Art Gifts and Poems About Art

The eye of the beholder changes all
Appreciation for a work of art
Or pleasing visage that to some appall
This, a human trait, fickle as one's heart

Some are immersed by dots of black and red
While others love frescos of the Master
Or formless sculpture by a garden shed
Or ornate temples of alabaster

Frown lines above the brow beckon to some
Cheeks ruddy with freckles often bemuse
Wildflowers, tree frogs or even pond scum
A bulldog, bunny or turtle; you choose

So should an object be alive or not
The mind's eye tricks the viewer to what's hot

What is Art? You ask
Is it a crackled Grecian flask?
Or a dotted mural on the wall?
Tis beauty from Man's hand, that's all

A tapestry of thread most fine
Was woven to commemorate
The crowning of the concubine
That all had come to venerate
She had been of humble birth
Her beauty shown from deep within
In conversation her voice held mirth
The people's love of her poured in
The tassels on the corners four
Were spun of gold and ivory thread
An oaken timber holds up this lore
Above the royal wedding bed

He took in the weighty striate marble block
Considering it from each angle and plane
What he wanted to create would suffer no clock
Counting the minutes the chisel would gain

The sculptor prepared to do the long work
To bring the form to life without mishap
Of the demanding hours he'd not shirk
Or take a short cut; fall into that trap

Justice would be done to nature's stone
Carried to this place from across the sea
Working with the grain he'd strike the tone
That would result in sheer artistic clarity

When complete, hypnotized throngs would gaze
Into the heart of the marble's milk opacity
To be smitten by its lustrous beauty for days
Trust always, that for Art, Man has such capacity

Layers of paint upon the canvas
Attempting to convey his soul
Filling in each tiny crevasse
Taking his time, making it whole

Some green here, no, a dab of blue
Always testing, working his palette
Catching the light, shifting hue
There, a muted shade of deeper violet

The work is done when it's done
Speaking its completion silently
He gazes at it, lit by the setting sun
He puts down his brush and sighs

Through the ages Art has manifested
On cave walls and burial crypts
Some works by the lords' requested
And some according to movie scripts

Art has been done just for Art's sake
Or oft to satisfy the Artist's itch
Sadly some Art was lost to quakes
But because of Art, the World is rich