Mon, 06/27/2016 - 20:40 -- mmh9

Tall, stone and gray,

We walk into the dull box-shaped building.

Inside looks the same.

Where is the color? Where is the art?


A sign reads “Monet”.

“I’m sorry you must leave, this exhibit is private.”

One more glance as I say,

“I’m sorry sir, but where is the art?”


Up the stairs to levels two and three.

A room full of stone carved intricately.

The smiling face of Buddha stares back at me,

Where are the paintings?  Where is the art?


Plaque by plaque I move from room to room.

Gods with round bellies and hands towards the sky

Depicted in stone and jewels, I assume.

Where are the drawings? Where is the art?


I find one painting, surrounded by 100 statues,

One eating bowl surrounded by 200 religious pieces,

This is not what I expected. I take a deep breath,

What am I looking for? Where is the art?


Art is in the cold of stone.

Art is in the shine of gold.

Art is in the stroke of a brush and the stitch in a cloth.

Art is in words.

Art is in the shape of a vase, the page of a book and the stretch of a canvas.

Open your eyes.

Art is everywhere.

Observe, don’t search.


This poem is about: 


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