The Parade and Plight of the Artistic Types

Burnt coffee and retired poets commingle
like philosophers swarming the artist's house,
armed with aesthetics and
diluted crystal glasses of fine sherry,
mulling about the mantle, warmed
but not scorched by the roaring fire.

Wedded to the trickle-down rays
refracted dimly by the leaded and
stained-glass skylight, the dreamers convene
and pause to smell the light drifting on air,
and the painters see the walls in technicolor
or monochrome expressionism and ponder
the feel of oil and water on their
anointed canvases.

There is music from behind the wall
and the string players quartet with themselves
in the space of creation as
they watch their notes flutter up and
dissolve in the dry air like soap bubbles
glistening for the whole of their short and
glorious lives.

And the chorus of creators cry out:
We declare to you what was from the beginning,
what we have heard,
what we have seen with our eyes
what we have looked at and touched with our hands,
concerning the word of Life.