When I was a younger man

When I was a younger man

Art was a lonely thing -

No Galleries, no collectors,
No critics, no money...
Yet it was a golden age

For we all had nothing to lose 

And a vision to gain. today

it is not quite the same.

It is a time of tonnes of verbiage:

Activity...

Consumption.

Which condition is better 

For the world at large, 

I will not venture to discuss

But I do know that many 

Of those who are driven to this life

 Are desperately searching 

For those pockets of silence

Where we can root and grow.

                                  - Mark Rothko

 

A string of ninety one pearls

 

 

Eager soul starved so starved that being Soul it feeds on

Its eagerness and every dim shade that filters light

It catches in flashes and is moved to burn in action 

As flaring momentary flashes like moths in flight

On a content night.

Where a drunken joy fights to break the heart's trap open

And run out amok as a wild forest fire free

And fling upon the winds all the care and all caution

And be lost in some stupendous and wild ecstasy

In rapt reflection.