Free From Critics Quake

Dreaming of my art in a museum somewhere. A bounty of ideas displayed from my heart. Bold colors combined with unusual flair. A vision, a feeling, fresh art I impart. Year upon year painstakingly practicing, Until ideas unfold and talents increase, Speckles and flings, various stokes in full swing. Fantasy envisions another showpiece. Oh success, that monolith of the art world, Access more political than brains can bare. Paintings, are rolled up and upon a shelf hurled With thoughts that someday when I’m dead, folks might care. A plethora of dreams comes racing to mind. Perhaps, I should hide them in a secret cave. Secured in a vault meant for someone to find. Centuries later perchance people will rave. Now, in my hovel of a studio curled. That place in the woodlands where I love to be, My greenbrier Zareba, hidden from the world Where the soul of this artist just God can see. Transparent hopes cast upon an opaque past. Admirable paintings free from critics quake. Then, what was worthless may have value at last. Living for lauds only after my death’s wake. ã February 13, 2014 Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Dreams Sponsored by: Shadow Hamilton