"Transformation" Painting

The Poet's Journey

I first sought truth in whispered rhyme,

where silent words could soften time.
Yet ink grew small, the page too slight

to hold the weight of inward light.

My father drew, and I would see
how lines could set the spirit free.
An architect by craft and grace,
he taught my hand to honor space.

While Rome sang through the evening air,

with songs that drifted everywhere,

I learned that music, breath and flame

were never separate, but the same.

At eleven years, I closed my eyes;

through meditation came surprise.

The martial path refined my will,

while silence taught me to be still.

Italian roots, Egyptian skies,

the East reflected in my eyes.

Philosophy and ancient lore

became the keys to something more.

I wandered not for fame or gold,

but for the truths no tongue has told.

Psychology revealed the mind;

the soul revealed what lay behind.

The poet slowly laid his pen;

the painter woke his hands again.

Where words would falter, colors grew,

revealing what no speech could do.

For years I gave my works away,

to friends whose hearts had crossed my way.

A gift, not owned, but meant to live

within the lives that art can give.

Now every canvas bears a part

of discipline, of soul, of heart.

Not simply made for eyes to see,

but for a deeper company.

Some call it presence, some call it light;

some feel a silence warm and bright.

I ask for neither faith nor creed—

only an open heart to read.

The ancient walks beside the new;

the many speaks itself as few.

Each stroke invites, but never binds;

its truest home is searching minds.

No final road, no fixed design;

the path unfolds one sign at time.

For every end becomes a start—

A poet's soul.

A painter's heart.