A Day in the Life: Reflections on an Art Fair

man joking

Artists, creators,
gathered for the love of art
and to make a buck.

Their souls on display,
hearts and minds exposed. Love, tears,
and lives reflected.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

White canopies bathed
in sunlight, soft breeze whispers.
The show is open.

Guests wander about,
checking phones for messages
and reading emails.

They hear your greetings,
feign deafness, pass by the booths
unseeing, blank stares.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Why do they come here?
Oh, yes! Garden ornaments
made from old golf clubs.

Trinkets from China
masquerading as handmade.
Dollar store items.

Eschewing paintings,
hand-thrown clay pots and carved tiles,
They hunt for bargains.

Eyes averted, they
complain about your prices,
play “Let’s Make a Deal.”

You tell them you don’t
negotiate, this is no
kind of flea market.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“How do you do this?”
Oooh! Ahh! Touch, examine each
image, buy nothing.

Compliments, while nice
don’t put food on the table
or keep the lights on.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Art means nothing to
the creatively expired,
minds ruled by gadgets.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Dead eyes, deaf ears, lives
of quiet desperation.
Unmoved, uninspired.

 

 

 

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About Peace Penguin

Just a penguin on the path to choosing peace.
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