Ode to an Artist (Sam Harty - Baker, LA)

What will one do for their art

when it pulls them by the heart?

When every cell of your body is

on fire and every strand of your

hair vibrates with desire

to weave,

to write,

to sculpt,

to compose.

Does the beauty come from the mind?

Is it within each artist or does it

just appear and disappear like smoke.

My throat is dry, my belly aches from

hunger, I cannot sleep so I remain woke.

I eat at the ash of my desire to 

create, to paint a picture with my words

that I cannot guarantee will ever be heard.

I claw at the dryness in my throat

the ashes in my mouth long for the

river of my mind, of my pen. Stanzas

of images, of creation within. 

My last vestibule of thoughts

of a crescendo,

of wet clay 

upon a marble table, of dreams turned 

into life, to stay on the page, on

the canvas, in the lyrics forever.  I did 

this. I wrote, drew, sculpted, composed with

ribs showing, eyes sunken.

No matter because I know that

as long as words flow, and as long as

children dance, and the wind blows

someone will create.

someone will create.