A Teacher of Art

Today, he was sitting on the bench,

Sketch pad and pencil in hand.

The wind ruffled the paper

While clouds dimmed the world.

I have seen him about the town.

Sketching, drawing, painting

In bright summer dancing in color

And dismal winter of charcoal gray.

I sat next to him and glanced at his work.

His hands were sturdy, the fingers gentle.

“Wouldn’t it be easier in a studio?” I asked.

He adjusted his pad, hand flickered on.

Paints have to spill,” he said.

“Brushes have to hit, tickle, and wave;

Pencils cut, trace, kiss, and break;

And easels get knocked down.”

“Color must be grabbed, smelled,

Rubbed between fingers and tasted.

Form dances, skulks and caresses.

Light and shade play hide and seek.”

 He closed his pad and pocketed pencils.

“Yes, it would be easier in a studio.”

With crinkled eyes, he threw me a wink.

“But, then how fun would that be?”

This poem is a part of the Wordz collection.

Passing the Torch

With static breath,

The runner stumbles, shuffles, regains balance.

The torch bobs, the flame flickers.

It is heavy, the arm sags, the head drops.

The trek has drained color from the cheeks,

Curl from the lips,

Glint from the eyes,

Blood from the heart,

And even, spirit from the soul

Feet grumble in the dirt.

Neck complains of weight.

Air fails to reward the lungs.

Yet, the turn completed, straight away ahead.                                            

The successor awaits,

Bouncing on toes,

Shaking the wrist.

There is color in the cheeks.

A curl, a glint, blood, and spirit.

The runner’s eyes drink,

The soul sighs, then surges.

The pace quickens.

Heart pounds,

Feet clap, arms wave, and the flame flares.

Close together,

Both in motion.

One leans forward, reaching, giving.

The other, stretches back, waiting, accepting.

Gone.

The runner shuffles to a halt.

Hands on knees, gasping.

Watching the other fade away.

A knowing grin thinks of the course ahead,

Watery eyes recall the one just traveled.

Limping, aching, the runner sees the torch

On a distant hill.

The heart sighs with contentment.

The soul aches with tears of pride.

The hand flexes, missing the weight.

The torch passed.

The fire still burns.

Passing the Torch is part of the Wordz collection.