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A canvas free of colour is waiting for its life, Like barren trees in winter strive for warmth, and sunny light To grow upon the surface with love that's genuine, As dear to it as clustered cones complete the mighty pine. The artist holds the brush within poised fingers that are steady, While the canvas holds itself erect, and always at the ready, It shutters softly as the brush sweeps lightly on its surface, But raves with joy, just like a boy who marvels at the circus. Its chuckles can be clearly heard but only by the artist, And only they can hear those words when working at their hardest, The cries of a canvas song is sweetness to their ears, And they share this joy, just like a toy that's shared among their peers. Pure colour glows within itself upon the chalk white surface, And as it does the picture forms revealing its true purpose, It grows with ease, yet strict in form, succumbing to the texture, That smiles before the artist's eye as they make their final gesture. Rusty Blackwood. Copyright 2006-09. ~ Have you ever strolled among the interesting displays of colour, texture, and scale that is found within your local art gallery? Someone's entire lifetime can be seen etched in beauty upon a single canvas. So much can be told within a single stroke of the brush. In the winter of 2006 I had the pleasure to attend an art exhibition held by an artist from my area where his latest collection was on display. His entire life was there, open to the naked eye for all to see and enjoy. I certainly did, and it inspired this poem. ~ R.B. >All Rights Reserved by Author<  *** Vote for this poem
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