After listening to his final lesson 

the wise one was approached by a young woman and young man…

“We have a question.” they asked softly. 

He nodded, 

“I will answer it if I can.”


“We’ve listened to all your teachings.” They said

“We’ve taken them to heart.

You’ve taught us about beauty 

about friendship, love and art.” 


“You’ve taught us about acceptance and compassion

about how to have an open mind.

You’ve taught us about peace, 

about wisdom.

You’ve taught us to be kind.”


“We’ve listened and we’ve learned.” they said

“We’ve held on to your every breath.

Yet of all the subjects you have taught…

Yet you never speak of death?”


Their teacher looked at them and smiled, 

touched their shoulders 

then began to speak…

“Death eventually finds us.” he said…

“All the others…


we must seek.”


Is there an artist inside each of us?   Of this I have no doubt.

It’s just a matter of reaching down… and pulling that artist out….


“Mom…I have something to show you!” Christi said.

Her mom came right away

Christi handed her a piece of paper…”Look what I drew today!”


“Mrs. Smith said draw what we want so I drew a polar bear.”

Her mom intently studied the drawing…scanning it with care.


“Oh, Christi” Her mom said smiling. “I didn’t know how talented you were.

I can honestly say I’ve never seen a bear more beautiful than her.”


“Why she’s not just standing still…you have her moving too.

I love the way you’ve drawn her legs.

and how’d you make the water look so blue?”


“I’ve heard polar bears can be mean but you’ve made yours look nice.

and look how you used little bits of paper and made it look like ice!”


“I love the emotion in her face…why she looks hungry too

and look in the corner you signed you name just like artists do!!


“I can’t believe how beautiful this is…and you were its creator.”

and that picture found a cherished spot on their refrigerator.


Years went by…Christi grew up into a woman proud and tall

and visiting Mom one day she saw her picture framed upon the wall.


It immediately brought back a memory and with it a few tears

“Mom.” she said, “I can’t believe you’ve kept this all these years.”


“Of course I’ve kept it.” Mom smiled “Because I have no doubt…

the day you drew that polar bear


Is the day your artist first came out.”

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I used to think wearing glasses was a curse.

I would kneel by my bed and pray…

thankful for all the gifts that were bestowed on me

still wondering why my eyes were created this way.


Until my parents took me to a museum.

I still remember that fateful day

where hanging on the museum walls

I saw paintings by Monet.


I remember thinking to myself..

How is this possible?

How can this be?

How can this man

this Mr. Monet

paint the world I see.


Now I’m no longer sad when I remove my glasses

and watch details of the world fade away

for I know I share my vision


with the artistry of Monet.

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The poetry of an artist is in how her paints rhyme.

She’s blessed with the ability to lift…

and freeze a moment we see in time…

This is the artist’s gift…


Each moment the Earth paints a masterpiece

changing literally in front of our eyes…

each moment Earth exhibits her expertise…

as well as her ability to surprise.


But these moments Earth paints are fleeting

for she paints at an energetic pace

and thus…one painting…she’s never completing…

so it’s up to us…and our eyes to keep pace.


We try committing a moment to memory.

We try unequivocally.

But, since the mural is changing so rapidly,

it’s hard to hold on to the moment we see?


Enter the artist with paints to be blended…

for with the Earth painting as fast as she spins

the instant one moment has ended… 

is the instant the artist begins.


When the paint she’s mixing finally adheres

catching that moment in time

we look at her painting and, to us, it appears

her paints not only mingle…but rhyme.


How lucky the artist and our paths have crossed.

We give thanks knowing we’re thoroughly blessed…

for she paints us a moment we thought we’d lost

and let our hearts and our souls do the rest.


Yes, an artist can capture that moment in time

on canvas for eternity…

her colors blending in texture and rhythm and rhyme…


silent poetry for the whole world to see.

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We have an artist friend who paints murals on buildings, walls and doors

We love the subjects of his paintings…and his colors we adore.


We were talking to him as he painted his latest mural…

a painting with palm trees, clouds and sands…

when I realized I wasn’t listening to the conversation…I was staring at his hands.


I thought how his painting is so beautiful…and his brushstrokes so refined

but the hands he holds his brushes in…look similar to mine.


I thought if you placed his hands and my hands side by side…there are no definite signs

whose hands were the hands of the artist …and whose can’t color within the lines.


Our hands have the same amount of fingers and are relatively the same size…

Perhaps the magic of an artist isn’t in their hands…but in their eyes.


But I’m able to see beauty…in the air…the sea…the land

yet the beauty I see and hear and feel doesn’t transfer to my hands.


I know he’s been to art school I know he’s worked hard at his art…

but still…a casual observer couldn’t tell our hands apart?


Even if I attended the best art schools…I would not be making art…

Perhaps the magic is not in their hands or eyes…perhaps it’s in their heart.


But my heart understands beauty…it is stirred and it’s aware

that there is beauty all around us… that you can find it everywhere.


By the time that beauty reaches my hands, however,

it becomes hazier…duller…fainter

What then is the difference between an artist and a painter?


I believe we’re all born with certain gifts…a spark…a light…a flame

and, by the nature of creation, not all gifts are the same.


I was looking for an outward sign…something to help me understand…

But what if the gift is inconspicuous and lies buried in the artist’s hands?


Perhaps some of the gifts we’re born with are concealed

Perhaps that’s why you can’t tell our hands apart…

Because some gifts are never meant to be seen…

they’re meant to be experienced…

their meant to stir the heart….


That’s why our hands look similar…

when on them my eyes drift

Because I’m able to see the similarities…

but unable to see the gift.


That’s why I cannot paint like an artist on a scale both beautiful and grand…

and why I’m happy there are people out there 


who are blessed with artists hands.

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God The Artist

I wonder if God is an artist.

I don’t know the reason why

but I wake up every morning...excited

to see his new painting

in the sky.


I wonder how he mixes his colors.

How he gets the yellow of the sun so bright

and on a wintry morning

how does he paint the snow...so white.


How does she make the oceans shimmer?

I’d like her to explain.

How she makes each flower so beautiful?

How doe she paint the rain?


As he sees the evening approaching

does he turn on the moon’s light

to help him see a little better

as he paints us all the night?


But then I think...I don’t need to know

the principles of what she’s designed,

I only need to marvel each day


at what her brush has left behind.

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No I am not

No I am Not! 

I am no poet ,

No I am not 

Nor a Philosopher,

No I am not 

Tis words I speak 

Make me a lover 

A lover , of what

Nothing but art 

The art of life 

Yes that I am. 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This poem explores the fact that you don't need to be some

one wise or important to enjoy life. Because we are all artist and locers of life.

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