Vincent

When young Vincent was an artist, as yet of no renown, He soon became a realist, no paintings sold in town. No cause for him to smile at all, except of course to frown. Vincent needed a miracle, or life would get him down. As time passed by, the artist saw, as if through different eyes. The earth, the sky and all before and came to realise That there are patterns, curls and whirls, no other artist tries And so he thought of these as pearls, though precious, small in size. Vincent began his editing, conforming line-by-line, When employing things most fitting, deserving of design. With circling twists, with spiral turns, with colours sharp and fine, Just as the candle slowly burns... its wondrous light to shine. So poets of this world take note, see more than what we see. Like artists, paint a second coat, let's edit poetry. Let's take our firstborn's nakedness, then strive for what must be. Mistakes removed are bound to bless, at least they do for me. And only then, when all seems done, let's share the words we wrote. Though we changed many, not just one, so why then should we gloat? We simply sought some wise advance, some nice-framed antidote. We nimbly thought what could enhance, so readers could take note. Let's work with patience when we rhyme... if rhyming proves our thing. Invest a little extra time, to add some extra zing. Perhaps to pray for wisdom, too. Perhaps just listening. Like artist Vincent used to do, to insights God could bring... Denis Martindale March 2020.