Sometimes the lines
across the page
take on a different
kind of pace
Lines that do not match
the guiding photograph
decide their own
unique course
breaking free
of what was planned
To chart its own course
I let my hand move
sometime doubting
but also trusting the process
In the end
the painting tells me
when it is done
and I am satisfied.
I stare at the photo
but my hand
takes on
a mind of its own
It won’t listen to
what my eyes see,
refuses to connect
to my logical mind
What I think I see
doesn’t transmit
to the strokes
falling on the page
Something else
takes over my hand
forming their own shapes
similar, but not quite like the photo
I’m in free fall
as the painting seems to
dictate where to move
my hand
I can’t stop
and can’t tell
what is me
and what is the painting
Suddenly it lets me go
I back away
from the easel
and look back
Its unique voice
echoes through me,
not in real words, pleading,
“Make me, create me”
But once my logical mind
kicks in
the moments are passed and
the self-questioning begins.
