Call It Art Poem by Jeshua Logsdon

Call it art.
His hands shake from insomnia as he watches the birth of morning
For the six hundredth time,
Out of his upstairs window.
From a combination of pastel paints and wide brush strokes,
A light blue sky materializes,
Then a ray of sun peeks over the horizon
And his eyes jitter and jump,
His hands wave and poke methodically
Until every moment is captured.

Call it art.
and view it

Call it art.
The boom box blasts beats as he prepares to take the stage
Not in a theatre
Not in a recital hall
But on the streets of New York City,
He walks loud and proud,
He lives high just to get down
And when the silence ensues
He waits.
And at the dropp of a beat
He drops to the ground
Each movement a rhythm
And each step a new reason to be alive
And he breaks
He breaks until his sweat runs red
And when the music dies
And the night comes down
He smiles.
Because he knows what tomorrow holds.

Call it art
And become it

Call it art
When he walks forward and the applause begins
He looks confident
But on the inside he is just as nervous as the two-hundred he is about to lead into
Silence.
You could hear a pen drop
His hands shake as he lifts them in a commanding fashion
And the crowd follows
Quiet.
At the dropp of his baton the chaos supervenes
Rich tones pour from every orifice
His hands surge with the waves of sound
And his body contorts to the cadence
Until it falls
Into a softened rhythm
Building to the final climax
Climbing the crescendo
Lifting itself above the monotony
Breaking the silence into pieces
As the final sound explodes!
Trumping the solitude!
Conquering the trite!
And he halts his movement.
To enjoy the final chord of his creation.
Then allows it to fall.
As the crowd stands
And applauds.
He bows, humbly.

Call it art.
And respect it

Call it art.
Because a vow of silence becomes her.
Four days in a row she has belted her aria
Breath is her life
Oxygen her drug
And she is addicted.
She feels the warm sensation of the words
As they leave her body.
She accents them with eyebrows and faces
She constructs each measure with heartfelt motions
Another breath,
And off she goes
Practice upon practice
Rehearsing until the day passes
And there are still
Two left to go.

Call it art
And hear it.

Call it art.
He sits solitary on his bed
Another broken heart
Another wasted day
And another night
Alone.
He seeks solace
Not in a bottle
But in a tablet of sorts
His shield from the world
And he cracks it open and begins
He scatters his thoughts
His emotions
The hell he’s been through
The hatred he has encountered
And spreads them from top to bottom
Page to page
And the passion burns inside of him
As he writes with the ferocity of a thousand poetic beasts
Eyes aflame with intensity
Words pouring off the page
Until he is relieved
His escape
His release
His finale
And he collapses on the bed.
Until morning.

Call it art.
and read it
Smell it
Live it
Love it
Eat it
Heed it
Breed it
Breathe it
Need it
And treat it

And don’t fail to see it
for what it really is.
You may not have the ability to call it
Masterful
Moving
Or Perfect.
So just…
Call it art.