A floral botanical illustration around the words of the famous poem and hymn by Cecil Alexander "All Things Bright & Beautiful'. Drawn in pen & ink with another on the way...'All creatures great & small.
This sketchbook is my therapist. Not this one specifically, but any single one small enough to fit in my pocket. I tell it everything, from quirky thoughts and funny notes to abstract concepts, drawings and positive reminders. Keep it analog folks… a doodle, sketch, writing, poem, or scribble every day helps to keep the brain fit and the thoughts flowing. ✏️
"Flying in the sky with a lady in its arms,
The Platform's heading fast out to the farm.
She was harmed unknowingly and now she will become a seed,
From which the platforms now will feed until they breed." -- Drawn with fountain pens, colored with my iPad using Procreate.
This guy's running up like "Hey man, you know... If you're not going to use that computer I'll take it because you know... You don't have to throw it to those robots, man. You know?" Just like that.
They gather around, grateful, sending prayers up just to thank.
(Directed at the man selected to be in the tank.)
Who knows why that man is bare in there, and to be frank-
They're thankful that it's him, not them. You can take that to the bank!
Three islands filled with people all alone out by the sea,
You see, I'd love to join them but there is no room for me.
That one guy climbed too high - I think they call him "Clumsy Paul?"
Soon there may be room for me... I'm just waiting for his fall.
We're at the monster garden where the people were defeated,
A guard is never needed 'cause the monsters must be feeded.
I mean fed. Like I said:
Peeps are happy to be eaten 'cause it's never all that long,
Monsters do the number two and poop them back onto the lawn.
Colored in @escapemotions Rebelle
"I really don't like to gripe,
But there's a monster in pink stripes,
And he's lifting our house up to the sky.
It's like what Mama always said,
That we would all reach such great heights,
But I suspect that's not quite what she meant."
He sits up in his teacup with his hands wrapped 'round a porg,
Thinking up new ways to join forces with the Borg.
To eradicate the Rebels by infecting them with spores,
And assimilate the hive mind to become one with the Force.
Dropping bombs on people's moms...
All because he's mad that his own mom named him "Tom."
He overreacted but there's more to explain, though-
Keep in mind the fact that his last name is "Aito."
Have no fear! I haven't lost my head-
I have it right here.
And my neck has a hole where you can pour the beer.
So do me a favor, dear.
Pour it in with a cheer.
A wonderful reflective poem from Wendell Berry entitled "How to be a poet" is a fantastic foundation for an art curriculum. The last of three stanzas reads as follows:
Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.
Against the weight of a storm-dark sky, tender stems lean forward—some bending, some breaking, some still reaching.
They hold their fire at the tips, waiting to bloom, waiting to burn, waiting to belong to light.
Perhaps this is all of us:
stretching through shadows,
searching for the thin, golden line that divides earth from eternity.
