ODE TO A YOUNG ARTISAN
By Travis M. Whitehead
He
works steadily, intently, never wavering from his goal,
To release the beauty in his tired soul
Transcribing its language onto wooden
canvas
Allowing the release
Of the images within.
Cutting
and slicing, carving and sanding,
Creating portals through which
His creations can flee
Into a playground of
sensations
Dancing, shimmering,
free and laughing
Kissing
parrots and sunflowers rushing
Baskets loaded with apples and watermelons
Bold suns creeping from demure-faced
moons
Calla lilies rushing upward
Like fountains
unrestrained
Flowers blooming and casting aromas afar
Birds sending their music across the
world
Fruits rich with flavor crowding
his work
A celebration of senses
Sent forth by an
artisan young and vibrant
Manifestations
of a magic spell
Cast from his eloquent hands
A passionate incantation to live, to
breathe, to dream
Images incised into nature’s offspring
Liberated from the morass of an artist
tortured
Seeking
to release the pain burning within
Beckoning him to follow, to laugh, to
believe
Calling his heart to rush with
them
Into the light of their joyous
world
Because
they’ve seen the darkness that haunts his soul
The chaos, the emptiness, the search for
identity
That frantic energy he pours into
his work
The raging storm that shreds
his existence
He
longs to follow the dreams in his art,
To play, to frolic, to dance, to sing
But his tomb of
disillusionment
Denies his release
There’s
never a smile from his handsome young face
No jokes, no laughter, no youthful
energy
No light in his distant black
eyes
Only the solitary labor
of an artisan struggling
In search of the self
within
Perhaps
it’s a face lost in shadow
Or trapped in eternal twilight
Caught between life and rebirth
Searching for direction
And
suddenly he’s gone, too young, too soon,
Leaving a legacy half finished, untold
Of fertile evolving, transforming,
defining
A creator, a liberator, a
feast of poetry
Perhaps
the darkness that guarded his soul
Deserted him too soon
Leaving him foundering
In the delusions of day
Or
perhaps the illumination
Of the daylight hours
Receded too quickly
And he fell from a cliff
Into an abysmal darkness
That offered no escape
Perhaps
his art defiled his dream
Lured him like a siren toward helpless
insanity
Leaving him exploring too
thoroughly the depths
Of the chaos and disorder
That claws at us all
What
would this tortured soul say now
If it spoke from beyond infinity
Returning for an evening
Of candles and incense
Zempasuchitl guiding him
home
In
the light of the glowing midnight candles
Lingers the energy of a spirit pulsating
With an eternal youth never
fading or spent
With memories suspended
in eternal twilight
Questions
unanswered, and journeys unfinished
Perhaps
he sought his own liberation
Through the laughter, the colors, the
flavors and fragrances
And finding none, discovered only
one resolution
To pursue what was lost,
beyond where it was found
Whatever
the leash that drew him to the cliff
The laughter and joy of his glorious
art
Testify radiantly
To the beautiful soul
Who passed
through briefly, and left too soon.
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