Picture paintings do I see,
of things both little and big for me.
Full of life vibrantly expressed,
warm and beckoning the depressed
Kindling a fire to ease, to welcome,
the one not part of the museum.
Sculptures and carvings grand and not,
feelings that can’t be bought.
The Madonna carrying her child,
Appraisal of the meek and mild.
Pictures abstract and strange,
painting a world from another range.
Mystery clothed in every stroke,
Curiosity stirred when fast was broke.
Each texture hiding a meaning,
Each color, expressing a feeling.
Picture paintings gloomy and dark,
A candle that lost its spark
Turmoil and torture evident,
Sadness and pain in all accent
Tears dropped and made a river,
Sands that hurt, by wind they scatter.
Picture paintings of all kinds I see,
different and yet extraordinary
Art with lots of worth,
May it be of heaven and of earth.
An artist am I, and ask as I see:
“What is this painting, inside of me?”
And I am a person with a human heart,
I ask myself: “Which painting should I take part?”
– One of the last few poems I made©