Haven’t Art-ed in a While

Poetry for Naomi Friedman

I feel rather helpless…

ailed with the successive dysentery of stress, Naomi loses her touch, at least she so feels, passed by the hand of inspiration, engulfed by meticulously labeled calendars, ferocious Goliaths who habitually suck the breath out of life and decline those last few months towards dire chaos.

sighing and lamenting and running out of breath, still not going anywhere, she’s caught spectating her brain; all it can collect is preconditioned, stress-induced, group-think abnormalities. and the pencil won’t samba

funny how we can track our mental states — hurt merciless by intangible realities — through art produced.

but here is a little sketch:

noting her presence suddenly, some months later, grandma Ida strokes your hair, turning every neuron in a certain lightning-quick way, brain-cells interexcited seemingly in quite vivid recall. remember the ease of current of ideas walking the psyche of your spacesuit mindbody? intergalactic inspire whose origin and appearance fascinates exponentially more than the ideas themselves.

this last part is for the children we are:

don’t be afraid to ask for what is good, what is deeply pleasing,

in some not-so-distant tomorrow, you are lying on leafy museums and nature’s castles and the sketchbook is subdued.

you laugh like crazy, face dreaming against the walls of the world.

Thank you for reading! © Daniel Barry, 2021

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