Read Poem: PAINTED WORLDS IN COVID TIMES, by Patricia Tiffany Morris

Proverbial towels weren’t allowed
In fifth period art class rules.
My sixth-grade teacher rarely smiled.
His firm but gentle voice
taught me to search my world
for excellence in life.
He led my class through narrow halls
toward hope at Mrs. Turner’s studio.

Art unveiled a world of promise
and my imagination soared.
We practiced all the fine techniques
and found new ways to cope
through art around the world.
To try again and strive
until we found our style—our voice—
until we faced the hurts that hid inside.

Perhaps that’s why I liked the world
of happy painting with Bob Ross.
The beauty in his little world,
His peaceful unmasked smile,
brought tools to carve my world,
not hide my scars within.
I feared the secrets and my tears.
It’s clear, gray shadows cloaked my childhood home.

And then I saw Christina’s world.
Distressed, she beckoned me to hope.
Bright sun-kissed meadows doused in rain
stirred freedom to create.
I climbed inside her world
of courage to escape.
Such brave attempts to claw at graves.
Unmasked, I struggled with the painting’s truth.

That’s when I found familiar roads
that led to sanctuary friends.
And healing flowed like mountain streams
as melancholy rose
inside this tumbling world.
Would staying home bring light?
I tore again at rusty chains.
Confused I searched and fought for something more.

My throat scraped thin and cries unheard,
at least that’s what I thought of God.
The mirror of my youth lay fogged
Yet present day was bleak.
The ugly muted world
The sadness and disease.
Should fear or dread define this time?
This year perplexed my heart weighed Covid’s threat.

My arms grew tired of mad debate
To wear a mask or hide away.
But light broke through the storm online
God’s love poured down like rain
And offered me His world.
Argument garnered rest.
Hope showered me and buried fear.
Rejoice! I welcomed peace. My faith increased.

Now, I look back into the past
at all the times I painted worlds.
Did Wyeth know his art could heal?
I drew a breath and sighed.
Dear Wyeth’s hand designed his world,
but Jesus found my voice.
His healing saturates my life,
My choice as God brings art to shine through me.


Author: poetryfest

Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film.

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