Sketchbook

It started with a line
A pencil sketch from a steady hand
Vertical and straight, right down the left margin
Until a sudden curve
Quite literally draws it away
Mere seconds before it would have run out of page
     and died a smudge on the desk

The curve became a spiral
A slow and determined movement
Building a path
Traveling around and around itself
As if it were seeking its own center
Seeking some sort literal closure
     in the absence of an emotional one.

It started again with a square
One on top of another
Connected at the corners building a cube
Shaded on the side and
Casting a shadow to block out the spiral 
A box to keep everything in
     and the walls to keep everything out

Because this picture isn't worth 1,000 words
It's only a sketch worth 500
Just a moment in time, a second really
To explore the white space and
Rob it of its purity
Spreading darkness like butter onto bread
     feeding consciousness with beauty only to be thrown away

In the end maybe its enough
It might just happen that this sketch reached its full potential
And died happy in the trash
Balled up in the corner, hugging itself
Finally loving itself and being happy to do it
Or maybe that's the lie
     and every sketch that ever died in the trash is mad as hell

It could have been so much more
The next Mona Lisa or
Something as bright as Starry Night
Cathartic as the Scream
Only how will a sketch ever know
Huddled up around itself in the trash
     the junkie of art

Then it starts again with a line
Only the hand isn't so steady now
It shakes, trembling with urgent desire
An artist's need to create
To get that next fix
An explosion of self-expression in an image
     saying everything that must never be said

This line is darker
Striking in its boldness
Running to the edge of the white
Daring itself to jump from the page
To the sky as a bird in flight
A masterpiece sculpted from the meager beginnings
     of bold lines on a page

Instead the jump is a break
A right angle across and another up
Sketching the path of an elevator
Down to up and down again
Then back up and down more quickly
Cycling faster and faster rushing to the right margin
     where it will die, a smudge on the desk

It started with a line
A brushstroke from a steady hand
Vertical and straight, right down the left side of the canvas
Until a sudden curve
Quite literally paints it away
The beginning of a new picture born from trash
     a masterpiece worth 1,000 words. 

Soul Tree

Awake again.
Alive in perpetuity,
Alone in purgatory
Chained to the hard floor.
 A shadow cast aside;
Left behind in the light.
Standing in the skin of a wolf;
Old bones collected in a haggard hide.
Still covering up your scars?
Hiding the real skin?
It bleeds beneath the spit in your eye.
Bruises on your neck,
Frantically glue together
Every rule over broken.
Desperate for the maudlin dream of yesterday,
A seedy, macarbre facsimile of what was;
Old when it was new.

Which pill will you take
To quell the voice speaking truth?
A light in the dark.

The Eye of the Beholder

I don't usually share my visual art simply because I don't think I'm very good at it. This piece is a rare exception. The accompanying poem is below:

What's behind your eyes?
So young with an aged gaze
Can your love be real?
Through the eye of the beholder
There is only true beauty

Your eyes, so deep and knowing
What have they seen?
Has it been too much of this life?
Through the eye of the beholder
There is only true happiness

What's behind your eyes?
So full of hope for a future
That brightens the darkness of the past
What must your survival have cost?

Through the eye of the beholder
There is only true beauty
Only true happiness
Only true love