Winter’s Artist

Winter's Artist
Winter’s Artist

The budding artist that never quite blossomed into fame is that eccentric old woman. I am her and she is me and the hardest part about being her is accepting her. Once active hands and mind used to create things of beauty now, often lie in rest or are consumed with self-care. However, that eternal flame that inspires still burns inside and sometimes blazes as these old hands tremble and rise once more to make something new, young, and beautiful. Old dreams awake in a turbulent rush of ideas clamoring for expression. Who knows how long this will last and can my more feeble faculties endure to give them birth? How long before the heavy blanket of age and failing health seeks again to smother that inner flame? I wonder is it fame and worldly acceptance that has the power to relabel an eccentric an artist? Or is it I who holds that power in simply expressing what I know deep inside, by that bright inner light, to be eternally true about my identity and purpose?

Yes, I am old and eccentric. I am a winter artist.


Welcome to the menagerie of my mind!

Collection I have traversed time to find!

Untamed creatures a one of every kind!

Circus of dreams ideas in passion I bind!

My wild imagination I sent to be refined;

High Def exaggeration in story entwined;

Dash o’ rose hint o’ lime polished shined!

This, my life’s work which daily I do grind.

Compulsion obsession madness confined?

From my depth of soul divinity I’ve mined!

My search for guidance only faith defined;

A purpose to purify menagerie of my mind.

The Meaning of Color

The weaving of chartreuse and lavender is a matter of opinion,

A controversy over the many shades of spring!

Summer moods are translated through subtle hues of vermillion,

Passion’s peak of heat that red-oranges bring!

Autumn sets color free speech in primary hues of truth dominion,

Enter souls by eye-gate beauty inspire to sing!

Color falls to grey as white blanket drapes over every color minion,

Winter wipes slate clean in an icy-dazzle-bling!



What if I have written it all away?

All those important things I had to say,

And my creative mind fades in aging?


Should this old woman sit silent?

Observing only, as life’s passions relent?

And ambitions fray beyond assuaging?


Is this the day I’ve become irrelevant?

A life of experience now, an impediment?

As youths fires of souls in mind raging!


Old marries alone; aging artist is eccentric.

Cutting edge technique, an olden-day trick!

Museum dust, archived tomes arranging.


Inside this graying head ideas still burn!

Refined, honed, tested, polished; Taciturn,

Waiting for perfect moment, right paging.


Old woman’s color fades into the background…

Expert hand trembles to write words profound.

Perfect gems require no salacious packaging.


Does age purify the art of the creative?

Or does it stagnate, cease; become vegetative?

Like me, is my art from life now, disengaging?










The Artist

On a sunny day my thoughts are lifted high

Stretched relaxed peacefully adrift in an azure sky

High pressure is my delight!

On a cloudy day my thoughts plummet to the earth

Heavy leaden weights of dusty sorrow bereft of mirth

Low pressure is my fright.


On a warm summer day my pain melts I feel strong

I love to play to work to laugh and sing many a happy song

In summer my world is right!

On a winter day I ache and I suffer from cabin fever

I read I write I contemplate and wait for warmer weather

Winter is my personal plight.


On a quiet day when the wind is still my soul and spirit rest

I gather strength from the atmosphere I am safe in Spirit’s nest

Still days are my source of Might.

On a blustery day when the wind howls sweeping the earth

I hunker down to wait my faith is tested I rely on my second birth

On a windy day I hold faith tight!


I am a finely tuned instrument subject to the atmosphere I measure

Pulled up pushed down lifted rested then tested by outside pressure

A thermometer an emotional barometer!

I am intrinsically sensitive excruciatingly aware of the invisible forces

The Spiritual Breath that animates the living sets all things on their courses

A sensitive a spiritual winds anemometer.


I am purposed to gather atmospheric information and package it as art

I am a natural-emotional –spiritual-data-base predicting weather is my part

The information I gather is to share.

I ruminate I correlate I paint I write I create and present my data in a poem

I am a creative this is what I do the way I communicate Truth in teal ocean foam

An artist’s call lays the heart bare!





Fire of Culture

Colors bend, weave, and then fold…

Ideas lift, sift, and then turn all gold!

Meaning imbedded by truth so bold!

A story is born, then grows to unfold…

From the mind’s misty shadows told.

Written down in a fashion to be sold,

Print on young heart new mind mold.

Dreams, legends, all tales long retold,

Myths to pass down on a night so cold,

Warm fires of culture to give and hold.

Tune of Heart

Oh! Listen to the new tune playing upon my heart!

It’s light as feather stirred by emotional weather…

Lifts by the sun; drifts with moon; love to impart!

Sets dreams aquiver, light of inspiration to deliver…

Dips down in a sad swoon, dream-despairing-heart…

Melancholy blue savor, open Door for sad-believer…

Breath of Life re-stirs my sensitive’s feather-heart!

Spirit Wind of Savior, blows away feelings-deceiver!

Strum Your melody; melt my tragedy; purify my art!

Song I sing to brighten other in heart-fickle weather…

New joyful tune, sun or moon, plays upon my heart!


Truth is Action

What is this quietude of thought I don’t recognize?

Is there nothing left for me to say?

Did I work so long and now this truth I must realize?

There’s nothing new to be written anyway?

All’s been said before with no new method to merchandize,



My life I spent thinking I must write to make others prize,

The importance of truth as a better way…

I worked hard to get their attention and help them rightly apprize,

The validity of those words I was driven to say.

Some, who agreed listened, while others seemed to only patronize,



Now, I wonder about all the words I worked so hard to radicalize…

Was it better to write or to pray?

Perhaps, I’m unable to capture Truth and in my many words capsulize,

The flame burning in my heart to say…

Is this thing I call art really anything? Or just my pride’s way to aggrandize…



I am older now and still, my ears open to listen, I’m willing to actualize;

Obey these words that in youth I burned to say…

Truth is full when lived, written truth partial, words not only to conceptualize.

Something I wish I’d understood on a younger day.

A more effective method is to trust, obey, and by faith’s quiet living Way, initialize









Art’s Obsession

Beauty, my obsession, elusive resplendent bird…

Why do tell… are you of such great importance to me?

The mere lightning-flash of your bright wing…

And I tremble! Leave me a gasp without a word…

By a mere blue glint, a flash! As you vanish in a tree!

Excitement overwhelms me… I feel I must sing!


If such beauty I capture? Will my song be heard?

I wonder? If I can capture beauty that must fly so free?

Present as mine; as Art; my fulfilled purpose bring?

Still compelled… I pursue you! Hoping by my word,

Paint, all media, to possess beauty; my work must be!


Beauty an essence, a seductive aroma beckoning…

Artists pursue meaning in an elusive, colorful bird;

From this passion for beauty, I shall never be set free!

Art is a driving desire to create a beautiful thing!

A Call to mirror what God created by Spoken Word…





Artistic Joy

I want to go to that Heavenly land where poetry is borne on lilac perfume.

And heart-felt prose flow in mighty rivers of sparkling-clean, ideal dreams.

That golden refuge that houses my muse whom I love, cherish, and adore!

Ah, splendid solitude! Lost in sacred act of weaving ideas on creative loom;

Retrieving Truth from Tragedy; Re-telling as something beautiful on reams

Of hand-crafted paper; An astounding story as it’s never been told before!

With masterful illustrations, in vivid color within flowing lines that bloom,

And blossom, as new ideas in the minds of all viewing my artistic schemes;

Crowning joy; Purpose complete! Artists abide and breathe in imaging lore!