Time With My Lord
by Mary E. Somes
A moment alone with God, in privacy
As I read the Bible and pray
To you, calms my soul, and gives me rest.
Burdens I can’t do anything about
I turn over to you
And you take care of them.
My heart is full of thanksgiving
For the love you give freely to me.
The Splendor of Silence
The vastness of the sea
The majesty of the mountains
Sensitivity of the spiritual
In the wilds
In the still
Of the night.
Art is ever singing
Like the surging
Of the sea
Art is still
Art is vibration
Black and white?
Color is alive
Black is not color
White is not alive
The last of
Image in relief
Incised carving Intaglio.
White is cool
Snow for one
The whiteness of hair
Peace and unity.
A blind man
Dreamed a rainbow
Felt the colors
Neither lavish or monotonous
His sense of touch
Correct color scheme.
Blue is quiet
Orange is earthy, youth, warmth,
Green is spring
For-get-me-nots are blue
A rose is not
Each in its firmament.
Land too barren for
With virgin beauty.
Known to death
From wanton probing.
Who stands waiting
May it long stand
On Writing Poetry
The poet – artist is an independent
Although he seldom earns the current rent.
Man’s total existence.
The shell holding out linear skeleton
Presents to the surrounding world reality
Designed by our predestinator,
We alone are given promise of immortality.
Could it be the marks our predecessors left behind?
The monumentals unearthed by mundane man,
Should there remain a vestige of our kind.
Another and more colossal perfect plan.
Assured there will be no one left to see
The slate will be quite clean for a new creation
That will spurn the apple and the fig tree leaf
And bring to light once more elation.
If we should again be given survival
Men new-born tuned to be less satirical.
The truest presentation of nature
Is triumphant at its highest in art,
It becomes attached to youth and the mature,
It sets one’s individual world apart.
Art is the idealized image of truth,
The visualized mind and soul of man,
It can spring alive in early youth
Or liedorman, awaiting a specific plan.
Art becomes fixulated, a pleasured form,
Imagery that until now an unrealized forethought,
With paint, palette and brush strive to transfer
One’s wildest dreams that seem for naught.
Vietta Bartlam Wines
Maple Heights, Ohio 44137