I took up the paintbrush
when words would not come
and painted myself poems
In my 89th year, the words have returned. I am deep into completing a novel. And I am compiling a book of poems which originated as paintings.
Seems I am a serious late bloomer! So I might as well raise my martini to new beginnings. Cheers! Age is just a number, and mine being no longer unlisted. I embrace it.
Old is Wabi-sabi, weathered, imbued with a beauty that is imperfect. Old, in its transience becomes new, fresh in its honed simplicity. In other words, old is kind of cool. Most days.
Posted Above: CRADLED IN ORANGE. OIL/CANVAS. 3′ x 4′ A wordless meditation on the source of life.