Rainbow Flower and Pot
Finley has decided, quite rightly, that what she wants to paint, draw, or colour, is much more important than any of the page prompts in the drawing book I got her. That said, this could easily be a comic book cover – or the cover photo of my next book.
“I want to see the world again through the eyes of a little child” – Picasso. The gift of so doing is precious.
Compassion
Finley #3.
We are working together on paintings.
This is Finley’s third effort. It is called Compassion.
Mirror images and tinges of warmth and reaching out.
Fin #2
Fin, while filling in squares, created a portrait of Moo.
This is my style of art. That’s how I paint. I hope you enjoy it.
Bye.
Nos Sadwrn
Saturday today, just another Saturday. Took a morning whirlpool bath, had breakfast went shopping, then decided to post something. But post what? Anything.
Qui tacet consentire videtur – whatever that mans, and I am sure someone out there can help me. Life takes funny steps at my age, and forgetting things is one of them.
Ephemera – the title of the leading painting, shows a poem being half-obliterated by autumn leaves and early snow. Everything seems so ephemeral, so quick to pass by. As for me, I blossomed and flourished like a leaf on a tree, but now I wither, slowly, shrinking back into myself. Or is it just a version of my myself? To thine own self be true. So easy to say. But I am no more myself, I have become the fifth of the twelfth. Or, as Apollinaire, whoever he was, once wrote: je ne me sens plus la, moi-meme. Je suis le quinze de l’onzieme. Oh accents, accents, accents – you can’t find them when you need them and you can’t lose them without expensive elocution lessons. And even with those lessons, rhythm and accent come creeping back again, when least you expect them to.
Jyst nos Sadwrn arall yn – and maybe there’s someone out there who can sort that one out for me too. But in spite everything, I guess it’s anither day, another post, and a drop more water under the Mirabeau bridge as well as just another Saturday night. meanwhile – Odeur du temps, brin de bruyere – et souviens-toi que je t’attends –
To Meditate is No Disgrace
The Water Tower
16
There comes a time when you can do no more.
You need to take a break, to step aside and wait
for the tide to turn and energy to flow.
The hard yards may be behind you,
but there’s hard yards waiting round the bend,
waiting for the break to end.
And you, you might bend and take a break,
but you must never break.
No one else can see what you see
or do what you do.
Nobody can take your place.
To take a break
and meditate is no disgrace.
Click here for Roger’s Reading on Anchor.
To Meditate is no Disgrace
My Morning Coffee
The Water Tower
15
“The only photo I took today was of my morning coffee.
Looks calm and peaceful, doesn’t it? It wasn’t!
The wind gusts were unrelenting, with just
enough moments of calm and warmth from the sun
to give me hope.
There was also some rain, snow, and a little hail,
just enough to get me running for cover.
A wise man once told me that
‘some days you’ll be the hammer,
and others the nail.’
Today I was the nail.”
On the Seventh Day
The Water Tower
14
On the seventh day he would have rested,
but there’s no rest for the restless artists
who create in thought, word, and deed.
They can rest from the deed
and take a day off work,
but thought and word go on.
And even if their day is silent,
with no one to talk to, no words at all,
the everlasting bunnies of thought
dance on and on,
beating their drums,
planning, sketching, designing,
outlining, shuffling the cards,
mixing colors and words
in endless games of creativity.
Another Long Day
The Water Tower
13
“Another long day but I completed the sky,
then finished the wharf’s grey asphalt.
Large areas are easier to spray with my air gun.
It’s hard to paint them with a brush.
I also got the base coat on to the ever-greens.
Much more difficult: I painted the inside of the cage
around the ladder that leads to the roof.
Fiddly work, time consuming, but nice
to get out of the way.
No painting tomorrow,
but Saturday and Sunday look good.
As for Monday, I don’t know yet
I’ll have to wait and see if it rains.”
Click here for Roger’s reading on Anchor.
Another Long Day
The Water Tower 5
Does the left hand know
what the right hand is doing?
Does the pencil know
where the artist’s hand is going?
Does the artist know
the point of arrival
before he even sets out
and takes his first step
on that life-long journey?
Or does he play the music by ear,
the paint by eye,
the pencil and brush
by the deftest of touches
that follow a path set
long ago in the summer stars
and the winter nights
of longing and strife?
Only the artist knows:
and he might not be telling.
The Water Tower 1
Where do we begin? At the end,
with the artist’s vision
of where he wants to go?
Or at the beginning,
even though all artists know that
their beginning is in their end
and their end is in their beginning?
Choose: for there is always choice,
a road taken, a road untaken leading
who knows where
and to what unknowable end.
rogermoorepoet 