Sunday, March 30, 2008
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Art Bio
Janet states of her art, "I don't try to make grand political or philosophical statements with my art. I paint for the pure joy of it—bright, happy pictures of flowers and landscapes. If I'm feeling down, I don't paint, I write a poem. Sometimes I write a lot. Sometimes I paint a lot. I rarely do both. My writing and my art tend to be introspective and inspirational, reflective of my passion for life and my deep Christian faith."
Life Is
Life is a brief walk across the stage.
Some relish it,
To others it is a terror.
To each it holds its own reward.
To some the gold
To others the glory
But to those who will be remembered,
The sacrifice and the pain.
Sunset at Tampa Bay
They gather, as though summoned
to perch themselves like seagulls
on pilings, benches and rocks.
waiting, westward watching,
captives of her fleeting majesty.
Slowly, she melts into a molten pool
of her own reflection,
filling the evening sky with washes
of crimson and gold,
casting her colors upon the sea.
Silently, almost imperceptibly,
she slips away,
leaving them one
who moments before were strangers.
to perch themselves like seagulls
on pilings, benches and rocks.
waiting, westward watching,
captives of her fleeting majesty.
Slowly, she melts into a molten pool
of her own reflection,
filling the evening sky with washes
of crimson and gold,
casting her colors upon the sea.
Silently, almost imperceptibly,
she slips away,
leaving them one
who moments before were strangers.
The Almost Child
Cold. So cold,
the logic that decides my fate,
the hands that execute it.
Gone the warmth
and comfort I once knew.
Absent the soft rhythm
that measured my moments.
"It is only a mass," they say,
"A non-person. It cannot feel.
It cannot know."
Yet I recoil
from the metallic intruders.
I cry out, defenseless, unheard.
"It’s all for the best," they say.
"Just have it over and done.
The sooner forgotten,
the better."
Yet my presence lingers.
My tiny eyes ever haunting.
The silent echo of my cry
still heard.
Whose eyes will shed my tears?
Whose voice will
project my agony?
Whose arms
will embrace my brothers?
Who will stand to defend me--
the nameless, faceless
Almost child?
What Was He Like?
What was he like, that handsome young man
With hair that waves just so,
Before we met and fell in love?
There’s so much I’d like to know.
When he was a babe, was he content
Nursing at the breast?
Did he sleep the whole night through
Or rob his momma of her rest?
Did he walk and talk on cue
Filling his parents with delight?
Or was he a stubborn, lazy child
Greeting each challenge with a fight?
Did he play with others well,
Taking turns and sharing toys?
Or was he a spoiled and selfish lad
Always scrapping with other boys?
Did he study hard in school
Passing easily through each grade?
Or leave his report cards on the bus,
Ashamed of all those “D’s” he’d made?
Did he flirt and tease all day
Then date someone else at night?
Or was he loyal and sincere,
Choosing one girl and treating her right?
The missing pieces of the young man’s life
Hidden from me when I became his wife
Have all been found, one at a time,
As I lived them out with this son of mine.
So like his father as I watched him grow,
Yet different. Unique. A pleasure to know.
This handsome young man with hair that waves just so.
