Wednesday, December 24, 2014

“Death of an Artist”

Granite is an easy stone to carve,
Compared to stone heartsbeating in unison to a time/clock.
We become our dread when we have no goal.
Children carry a name, but they carry not our dreams.

We remember Michelangelo, yet
We have no idea of his heirs or lack thereof.
Whether he had many or any children is as moot as
The depth of conscience of a lawyer in heaven or hell.

To create art-that is the lifeblood of an artist.
To create life is consequential, like scones with tea.
An inspired quilt or laundry line is the result of an artisan.
A bevy of babies in hospital newborn ward is merely a result.

My art is here. Naked on paper, unarmed with quaff or sword.
When I die, my child will cry, my friends will be troubled, and
Community may pause in a brief moment of sadness.
But my art will live on, unencumbered by grief, guilt, expectations.

Shakespeare, Shelly, Bryon, Poe, Thomas, Yeats, Faulkner, Salinger…
What of their children do we consider before we challenge the abyss?
NOTHING…the nothingness of the end of space, time-shadowless light.
We remember their art, their ageless artspawn, as we go not gently…

Into that good night.

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