She is Art by Joe Reid Kirby III
She is a butterfly,
Flying from her waist,
Off her hip,
Beautiful,
And so very hard to catch,
Fragile,
Yet the beat of her brightly colored wings are strong,
Majestic,
As the way she moves is a song.
She is a tree,
A tree of life with no leaves,
Her fruits have fallen,
As she burst through the earth in February of ’91,
Not long before spring,
She is strong & robust,
Her roots are deep in the soil,
Penetrating the skin of the earth,
Yet she knows not how far her roots reach,
The rain from her tears,
Whether joyful or pain,
Soaks every layer of her rich lumber,
Birds find her branches comforting to sleep for a while,
However their true nature often takes them away,
Leaving her there alone in the night,
Finding more of her patience & strength within her slow growth.
She is a rose,
Fully blossomed & gleaming,
Admired by every eye,
The glitter on her petals,
From soaking up the sunlight,
Leaves her multitude of colors beaming,
A single rose,
On an entangled stem of thorns,
Seemingly begging to be held,
Yet insuring all are forewarned,
Bold enough to stand alone,
And unique enough to stand out in a dozen,
Leaves fall from her stem,
“He loves me or he loves me not,”
Is her personal poetic hymn.
She is a dandelion,
Ever affected by the wind,
Every seed blown away from her bud,
Is how she treats her sin,
She is fun,
And doesn’t mind letting go,
Hands are often in the air,
If you show interest in her peculiar ways,
The smallest pieces of her will make you happy for many days,
Yet she is nature,
And if you do not see or notice her she doesn’t care,
But to never witness the goodness she brings,
To any heart isn’t fair.
She is blue,
For to her, “To love a man is to sell your soul,”
And she’s fully sold her soul but twice,
Men to her are now like mice,
She makes them believe in the cheese,
Then their throats she’ll slice,
For she is blue,
Her heart has grown mighty cold too,
Winter days in Alaska’s February is how you could now describe her heat,
Lay your head on her breasts,
As within her you rest,
And you’d swear you heard not a beat,
For her last deal with the devil left her soul depressed,
And her public blues expresses her lack of love,
Though she’ll swear that true unconditional love is what she desires,
From the top of the heavens to the bottoms of her feet,
Yet when that very love comes knocking on that blue door,
She dismisses all feelings & emotion,
And only calls for the meat.
She is art,
For her and the very essence of life is not far apart,
Angles and lines,
Shapes and shades,
Beauty is in the way her pencil behaves,
Color is what brings infinite time to the days,
Only a few special people can appreciate art,
Separating a meaning from a picture for most could seem tart,
For she is odd,
Yet her being makes perfect sense,
She is imperfect,
Yet her Creator sculpted her with perfection in mind,
She is ever changing,
For you can’t lock away a universal meaning of one creative souls thoughts,
She’s thought-provoking,
Ever mind choking,
And keeps people hoping,
Low key stimulating every sense,
Blood, sweat, and tears poured from every pore are nothing too immense,
A story that never ends,
An emotion splattered on a canvas then given a spin,
A feeling,
A thought,
A mind,
Or a heart,
A breath,
A fart,
A mark,
Or a spark,
The seen,
The blind,
A clock,
Or a space without time,
A love,
A hate,
A face,
Or the shadow of something erased,
Above,
And below,
Within,
And without,
All,
And nothing,
She is art …
And art is life.
~ Joe Reid Kirby III 5/3/2014
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