Art (And Nothing More)

…. somewhere, he is standing with a brush in
one hand and another trapped between his teeth,
oblivious to the drops of paint that have fallen on his
collar, on the floor beside him, on the top of his
bare foot. He is gone; drifting somewhere between the
music flooding through the room and the canvas before
him, sensing an impending lightening strike as he dismisses
one brush in favor of the other, not even knowing why
he would. He, artist. He, painter. He, creator. He is alive.

… and, she, barefooted herself, is pacing unconsciously
in another room, reciting from the book in her hand,
at full voice now, unaware that he’d slipped through the
door Jim Morrison left open just as she was tumbling
through the one Pessoa left ajar decades before. She is
at home; chasing thunder in a place of endless skies,
without boundaries, without the burden of floors,
as if nothing else mattered nor ever again could.
She, artist. She, poet. She, dreamer. She is living.

She is birthing words then without hesitation or
conscious intention, letting them bleed like wet paint
down a wall onto the page. He is spreading colors
without premeditation, reflecting the deepening hues
of a sunset to backdropp the figure standing in shadow
beneath a streetlamp. As the sun falls down, she crawls,
silently, onto his canvas as he embeds himself, deliberately,
into her poem. They are white, and black, and burnt orange
– beyond her words, above his image. They are, for
the night, a night, this night –

Art, and nothing more.

User Rating: 5,0 / 5 ( 3 votes ) 6

Comments (6)

fabulous work. As i m blooming poet, i have learned lot from this.
I admit this poem so wowed me; I felt tongue tied and could not leave a comment yesterday. I didn't want to detract from it with my randomness. It's so unique and unusual. It really is like a poem painted with a brush. As close as you could ever get to one.
u are a poetic Picasso well done =)
Break on through to the other side, most are scared of what they'l find stops their adventure, nicely done My friend 10+
Christine is not a poet who would just let the first deluge of emotion out she has the ability build waterworks. The bringing together of two apparently diametric voices of Jim Morrison and Pessoa is as breathtaking as the final fusion of white, and black, and burnt orange…. This poem has to be framed and hung in all possible places where Art may want to live
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