Triptych: Primary Colors

I. Red

Spray paint on a freeway overpass:
Names covering names covering names
The drips bleed down in crimson lines

Hardened rock mesas, bleached by sun
Towering over the desert landscape
Older than our states and problems

A simple twist and a pillar of red
Rises and meets her lips to decorate
She puckers to make them perfect

II. Blue

A perfect gradient into the depths
The beginnings of life and still where
She keeps her secrets in the dark

The summer sky, pearlescent blue
Air thick with cicada calls and the
Humid condensation of potential

Fields of cornflowers in bloom,
A reminder of nature’s ability to
Mesmerize and enchant us all

III. Yellow

The fine sand beaches of Hawai’i
Shushing the tides in and out, as
Yellow and glistening as the sun

Steam rises off a fresh cup of
Fragrant chamomile tea, urging
You to take a sip (but it’s too hot)

A central hue of fire and flame
Disguising the destructive heat
Behind a comforting warm glow

MSBQ

Cultivation

When told by an old professor
That art requires sorrow to grow,
I had to pause and reconsider.

I believe it may be true
That the seed of despair
Is the necessary start,
But I think that it must
Also be cultivated in
The fertile soil of joy.

One can’t exist without the other,
But for art to put down roots,
I believe, it must have both.

MSBQ

Lavender

Fluorescent lights flicker,
Illuminating an empty easel
In the center of the room.
One squared window peers
Down at the paint splatters
Adorning the hardwood;
She always likes to work
Right around sunset.
“It’s the one time of day,”
She would explain, “That
The change outside is
Finally transparent.”

Slowly, intentionally, her
Deft fingers caress the edge
Of a three by three canvas,
Lifting it onto the easel and
Carefully centering it.
A pause, briefly, as if to
Appreciate the dull white
Of the canvas itself. There
Was no palette picked out,
No planning of any kind.
She simply let herself move
And breathe the art into life.

Brown, darker than cocoa,
Like tilled earth, and green,
Stolen from the leafy boughs
Of a thousand forest canopies,
All colliding into one pattered
Landscape that consumed
Two-thirds of the canvas.
She hastily searched for a
Well-used paint bowl, and
Gathered reds, blues,
And a dash of off-white.
Brushes aside, this needed a
More tactile, expert touch
To truly come through.
A field of lavender, burst
Into reality, dripping down
From the sheer beauty
Captured within.

MSBQ

Truth In Aesthetics

One marble column,
Ponderous and smooth
The Artist stands on the threshold
Calloused fingers graze the sides
His eyes reflecting nothing but the
Cold grey and white monolith
No form permeates the marble
Inside the Artist’s eyes, much
To his amateur dismay. He could
Almost hear his professor’s words:
“Only the truth can create the truth.”

A thousand years of art flashes
Before his mind’s eye, cutting his
Feeble perception down to
The golden ratio of thought-
Two thirds reflection, one third concept.
For hours he sat, examining each inch
Of the mineral wall for some hidden
Potential artistic energy
But to no avail.

Art was not a thing to be created;
It lie only truly in nature, and some
Would argue not even there.
His enthusiasm fizzling, the Artist
Throws his hammer and chisel
Out the paned window; down, down
Into the ruddy streets below him.
Tiny shards of sky blue glass lay
Scattered around the floor,
The light of the setting sun cast
An imposing shadow upon the
Hardened marble block.
Maybe nature, after all,
Holds the key.

MSBQ

The Misunderstood Artist

An intensity unknown to most
Shimmers white-hot in your eyes,
The golden calf, struck from the record,
A pair of white bars (a symbol)
Emblazoned upon your arm proudly.
A whisper from up the street
Weeps, and foretells your Armageddon:
Where are your trumpets and eagles?
Precious stone tablets crumble
Like the Berlin wall
(And with equivalent importance).

A wistful murder, your humility
Lies blood-spattered and frayed;
There’s no chalk outline big enough
For this victim’s corpse.
The razor sharp juxtaposition
Of your dreary stroll through life
Is enough to bring your Christ to tears,
You and your four paper horsemen.
All that will remain for the summer’s eve
Are two eyes welded shut and a striped heart.
Calloused fingers whine and squeak
Across rusty strings, and you disappear
With a small puff of smoke.

MSBQ