I am sitting at a concert,
In a park, rushing down the river...
Faces, people, capture canvasses.
Play, life abounds in the child as
The crayon drifts across the page, as one's medium
Paints and discovers the universe, wonders at it.

The inspiration is everywhere, yet it seems
To come from somewhere else, beyond the hand
That guides the pen, the brush, the soul.

Art may be joyful, it can flow with tears; it is old and new,
Like birth, like ancient clay taking form, a rib of expression.
It has roots. The pure media merges with its world, taking on
Some part or some essence of it. It becomes something
One can share like an ice cream, one can enjoy or pull an
Idea or emotion out of. It is all around us, like culturalwrap.

There are Bostonian roots, MA College of Art, a dog sled,
Some poetry, Tai-chi, and walks along the Atlantic-now river.
These bubble up and stretch down the arm, coming out like
A molten expression, absorbing images by Van Gogh, Beowulf,
Movies, Klee, Brancusi, Michaelangelo, Turner, or folk music
and Mozart. One can appreciate ballet and watch rap spinners.
A sketch pad is glued to one's hip. It tries to capture you.