In my thoughts, I see the artist’s hand,
Where bristles bend and colors land,
He dips, he dabs, the heel and toe,
The belly all full, of tints and tones.
Hands worn down by summer's sun,
Dark and weathered, a mark hard won.
A fifth finger ring, initials engraved,
Many his characters, yet JSM remained.
Are his works of art from memory,
The Creator’s gift, or his own reverie?
Imagination flows like running streams,
Where crickets chirp and water breathes.
A boldly bearded, long-limbed man,
His mind critiques each well-laid plan,
He reverses, refines, starts over again,
Hunched over carefully, eyes drawn in.
A pocketful of pencils sharpened,
For sketches, scribbles, some half-started.
Plaid shirts buttoned, ready to create,
Rolled up sleeves to elbows straight.
The jingle-jangle keychain melody,
On sunbaked jeans, a soft symphony,
Clothesline-dried and daylight crisp,
Baked in the heat, cooled in the mist.
A studio assembled from garage bare,
Canvases lined; a desk, tables, chairs.
An easel crafted by the artist’s hand alone,
His latest idea sits quiet, bare as bone.
Paint drops on cement, splattered on walls,
Hands slightly stained from shaded halls.
Each fine hair holding a color, a hue,
From the latest masterpiece, he's working through.
Semi-finished musings, brainstorms drew,
Evoking satire and irony, his own brew.
His hands always creating, always in pursuit,
A painting, a sculpture, or a jovial old coot.
A cheeky man, he danced and laughed out loud,
His snicker gentle, mild yet proud.
I still hear it in the slightest playful tones,
The artist’s voice captured, feels like home.
I would watch him when he’d paint,
The brush moving through textures faint.
Fingers held the handle to saturate,
Controlled movements meant to illustrate.
I tried to follow his creative legacy,
But paint’s passion never grew in me.
Perfection’s voices became too loud,
A burden born from that hungry crowd.
Pollock, Gauguin, Vincent van Gogh,
The hollow face of the artist’s heavy load.
Where pride and ego got in the way,
Self-conscious blame, an insecure drain.
The only relief from his quiet pain,
Was death from voices he heard all day.
Sudden and swift, he was taken away,
Tormented no more, silent stalkers slay.
I hear him sometimes when lost in my skill,
His gentle push quiets the voices that kill.
In photographs captured or edits made,
Or simply in being myself, feeling brave.
Quiet comfort comes knowing he’s free from despair,
But remains a shadow where legends dare.
He illustrated illusions of unconventional thought,
And ran with them, where others would not.
2025
