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Pretty
Author: Mark Spencer

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He was the greatest of his day,
Surpassing even Claude Monet,
In the impressionist design,
The scenes he painted were divine.

He painted dories on the Seine,
And ships that sail the bounding Maine.
He painted sunny days in June,
He painted lovers ‘neath the moon.

He painted butterflies and birds,
And garden scenes too grand for words.
He painted people at their best,
In passionate flight, and at rest.

His work was known throughout the land,
His services in high demand.
And this went on for many years,
He was the envy of his peers.

The people saw grace in his art,
Prophetic form set him apart.
They thought the Lord guided his hand,
And so a great banquet was planned.

They honored him with their acclaim,
They made donations in his name.
And once his statue was unveiled,
The master was richly regaled.

He ate his fill and gave a speech,
Then someone asked if he would teach
The message that his art conveyed,
That was so gracefully displayed.

He wasn’t sure how to reply
He didn’t know what caught their eye.
There isn’t anything to teach.
My art has no message to preach!

It’s just a picture, can’t you see?
It has no veiled identity!
I paint a lake, tree, or city,
Because I think they look pretty!

Don’t waste time with contemplation,
Or some deep interpretation!
You won’t appreciate the art!
Just let the image touch your heart.

But those who gathered there that day
Were at a loss for what to say.
They’d hoped that more flowed from their guest,
A gift like his should have been blessed.

But he saw little more than they,
His art had nothing grand to say.
It was a gift to please the eyes,
No veiled message in disguise.

And when the banquet guests dispersed,
The artist’s circumstance reversed.
No longer was he in demand,
No divine gifts guided his hand.

In time, this man, once so revered,
Began to fade, then disappeared.
A stranger is what he became,
And no one could recall his name.

He wandered up and down the Seine,
Around the world and back again,
Until his heart began to yield,
So he laid down within a field.

And there he saw an awesome sight,
It was the most breathtaking light.
Appearing in the sky above,
Imbued with splendor and with love.

The final word upon his breath
Said at the moment of his death,
Eclipsed the lake, tree and city,
Letting go, he whispered: “Pretty”.

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Comments on this poem/writing:

Wess (72.35.140.6) -- Sunday, January 18 2015, 03:21 am

There's nothing prettier!

Some earthly images are quite beautiful, but I'll bet there's nothing more beautiful than heaven!
 
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