The grace of she who moves like silken water,
her feet the slaves to wild demanding beats.
The master of motion and most pleasant to watch,
her dance to leap to fly with sky she meets.
A twist, a flick, a painter is painting quick,
with red, with black, with orange a colour obscene.
A lake the colour of broken, blackened brick,
and sleeping maple tree with little green.
A legion of sound assaults the calm world,
a long parade of notes swirls to and fro,
a blanket of song is over the world unfurled,
these gifts to us, the people of earth were bestowed.
An idle mind is of the devil, so said.
And idle mind makes art, so I have read.
The beauty of words burnt black as aces of spades,
a word by precious word so rises the castle.
So author like mason, can build till heart content;
they build from earthy ground to cloudy sky.
The sculptor takes his tools in hand and waits,
oh see in his mind’s eye he can already,
the fruit of all his labours in all its greats,
and bids his eager shaking hands, be steady.
An actor sits in wings and waits her cue;
her mind does take one moment to gently praise
the few good men who made the whole set new,
and actors practising their lines for days.
The devil he can only warp, destroy and pain.
So idle minds must be of God’s domain.
As taught as bow about to loose its arrow,
like runner waiting for the starting gun,
so waits the dancer for the musics flow;
her hair is neatly done into a bun.
A wild and frenzied beat does shake the ground.
The motion of dance is torn from those on stage,
their limbs are pulled by puppeteers of sound,
the lure of music is hard to disengage.
The sound slows down, her heart beats hard and fast.
She stoops to grasp, a single fallen rose,
thrown by a hand she knows is from her past.
The minute will pass, she goes to change her clothes.
She goes about her life with strength and stance,
her pride and confidence is brought by dance.
Some canvas stretched over a wooden frame,
the paints are sleeping on a crescent palette.
In rows, like soldiers, the paintbrushes they wait,
a small glass jar stands tall beside the sink.
A canvas lady greets the setting sun,
and in her hair she has a water lily.
The children came to hear the tales she spun,
they sit in puddles, pristine white and frilly.
A painting is hidden from the world by he,
it is also of his beautiful mistress,
oh one that he would die if viewed by any.
T’is of his lady sleeping in the nude.
His lady she smiles on seeing the water lily,
if other she saw, his death would come swiftly.
A piano playing in an old dark room,
the notes all ghost over the maple floor,
the only time he plays now is the gloom;
though bruises tell he has played so much more.
An elderly lady turns and starts to sing,
her face is lifted to the eastern sky.
Her song tells life and love and happiness;
her melody lifts high into the clouds.
A rhythm guides the young man’s well-toned body,
it slowly seeps into his very blood.
Infusing him with life and energy,
a desert drought after a welcome flood.
Oh, blood is life for the human mortal,
so music must be life, love for soul.
A pen does stare longingly at the paper,
her blood does leap at thoughts of such a meet.
A paper waits; he knows the time will come,
to meet and dance and burn the midnight oil.
The writer comes with steaming cups of joe.
His candles light the room and hand takes pen,
the dance begins, a rapid, hurried flow,
the dance once pauses, to fill the coffee again.
It’s almost morning, he rubs tired eyes,
the writer stumbles and the pen will weep.
His coffee falls and spills, the paper dies;
the writer yells, the pen cries, the coffee seeps.
Some ink and coffee, that’s all that’s left,
of tears, of coffee, of love bereft.
He looks and smiles and puts his tools away;
some stone slivers are quickly swept outside,
along the walls are rocks so rough and grey.
In garden green his statue will reside.
The statue stands in pose very relaxed.
With great affinity to Apollo.
The stone highlights his masculine beauty,
he’s unreachable on his pedestal.
The stone of his hard body will last forever,
so, so much longer than that of his creator.
Were he not stone he would become quite clever,
for young human bodies is time traitor.
The creation of he, momentous task;
to make one such as he is much to ask.
She hides behind her otherworldly mask,
A character so like her not she plays.
Someone with life much different to her own,
in settings ‘lot dissimilar to hers.
Her lines she speaks with strange unworldly tone,
and from her mouth comes words she throws with force.
The sound is rough, like grating rock and stone,
and after two more days, her voice is hoarse.
Her muscles tremble from her person’s stance,
their rapid jerky movements hard on her,
and afterwards she stretches with slow dance.
From stage to bed is very much a blur.
The world would end before she quit this play,
this life is hard, but smiles are there each day.