The Master Artist

The Master Artist Pt 1 --Pt 2--the ending, is the next posting The artist’s tray was loaded with colors, each pastel waiting for its turn: Hues of indigo blues lie impatiently, sparks of carmine seemed to burn. While English chrome colors lay in anticipation for the Master’s touch. The yellow ochre pansies readied to fill the void on the painter’s scene. Each hue was waiting for its turn but chosen first was the yellow green. Winds blew lightly against the canvas and upon each color that he lay Each sound had a melodic lilt as the grass seemed to grow and sway Under a fountain of colors, each strike radiant upon the colored field. Cerulean blue skies lightly painted waited for a stray, pearl-grey cloud To float above the lively meadow, yet no spring rain would be allowed. The artist was tired, yet couldn’t wait to return quickly the next day. Morning came and his fervent fingers reached for the pastels that lay Undiscovered upon the palette—more hues waiting for their chance. He painted a sapphire blue creek moving snake-like up then down. The artist smiled wisely, painting groves of trees of Van Dyke brown. Afternoon came and pastel shades were glazed upon the flowing water As the creek rippled over the violet stones painted on by the Master. He seemed to lose all sense of night and day as each hue told a story. Colors flew from left to right and the meadow seemed to come alive Ruby hues were topped upon the phlox as fragrant flowers did thrive. His hand would not cease until he had painted the bluebird at its song. The misty meadow was melodious as he painted crickets to sing along. The artist looked upon his growing scene and knew what it still needed But his hand was weary and the pastel scene would wait another day For colors that still lay brightly unused upon the Master Artist’s tray. The next day he painted against the sky purple hills gently sun-kissed. His hands worked with great passion as twisting trees seemed to tryst. Pastel colors floated upon the land as pink butterflies flew here and there. Sounds of songbirds were singing as his meadow seemed to nearly burst With every color and every hue that the great artist had fervently dispersed. Part Two has the Master Artist poem ending that I posted after this one-- (PoetrySoup doesn't allow enough space)