Can you hear them?
Their inaudible voices whisper tales of revolution, and heroes made,
Through broken statues and cracked oil, stanzas of old and brittle clay.
Take heed to the awe-inspiring tales of the bards of inanimate,
And dip your brush into the knowledge of a painter’s palette.
...
‘Fore Lisa ever smiled upon Enlightenment,
When Homo sapiens lived by the moment,
The throne was warmed of Paleolithic beauty,
On the subtle surface sheets of cave walls and body.
A man of fuzzy features scoops up red Ochre,
He then grinds it upon rocks with bare fingers,
As he touches the wall he loses touch with reality,
Truly glimpsing art before envisioning spirituality.
Neolithic’s religiously built Monoliths,
Placing their faith in sensational obelisks,
Their stony stature lasting many millenniums,
Tools sharper than minds so they craft large craniums.
Tidings of a colossal rock’s salvage,
Spread like wildfire through the village.
To the scene the citizens hastily flock,
Where ancient tools shape stone with rock.
Overthrowing the archetypal prehistoric dynasties,
Cradle of civilization births and rises without modesty.
The first lyrics are inscribed upon papyrus in ebony ink,
Set by music with drums and lyres playing in sync.
The first bard dances with Terpsichore with a gentle hum,
Fills his lungs and burst into song to Mesopotamian drums.
Passed down through the grapevine from limb to limb,
Until it reaches a literate librarian who records the hymn.
Inspired by Humanism, and simple complexity,
The renaissance migrates north from Italy.
With the rebirth of Greco-roman antiquity,
It became known as western cultures epitome.
Graying Michel Angelo stands upon a monster of scaffolding,
Painting the church with “obscenities”, his will unfolding.
In a rush to finish up the Popes commission,
But still realizing his extravagant vision.
We add to the melting pot Realism,
And with it contemporary Expressionism.
Modern Ideas contributing to arts revolutions,
Coming full circle, they’re only contributions.
Now poets form front lines for the greatest struggle of all,
Stanzas and Strophes capture and stand attention enthralled.
Sculptors chisel rough stone into marmoreal Gods of war,
Time withers away their glossy surface to expose their hard core.
Painters decorate purple hearts upon crimson canvasses,
Peeled back corners and stressed tears show times metamorphoses.
Long after their creators die, they survive,
They roar in the struggle to keep art alive.
Can’t you hear them?
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