• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 05

Winged Art

Art has wings -
they flap, swirl,
illuminating creations
as newborns in woolly hats
donning pink and blue
to mark beginnings
like first, intrepid brushstrokes;
flicking pages of a thesaurus.

Art inhabits many forms:
lines of penned poetry,
lilting lyrics,
captivating canvases,
poised portraits,
flash-fiction finches
and nightingale novels:
all hover in the air
as winged birds,
highlighting sympathisers
with neon hues:
changing lives
and saving souls
as life boats
for struggling swimmers
lost in chilled, callous seas
with weighted, wingless feet.  


Winged Art

Art is medicine:
a honey-laced tonic
on cold wintery nights
when bodies fight colds,
sneezing away daily schedules;
they dissipate in the breeze as dust.

It is the sun, moon and stars
dancing around our world
holding hands as Celtic dancers;
words and visuals glint as emeralds
in spotlighted bands of light
as prima donnas
enlightening souls
within operas
where wings unravel
as elysian epiphanies.

For me,
art is a lightbulb (energy saving):
one I wish to share…
lending to friends,
exchanging as Secret Santa gifts.

It is fluid as oil paint,
timeless as Shakespeare,
respected as canonical pages
held in gilded, winged-hands
of intellectually curious gods.


Winged Art

Art is a lover
whom paints magic
upon metaphorical easels;
each canvas takes flight…

…weightlessly, instinctively,
like paper-paged birds
soaring to sun-lit horizons
upon buoying uplifts
of scintillating syntax.