
aside by the weak-minded,
but understood,
and appreciated
by those who can find it.

An idea spurts,
and down goes the magical hand,
sweeping across an empty land,
and creating something much more,
Than meets the eye.


The author's comments:
Yo, yo, YO!
Not my favorite poem, as I wrote this to be more of a happy, relaxing one. It's not about death, or sorrow, or joy, or anything particularly important. It's just a nice little poem about a painter, making a work of art. I'm definitely not an artist in the painting genre, and I quite disagree with the sentence that begins with the words, "Neat, black squiggles on a paper..." because I'm obviously talking about how a writer is not as creative as a painter, but see, this is from a painter's point of view, and, just like Davinci and Michaelangelo thought each other's work was dumb, here, a painter might think a writer's work is dumb.

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