For a while now, the brushes have sat still, the inks drying in their bottles, the canvases leaned quietly in the corner, waiting. Not abandoned—just... on pause. Something unexpected tugged at my creative sleeve and pulled me in a different direction: poetry.

It wasn’t planned. It crept in like a whisper and then flooded like a river. Short lines. Sudden rhythms. Images made of language rather than paint. I found myself chasing fragments of thought and emotion, not with charcoal or spray, but with keystrokes and stanza breaks.

What I discovered is that the creative energy is the same—it simply changed form. The same abstraction, the same curiosity, the same compulsion to reveal something hidden. But now it was shaped in syllables rather than silhouettes.
For those wondering where the new artwork is—know that it’s still brewing, just behind the poetry. The imagery is stacking up. I feel it gathering again. And when it returns to the studio, I suspect the work will be changed by these poems. Maybe looser. Maybe more inward. Maybe both. Sometimes, we follow the line wherever it leads, even when it pulls us off the canvas and into the page.

​Do you know what irritates a poet most of all? 
Is it when he receives some hurtful criticism
Is it when his book is rejected by the publishers?
No.. it's when he has written something in pencil late at night , and the next day he can't read his own handwriting! 
Maybe there'll be a second edition if I can ever work it out..  !!

Today I watched Jack weep, stirred by the memory of someone who had once believed in him—someone who gave him a break when he needed it most. There was eye contact and those brief, bracing hugs that men give when words aren’t quite enough. I’ve never had that kind of break, so I won’t pretend to share in Jack's tears.

​A requiem hums softly in the background of my mind. Now and then, a melody breaks through, beautiful but fleeting. Midnight finds me staring at my desk, almost reaching for a pencil, half in the mood but lacking direction. Can you force it? Creativity, I mean.

I'm down to one Christmas card this year. Hang in there, Linda. One peg on the line will do.
Here it is, the musing if not the muse. “You’re creative,” she said, and something flickered to life inside me. Lately, life feels like a piano string with the damper pressed tight. Nothing rings out. I wandered into the forest of notation and hugged a few tree-shaped notes. They didn’t give much sap, but the instinct to try remains.
“Sugar, Sugar” isn’t trembling with fear just yet.

When the art dries up, write poetry. When the poetry withers, draw. When the sketches refuse to come alive, mess around with a DAW. Maybe there’s some harmonic, spectral, verbose formula waiting to reveal itself.
It's happening, whether I acknowledge it or not.

​And so I try. And try. And try.