And Yet…

Blessed be the artist,
For to him is given the dream of creation.

Whilst others scramble in mud,
He may dream that it is liquid silver.

While others scream over a bent fender,
He may imagine them in chivalric fashion,
A pair of armored sea lions at the tilt.

When a fish flies from the sea,
Trailing a shimmering blade of water,
He is blessed to see more than mere water;
To him is given sight to see and ears to hear
The music of all creation,
Played in between the patter of rain
The roar of the windy surf
In the booming voice of the thunder
In the scintillating fingers of lightning
Which split the sky like rivers of fire.

Blessed be the artist,
For God has opened the door
To the artists’ studio,
And given him brushes and paints,
Pens and inks and eyes to see
The beauty which lie beneath the substance.

Beauty is only skin deep,
Unless you have the eyes of God.

Marvel you artists! Marvel all,
At God’s glorious artistry!
Every gleaming drop of water,
Every flowing electron,
Every quivering proton,
Every gallant sunbeam,
Every furious thunderclap,
Howling wind, rattling rain
Roaring fire and trembling Earth
Pounding hooves and beating wings
The choir of the crickets
The harmony of human voice
And dove’s purring warble and
Ten thousand thousand songs and sights,
Made by the greatest artist of all!

The only artist whose sculptures breathe.

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Cursed the Artist

Cursed is the artist,
Who ever must bear witness
To the ever distant horizon
Whose eye alone can see
Shores beyond sight
Beyond existence.

Cursed is he who must see
The shimmering crystal waters
Of a lake of ruby and gold
Guarded by a giant of iron and stone;
Imprisoned within, a maid of diamond.

For he sees another who goes
A knight of bronze and fire,
Another one forever uncreated,
Another song unsung,
Another shore unseen.
A warrior who lives only in dreams.

And though his throat parch
Thinking of those effervescent waters
He must away to a land of mud and dust
To the world where phones jingle
And engines roar, and talking puppets
Talk about the newest fashions
Of dressing cats and dogs.

Cursed is he who dreams of knighthood,
For there are no more giants
Nor maiden royalty,
And to him falls the duty
To gaze longingly at the shores of creation,
Never knowing the dreams which haunt his living.