Shrouded in mist you come for me
From the silence, from the cold.  
Waiting, watching has been your game.
Now you find me alone,
Hypnotised by the stillness,
Mesmerised by moments of sublime beauty as yet unseen.
I am helpless to resist.

What melody to find in silence,
What comfort in the earth!
Raindrops falling through trees echo through the forest.
A lone web hangs wet with dew.
A mushroom sits heavy with moisture on a tree stump.

The forest knows how to be in stillness
And make it's presence felt.

Struck was I
By the sudden thought
Of my fathers love!
Denied so long ago
But there
Re-found.
Like my nose;
Clearly presented
Yet somehow overlooked!
Right there
For the world to see
But
Unseen.

Like a letter not received
Or a cheque not cashed
Sat on the dresser
Unused
Disallowed
Latent
But still potent

Waiting
To be heard




Today
I heard
Listened
And the backlog of father love flowed, deluged
Re-hydrated
Affirmed

And I feel
Alive

As soon as the forest surrounds me I feel it;
Enclosed, safe.
The softness of nature envelops me.
The sound of my mind quietens
And the forest noises come alive.
Birds calling, droplets of rain pattering on leaves,
a click or a shuffle.
Leaves fall like snow
Softening the heart of the weary.
I dare not move
But with the forest exhale
And acknowledge myself as one amongst the trees.
Would that I could sink my limbs into the earth
And join this silent gathering
Change with the seasons
And know my place on the Earth.

He; inexhaustible yet exhausting,
Ruthlessly efficient yet demanding,
Hard working yet withholding,
Barbed
Yet deemed necessary.
Protecting that which
Long ago was made sacred;
The heart, the hearth, the home,
None may touch that hallowed ground.
Defence was needed
Safety paramount
And then...

The years passed...

This ninja warrior endured
Defended
Sliced, hacked, diverted, whirled in endless pirouettes
Of engaged battles
Of mesmerising movement
Of unrelenting actions
Of no consequence
For the mighty goal of protecting
That
Which
Was now all but forgotten.

So effective was his defence
Of the thing called 'home'
That it was hidden from all view
Forgotten
Beneath his whirling dexterity of projects and activities.

The years passed...

And there was no home.

Never did the warrior stop to question his task
That old old command.
He simply obeyed
As a warrior should
And continue
Until his death
To protect the property of his master

The result
a hollow, busy, lonely life,
Punctuated by exhaustion
And the question....
"What's missing? "

But so complete was his defense
So skillful his guard
That none saw what lay beneath.
Too mesmerised by his motions to see that
He was but a distraction
A diversion
From the question which would strike such fear into his masters heart
"What will happen if I stop?"

In your dinghy with your back turned
You sail away
I stand ashore, alone
Watching
You move slowly away, never turning

I see now that you are willing me
Willing me to shout "stop"
Willing me to beg you to turn
To say "please let's try just one more time"
But I do not.

I cannot
I am a child
A boy of ten watching his mother dissappear
As the coach pulls away
And takes him to oblivion

Powerless he felt
Bereft
With no
Hope
His soul
Abandoned on the platform

Now I watch my life
Through a veil of indifference
A passive malaise
Through with which I cannot engage
I am here but not fully amongst the living
I am the abdicated king

But I am shouting my love
only in another world
In another dimension seperAted from body
My soul cries out
And tears stream down my fAce
I am on my knees on the sand
Begging you to return

But you do not hear
You cannot hear

So I Watch my life, my love sail away
And wonder if I may ever love again
If I may ever find the strength
To connect with another
With my heart broken so

Do you want to sketch all your life
Or learn to paint a master piece?

Do we not sketch to learn, to develop, to grow?

So why do you still sketch?
What more do you hope to learn?
That people are vulnerable?
That you can hurt them?
That you can leave them?  

Are you not tired of sketching outlines?
Don't you long for tonal quality?
For careful composition and a considered pallet?

I know your secret!
That the canvas scares you, terrifies you even.
All that you will be revealed on that unforgiving scape.
That expanse of white which must be filled and not by charcoal and line.
You will be revealed, exposed and displayed for all to see.
You will be revealed in the shading,
In the sensitivity you give to light and to contrast.
Yes, you will be revealed...
But in it you will be filled in.  
You will have no freedom to remain as an outline of a man,
With all hidden in fine graphite lines and hastily hatched shadow.
You will have to mature as a man, as an artist of the soul
And set yourself free on a canvas with confidence and brush!
What a liberation!

Will the first canvas be a masterpiece?
In all likelihood no!
But it will be a beginning
And how can you consider yourself an artist if you never paint!
How many sunflowers did Van Gough paint? How many chapels?
Was he satisfied with any of them?
And was each of them worthwhile?

Paint my friend, take up your brush and paint.
Use colour boldly,
Reserve fear and reservation for other pursuits
Or better still leave them from your pallet altogether.
Be sensitive and subtle with your treatment of the subject,
frame her well, carefully
But be bold.

There is little point in holding back.
Do you want your canvas to scream, "Hesitation!"?
Paint or don't, but if you choose not to, declare it to the world!
Do not act like a painter, talk like a painter and look like a painter,
If you do not paint!
Declare "I like to sketch"
And sketch until you bear no longer to leave a subject unexplored in a monochromatic if artistic hiatus.
Be true, be bold, be clear and when you feel the time is right paint with the same honesty and boldness with which you sketched.
Then it will be a true training,
Not the pontification a of a trainee conjurer working above his station.
Complete your apprenticeship, graduate,
And step forth into the world.
Confident, upright, paint brush in hand.