The rolling of the molded clay...
At long day's end might become a mishapened oblong abstract ashtray.
A sunset captured to oiled art...
These brush strokes guide the waves well frothed.
This sunset too beautied to the eye...
This...No art critic can never deny.
My piece may not be a Picasso...
But in truth, my brain's eyes perception would like to capture
In mellowed relaxed rapture.
Possesed by the heart, to capture this state by a much moving Ropeping lasso.
Nailed to the wall like a Crucifix...
Admired by all.
This scenic assemblage shirks all critic's wrongfull call.
I drink coffee in the morn' before my art is born...
All my collection will rise in price after i die so lonely and sad as forlorn.
Michael Gale
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-art-so-close-to-my-heart/
