abgunner10
05-23-2008, 02:29 PM
a little cheesy, imo, but id like to hear what you guys think...
That a Mother is an Artist
That a mother is artist
Is what I wish to prove;
Though not a famed purveyor of
Winsome portraits to the Louvre
Hers is instead a different art,
One with incessant demand:
At dawn she paints with ardent fire
Fruitful baskets, all freehand
By midmorn she progresses;
Expansive blankets does she weave,
Thick with warm security,
A child’s soft reprieve.
A sculptor, too, is mother
With a strength that edges God:
‘tis all well and good to mold from clay;
She must etch through stubborn rock.
And humble, too, are her works, dwarfed
By Raphael’s creative girth;
He captured Heaven’s majesty;
She is fixed to blemished Earth.
Yet she makes do, and nigh past noon
When wavering shadows fall,
She adorns her slate with vibrant hues;
The dark curtain slowly palls.
But sadly as the day progresses
The muses must retire;
A surly wall does mother reach,
A broken string in Life’s great lyre;
Her brush can no more glean her mind
Melete dances out of reach;
Elusive as a firefly
In night’s expansive breach.
Yet as the sunlight slowly dwindles
And Night rears his starry face,
In hindsight does a mother drift
Where Time cannot erase:
She sees the triumph of the brush,
The grandeur of the pen;
She sees a child’s shining face-
She shall one day paint again.
That a Mother is an Artist
That a mother is artist
Is what I wish to prove;
Though not a famed purveyor of
Winsome portraits to the Louvre
Hers is instead a different art,
One with incessant demand:
At dawn she paints with ardent fire
Fruitful baskets, all freehand
By midmorn she progresses;
Expansive blankets does she weave,
Thick with warm security,
A child’s soft reprieve.
A sculptor, too, is mother
With a strength that edges God:
‘tis all well and good to mold from clay;
She must etch through stubborn rock.
And humble, too, are her works, dwarfed
By Raphael’s creative girth;
He captured Heaven’s majesty;
She is fixed to blemished Earth.
Yet she makes do, and nigh past noon
When wavering shadows fall,
She adorns her slate with vibrant hues;
The dark curtain slowly palls.
But sadly as the day progresses
The muses must retire;
A surly wall does mother reach,
A broken string in Life’s great lyre;
Her brush can no more glean her mind
Melete dances out of reach;
Elusive as a firefly
In night’s expansive breach.
Yet as the sunlight slowly dwindles
And Night rears his starry face,
In hindsight does a mother drift
Where Time cannot erase:
She sees the triumph of the brush,
The grandeur of the pen;
She sees a child’s shining face-
She shall one day paint again.