Strokes of color, brushes of light across my sky light,
red blue hues of vibrant greenish shades do flow.
Imaginations of objects floating amid canvases outstretched,
paint on paint as if magic were happening for the first time.
Possible thoughts surround the brushes as they do their work,
a critic of my own work not yet finished, not yet new.
Bringing forth the glory of instant creation inspired in hue,
splashes of light on pale white gives cool images of fineness.
Reaching forward reaching back each movement an action,
bending of shadows across a plain to cast out the dullness now down lain.
Bringing up vastness to heights so near of breath and mist on the air,
thus not, thus not a painting is made by real work done.
Attention to detail attention art attention to render for deep in the
heart,
breaking sweat on brow dougth becken a labor not onto love.
So frail are the minds that conceive to ponder the truth lay part,
awaken arise go forth to thy canvas to stop and to start.
Ever changing by time hath seen to age the lines that never have been,
fading in light fading in age looking old but always new.
I have lost it and again retrieved it the patterns of old become the patterns
new,
crying loud fainting slow to harken the hand holding brush to dabble at little.
Cast off the shroud of inner being to realise thy bane to cast off to cast
off,
screams of anger to huant thy studio of past masses hundled near.
I create to swear abolish a dream to aspire to art for which is not clear,
huddled again thy pillar of fear not wanting nor striving offensive shadows.
Open is the window close to the chest my dream unfulfilled I lay to rest,
day breaking no rest laid upon this quest to finish the rest not given to
test.
Heart beats slower as to fade away all experiences of years gone by.
no more to hinder a work unfinished but was so unclear a motive to start.
Shaku Shin Kai
11/17/97
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