Tag: Picasso

Voices

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 3 Comments

(photo courtesy of moma.org – Pablo Picasso’s Three Musicians)

There was never meant to be just one.
The sole, the singular, the solitary
Voice.
Each designed, gifted, carefully chosen
Parts, pieces for the blending.
No island dwellers or stone cold soloists
In a community of art, no apart from others
There is solitary lonely.

There is exponential multiplying in a cord of three,
The pairs, the duets the circles of multiples.
A community of several and many has power.
And each alone, so beautiful, comes in
To blend, enhancement happens en masse.

Each unit grows stronger in the company of
Others,
Accompaniment and melody change sound when
Blended in, a melange a beautiful mix of mediums
More interesting than the lone wolf crying in the wilderness.

A haunting howl, in the separated from the pack.
Strength in numbers builds
The vocal cords, the instruments, the writer’s pen
Grows, grouped
In community, a fellow writer links the lonely.

So the artist lifts his brush
And the writer his pen,
The musician his instrument
And all the others their voices too.

The blending begins and the harmonies arise,
Like incense, an offering up and to and for.
Each a gift, each a treasure
Single beauty, facets on the face of a multi-sided gem.

Pop the cork on the bottled words,
Pull the plug on the hemmed in notes.
Let them float,
Sail off with a tune ,a song for the masses
Or the few.
But unfurl the sails and set free the voices of each who has something quite beautiful to say.

This month at Tweetspeak Poetry, we are exploring the word prompt, Surreal. Stretching and writing in community with others. The voices are beautiful over there.

Poetry Calls

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 36 Comments

(photo courtesy of wikipaintings.org)

She twists, she turns, she tumbles and falls.

Like green Gumby rubber-man/ child wide-eyed in wornout toy box,

Nimble, pliable woman,

Is she.

When the wind blows, the cradle may fall,

But mother catches baby, husband, parents,

And all the rest.

In the middle of raising parents or is it raising kids,

She yearns to sit at the feet of the master acrobat,

Learn the art of dexterity,

Living nimble, bending, twisting, turning

Corners of her life, with skill and ease,

Stretching limbs to meet the needs

This world of hers throws at

Her, life, a whirlwind, whirling dervish, world.

She, Mary Martha ambidextrous hybrid, serving and loving

Longing to learn the art of balance.

To live and love and serve in the right measure of, mix of

Both. The proportions just perfect.

Art, not science.

Caring for self, she bends back into the page and writes

A love song to the world, her passion bleeding on the page.

And hears a cry, piercing knife-like in  the night

To walk outside, plates and balls all tossed up in the air.

She longs to fold back on the white noise page and write,

Right where she lives.

Folding laudry, folding bedsheets, folding words.

They mix and mingle, they tug like moon at tides.

The words call,

Come play with us today.

The tempting taunting call of passion on the page,

To write.

The tension tears.

Joy comes gently in the sweet release

Of words.

She bends her ear to hear, what’s right.

And leans her head, blood rushing to the brain.

To write the words, her playful playmates posturing for a position

In her life. Right beside mother, sister, wife and other.

To write the balance out, the story,

That is her life.

Words winning, winding their way down the rows.

Poetry calls come play.

Joining Emily & Jennifer.

And at Thought Provoking Thursdays.

And I’m joining the folks at Tweakspeak Poetry for this month’s word prompt, Surreal. This is my offering on the prompt. (More to come, this is “fun”, sort of). #TSSurreal on Twitter.