I have always
loved to watch
an artist work
whether
on canvas
piano
clay
or in a factory
at a sewing
machine
or a saw where
work becomes art
on a basketball
court
or a baseball
field where
sport becomes art
I love to watch
the movements
of fingers doing
what they do best
or a voice that
captures passion
and the lust of
life
the litany of a
head cocked just
so
in the full
appreciation of
themselves
and their work.
—So much there
yet no effort
as even the sweat
glides
from their brow.
I admire artists
and take delight
not only
in their
creations
but in their
creating
I had the
opportunity
to see another
artist
with his fingers
at the keyboard
in virtuoso
performance
interestingly
enough
it was me.
—Tonight when I
woke
in the middle of
the night
I sat at my
keyboard
and wailed.
Words went flying
from
my fingers in
song
my eyes crying
salt
I had arrived for
myself
and saw the
expression
on my face
the rhapsody
of my fingers
I felt good
like Miles on the
trumpet
Monk at the piano
Picasso at the
canvas
Dr. J. Soaring to
the hoop
Mantle at the
plate
Mays basket
catching infinity
and my dad at his
workbench.
—I felt like me
The words
like notes
drifting
soaring
singing
lasering
the night
The birds outside
my window
sang to me
telling me
their stories in
thousands
of warbles
and I understood
every note
and they knew
as I know
that I was born
again
an artist
