The Art of Lonely Artists & Paper Airplanes

The Art of Lonely Artists & Paper Airplanes

[Back story: On Friday the 2nd I was processing life and loneliness, the draw to create and how it breaks me. God, as usual, was being a wonderful sounding board for all my confusion and hurt. Ultimately though, I have a hard time believing Him when He says He loves when I create and fling it out into the world. And all my questions boiled down to: Then why doesn’t my art catch? Why is it not good enough-why am I not good enough- for it to be caught? What good is a half-hearted, or rather, a not-quite-good-enough, creative to Him? How can it do Him, or the world, any good if the words are spoken, the art created, and left unheard, unseen? I realized creating is the only way I know how to communicate and I angrily asked Him why He made me this way, “But why? It’s so lonely. I’m so lonely over here. I want to be heard. Creating is not fun for me, it’s heart-wrenchingly painful. It’s not a hobby, it’s a lifeline.”
The picture that popped in my mind left me sobbing. I saw it all like a movie, and seeing as I can’t animate it for you, I’ll have to roughly jot it down, and hope you’ll be able to see it too:]

Art, words, pictures, poems, folded carefully into perfect little paper airplanes.
There’s a chasm and on the other side it is bustling with crowds and friends and towns.
The artist sits alone, creating then folding.
A line of pegs sit at the edge to the chasm with strings that connect to each plane. Many of the threads lead straight down into the chasm where the plane was lost. Others bridge the gap but the planes lay motionless on the other side, either trampled, neglected, or unseen. Those strings remain attached to their pegs, little feelers flung across the gap, left in silent hope. The threads hanging into the chasm with their fallen planes are eventually cut off at the peg, but only when the artist has enough heart left for a proper eulogy and grief.

She falls asleep each night on the ground facing the stakes watching with weary eyes for a twitch.

Supplies are replenished when needed; coffee brought in the morning and late into the night. Blankets are draped over her shoulders in the cold and they’re straightened as she sleeps. Shade is provided when the sun blazes or when the sky cries her tears.
And the artist creates on. Her blood compels her and her bones would snap under the weight of her heart were she to keep it all in.
So she keeps on.
Create, fold, tie, fling.
Create, fold, tie, fling.
Create, fold, tie, fling.
Grieve, cut.
Watch, wait.
Cut, cut, cut, break.
Cry, scream, straighten, breath.
Create, fold, tie, fling.










In Winter’s Battlefield [Poem-a-Day: 30]

In Winter’s Battlefield [Poem-a-Day: 30]

Blue white mist rises
from the creek bed on the horizon.
It softly drifts to hush the brandy grasses,
that blow and shake in fear as Winter approaches.

The trees stand stately,
on the hill they refuse to acknowledge
the rains have left them bare and dripping still
from their postpartum, babes ripped from their arms.

Yet in all of this ache
the sky has not remembered the time of mourning.
It stretches and spreads, free of the clouds
that had confined its piercing blue.

In seeming act of rebellion,
the sky screams forth in radiant light,
letting out its purest tune in hues
that dare the cold to come and try it.

And here I find myself,
at home amidst the contradiction,
breathing courage o’er the grasses, grieving
with the trees, and spread my soul wide with the sky.

I thrive among the strife
of living in the two worlds at one time.
And although I ache and hope for this embrace made tangible,
Light fighting back darkness sets a fire in my eyes.

Spyglass [Poem-a-Day: 22]

Spyglass [Poem-a-Day: 22]

I pick up my spyglass
on this fine overcast day,
and raise to the horizon
to see what comes this way

Dawn thunders on,
pouring over the waves:
The crests of these grassy hills,
burning embers, they blaze

Dawn slips on by,
bringing with it noon-day light.
The sky is still a blanket,
and the birds are a-flight.

Dusk rises up
from the horizon to seize;
before her long purple gown
the remnants of day flee.

Night hushes us
with its midnight blue song.
The clouds slip away to show
the starry host and throng.

Sing through the night,
my darling, sing with the moon,
and I’ll raise up my spyglass
to the Right-Now’s tune.

We Let the Seasons Take Their Toll [Poem-a-Day: 3]

We Let the Seasons Take Their Toll [Poem-a-Day: 3]

We let the seasons take their toll
Dead leaves have filled the yard.
Drifting slowly, crunching softly,
our once green graveyard full.

It’s true in other seasons too,
Spring has it’s pollen, long grass in summer
and winter’s blueish hue.

There are those who fight the signs,
who rake the leaves, wash everything,
and mow so many times.

It would mean much work to do,
to not see the seasons change,
to not see dead things all around,
and, maybe, not feel blue.

The Love Story of Autumn

The Love Story of Autumn

Summer leaves our sweet tree blushing
from the Sun’s golden kiss.
She’s busy soaking up any love she can possess.
Arms high, palms outstretched, reaching always,
The Sun smiles.

The Sun can’t help Himself, you see
So he pours and pours, lavish, lavish.
Drops of perfect light like honey,
caught on emerald green
turning yellow slowly.

Hands grow heavy from the blessing
bending, caving,
sunlight slips off to the ground,
bringing down her leaves.

The tree has stored up in her heart
all the love that she can fathom.
She shakes and lets go
A cascade of a lover’s trinkets
no longer needed when fully known
in his eyes is her loveliness.

Gone are the leaves,
but the tree’s still reaching
less desperation, instead more praise,
feeling, finally, the Sun’s golden smile
on her bones.

The light has seeped down, now
to her roots, underground.
A work has begun
New life, and resurrection

And she grows.

Songs of Autumn Mornings

Songs of Autumn Mornings

Good morning, Abba.

The earth cries out Your name today.
The stars have ceased their songs in awe of Morning’s,
but trees just sing along.
The air is crisp and clean
The sun burned ‘way any remaining drips
of summer’s humidity.

The trees, their leaves are vibrant green
Just the smallest hint of autumn yellow,
discernible only to a season professional,
that could otherwise be mistaken as golden drops of sun
held fast, by the leaves’ refusal to let go.

The mist rises from the grassy hill as the world stretches
and the blue-grey blanket of night slides off
like silk sheets.

The birds giggle in the morning sun,
not drunk with it, just giddy
like school-children, they can’t stop talking
and flitting about for lessons.
Why should they? They’re birds.

It is what they are, and what they do,
ceasing only for the night
to sing more voraciously
in the morn.

The children of Nature, of summer
and of spring, of autumn.
Oh God, protect their joy through winter’s cold,
that spring will greet me with their song.