We do not paint.
We are the pigments,
resins, solvents and additives
the soft animal bristle and
hand-assembled metal bands.
We do not write.
We are the molecules linked
together in crystalline structures,
soaked into paper, allowing
our thoughts to bleed at the edges.
We do not make music.
We are strings vibrating,
communicating rhythmic visions hanging
in air, that feeling of wanting to be
thrusted towards the chorus.
We do not build architecture.
We are the triumph of imagination
over materials. Rising out of empty space
into those impermanent
dwelling places we call home
We do not sculpt.
We are the molded clay
welded into three dimensions
with our fingers, holding the carver’s
knife like a butcher hacking beauty out of wood
We are not illustrators.
We are the bare metal plates dipped
in a bath of acid, exposed, leaving
behind sunken lines, a soft materials
mudged into soft shadows.
And we do not dance.
We are releasing energy, simply taking
delight in the movement itself.
Unable to separate our limbs from life,
a natural order that we all belong to.
Nor do we love. We are love.
The eyes and hands and ears and lips of God.
George Cassidy Payne is a poet from Rochester, NY. His work has been included in such publications as the Hazmat Review, Moria Poetry Journal, Chronogram Journal, Ampersand Literary Review, The Angle at St. John Fisher College, and 3:16 Journal. George’s blogs, essays and letters have appeared in USA Today, The Wall Street Journal, The Atlantic, Havana Times, South China Morning Post, The Buffalo News, and more.
See all his poems on Tea House here.