We live in times when graffiti’s rife
When even inking one’s own skin does not suffice
No surface blank can be left uncovered
When so-called artists even paint over each other
What is this obsession with leaving a visible mark?
Rather than for your great lasting achievements
Of which future generations will remark
Padre
Superimposed, overlapped and thus displayed
It was the way old-fashioned cartoons were made
Before things were digital – using just the click of a mouse
They made drawings and overlays often in house
Disney, Warner Bros, and Hanna-Barbera too
That was real artistry – skilled and true
But today the quick and easy is all we can do
Padre
My thanks to Fandango for introducing me to The Squirrel Chase and their one-to-three challenge. I had in my file a photo of a butterfly visiting the back garden. While the lavender and vlinder are works of divine art, by photography isn’t. The challenge to run the photo through a photo processor provided some lovely results, however.
Padre
There once was a time – when the mirror on the wall
Was asked who was fairest, without blemish or flaw
But parchment white skin is a thing out of date
A mere backdrop – for body art ornate
Ink and piercing – skin as the canvas and slate
A medium of self-expressed identity – a statement to make
Padre
There was so much out there. How could she ever hope to capture it? This niggled at Angela for days, then she decided that the only way to do it was to start.
She set up her easel and placed a single twig before her and began to look long and hard at it. She looked beyond the leaves and bark into the soul of the thing. She then began to simply sketch what filled her mind’s eye. Eight hours later she pushed back and took in the fruit of her labour. “Leaf,” the true leaf had taken form on the paper. It seemed almost three dimensional.
So realistic was the rendering that she reached out to touch it. As she did it fell from the page and drifted to the floor.
Amazed, she blinked and picked it up. She could feel its texture and weight. It was indeed a leaf.
She immediately sat back before her easel and began to work.
Four days later her mother knocked her door.
“We were worried about you,” she said letting herself into the studio. “Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
The bleary-eyed Angela looked towards her mother and ans merely said, “Sorry, I’ve been busy.”
“Let’s see it then,” her mother said and leaned over to look at the blank paper. “Working?” she asked.
“Yes, my best stuff yet,” Angela said.
“Hmm,” her mum said unconvinced. “I’ll leave you to it, and eat something. You look awful.”
“Okay, Mum,” the artist replied.
With that her mother left not having noticed the pile of leaves and twigs around her daughter’s ankles.
Padre
Words rising skyward
Fresh tags of spraypaint climbing
The very walls speak
Padre
Through misty eyes I feel the pain
Of ministry heartfelt that others disdain
Fervent faith, and labours keen
Works, in the eyes of others unseen
While these feelings – I well understand
As one who has served God’s commands
My misty eyes are for another
One who was my Christian brother
His reputation in the faith now soiled
By his later actions when to the world he recoiled
I speak of Van Gogh of painting fame
Whose journey from minister to the insane
His ministry by the establishment rebuffed
He downhearted had had enough
And so his life of art , excess, and pain
Is how most now remember his name
Although he was like all men flawed
I know his work was seen by God
Padre
Welcome to the polychrome zone
Where mat white has no home
Monotone spaces are eschewed
All our surfaces are spray paint imbued
Please feel free to leave your tag
No New Roman printing is the only snag
Welcome to the polychrome zone
Please share a photo on your phone
Padre
Vincent was a vandal, you see
Though he claimed it was artistry
But his work has still left an impression* on me
Padre
*I know that there is some debate as to whether Van Gogh was actually an Impressionist, but it fit the poem and it was fun.
Lines each their own pathway follow
Unmindful of their fellows’ ways
And yet each one’s journey
Intersects in grand display
Are we too like these stripes opaque
Destined to converge,
And when we meet shall we also
Create a work masterful when we merge?
Padre
Padre's Ramblings 