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Missing in Ireland

By the time you read this, I will be in Ireland.

{Yes, you read that right. And no, this is not some weird clairvoyant, prophesying thing. This is a Maddie plans ahead and writes her blogs in advance thing.}

So yeah. I'm on vacation. And will continue to be exploring all that Ireland has to offer until May 24th. Which means that you and I are in a bit of trouble. How are we going to continue our weekly blog posts while I'm off sightseeing?

The answer is simple:

We will adapt.

This week, you'll be introduced to a never-before-published poem from yours truly. And the following two weeks (because let's face it, even though I'll be back on US soil in two weeks, I'm gonna be jetlagged and not completely coherent for a few days)... well, I don't know what they will entail. Yet.

But for now, I want you to sit back, relax, and ponder the meaning of this poem - The Artist.


With a dab of emerald;

That'll be the base.

Dips the wide flat brush,

An arc of pigment graces pure white.


Now where's my cadmium yellow,

My peach, umber, blush?

Paint squeezed onto palette. Mix.

Warm mossy background

Replaced by face, neck, body: soft flesh.


Eyes, my favorite, like pools of honey. 

Amber hues dance with golden threads,

Curl around an ivory center.



What about the hair?

Vandyke brown, copper also.

Wild strokes, blowing in the breeze.

Each hair meticulously marked,

Shimmering in the light.


Now where is--

Examines paint-splattered tubes,

Searching, for one particular--

Ha! Found you!

Rich violet cascades.

Glorious. Clothing fit for royalty, I'd say.


Now one last stroke...

A signature emblazoned in the corner,

Two lines, the mark of the cross.

It is finished and it is perfect.

The Artist exhales,

Honeysuckle breath seeps into

The painting. The creation absorbs it

And blinks.


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