Artist’s eyes are a gorgeous sight
In them dances a myriad of lights,
Countless emotions of age old race
accepted into so small a space
between two ears, but expanded
Down the stretches of eternity, forever stranded
Past the ends of the universe,
Endlessly traversing a deepening course.
Who knows of behind the artist’s eyes?
The flow of tears and pain and sighs,
Joy and laughter, loss and gift,
Such vast understanding as to cause a rift
between vision and another’s sense of reality,
Finding wonder in each bit of causality,
Pricelessly awed as if drunk by a magic potion,
Wrought and torn in a sea of emotions.
No wonder the colors are bleeding together,
A poignant masterpiece running over,
These attentive eyes created and vast
Reaching into the future, present, past,
By deeper mysteries in the mundane
haunted, untamed they are never insane.
Drink of the wells and tell me you too descry:
Vivid, copious are the blessings of the artist’s eyes.
Art Credit: Watercolor painting by Cierra Campbell.
Cierra is one of my fellow students at John Paul the Great Catholic University. She is a very talented artist in various mediums and has illustrated for numerous companies. Check out her website and store at http://hunterroseblog.wixsite.com/resume/portfolio.
It’s a chill, rain washed desert morning. We climbed a foothill at 6:45 am and prayed the Rosary looking out over the valley into the rising sun and the mists it flecked. Now, in our hour of silence I trekked out of the ranch and over the hill up some strange roads to a view of the mountains. I followed the Yellow Brick Road to the Wizard’s Way and found myself a spot—probably on someone’s private property—to contemplate the mountains.
All greys, greens, browns, and a little blue as clouds roll in to shroud the green peaks. Streams of sun burst through the grey and throw stiff white shafts over the mountains into the valley. I imagine though that they might bend and sway if the air wasn’t so still. Only the cold stirs in little puffs. Passersby stir so many watchdogs in the distance, but close is only a jackdaw making a bullfrog clicking noise and songbirds chirping incessantly. Serenity and wideness of scope reign here, and glimpses of a wider world. Soon I must go back to Broken Rock Ranch and later to the city. For now I can reach out with the fingers of my heart and feel the vista, let it wisp on my hand, and catch a tiny part to carry back, tucked deep in the recesses of my soul.
(Photo Credit: Clare McKay)
I wish that I could paint with “all the colors of the wind” as Pocahontas sings in her Disney film. There are some things that no brush or photograph can completely capture; only the living experience conveys its essence. For me, sunsets are just this way.
I see the most beautiful sunsets driving back from Costco while in Wisconsin.
As gorgeous weather as San Diego has, you don’t see such clouds there…textured billows of vapor rippling and streaking visibly in the wind through the dusky sky. Looking toward a golden disc of sun that is setting into a green bank of trees, I see clouds of fiery orange outlined by light almost too bright to look at alongside offshoots of molten light. Continue reading “Colors of the Wind”