Fifty years from now,
you'll not remember me,
nor see my face,
nor be in my grace,
although I'm with thee today.
I'm seeing you in my place, years from now, old and full of grey....
And remembering those that lived before
in time and in another space
The world changes day-to-day
and this all I need to say.
Dedicated to Denise who keeps the family-tree and to my uncle Bill who wrote this poem for me:
The Artist's Touch
A restless and empty canvas
nervously awaits the artist's brush
Along with palette productive of
creation's initial blush.
Oils of varied tints and hues anxiously
expectant of proud display,
Yet only when a spark of genius
surpasses uncertain way.
Act, scene, agent, agency, and purpose
set forth in Burke's Pentad
Does lend to art from rhetoric a means
that should make the heart glad.
The view might inquire what was done,
and when and where it was done,
And by whom, why, and how it was done,
so lauded be creation.
But, the seed of inspiration must impregnate
the artist's soul
Until disassembled imagery blends
together as a whole,
So that life is breathed upon the canvas
by the artist's steady stroke,
Til the ultimate outcome represents
the standards he would invoke.
There would be countless lesser-knowns carving
their niche sans pomp and heraldry
Yet their portraits hand for all to see
on the hallways of eternity!
By William A. Narkis 11/03/84