BRUSH STROKE

BRUSH STROKE

BRUSH STROKE

The artist holds his brush

And lets his soul flow down his arm

And through his hand

Like sand in a receding tide

Making wide graceful sweeps

He keeps the movement honest

On its way from heart to canvas

And it’s a song, a melody composed

By those same energies inside him

So that standing beside him, you can know

It is so. It is he. His ethereal reality

He is showing me. He is giving.

The gift is what he is living

What he is feeling but cannot be said

It is only inside his head and his heart.

This image is but a start, a glimpse,

Simply a hint of what he is;

His essence made visible

Indivisible from his soul.

If this is his goal, he is a success.

I say yes. He has succeeded.

Nothing more will be needed

When he adds that last bit of color,

Those last few dashes of shape

That have escaped the heart

Of art as it lives in the soul

Of the artist playing his role

As messenger of inner love

That has helped him rise above

Into a life of color shape and beauty.

This is more than his duty.

This is his heritage.

So, there it is.

For all to see

For eternity.

 

Brent Kincaid

(Inspired by Jim Hague)

10/25/2013

 

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