Chaps is a painting that will be featured in a gallery show at the Fort Worth Community Arts Center in Fort Worth, Texas. The show will feature the paintings of Jerry Johnston and the photography of Tracy Watson and is actually a preview for a much larger show in the same location in January/February of 2010. The art and photography in the show display images of Texas and the Southwest featuring wildlife, landscapes and figurative works. The location was selected for its proximity to Will Rogers Coliseum where the Fort Worth Rodeo and Stock Show takes place each year.  

Star Walker is a Mixed Media piece using acrylic paint, digital photograph and acrylic medium varnish.

In continuing this poetry blog, I think the importance of nature in creating art is immense. The following poem was written in 2000 when I was spending a lot of time on the Maypearl Ridge in north central Texas.






Brush Fires
by Jerry Johnston

The smell of burning cedar
is like incense drifting on the morning breeze
just before the sun rises.

It overpowers the fragrance of grasses and burning brush,
prue and clean and lasting.
Smoke hoversover the lake like mist

but the mist is there as well,
hiding the water birds and ringlets
made by rising fish;

watery rings, like fluid strands of hair
let down by a lover
intent and earnest in his love,

leaning down to kiss and caress
the cool skin and sweet lips
of the morning.

Wake the day slowly.
Smouldering fires warm the air,
as does the sun.

And the only difference
between the fire and the sun
is the sweet smell of cedar burning in the brush.

Painting, poetry and music all go hand in hand in the creative process. That moment of inspiration that causes the painter to pick up the brush is the same that moves the poet or song writer to put pen to paper. To deny these art forms an outlet on this website seem inappropriate, therefore I will from time to time be posting poetry and lyrics in this blog. I hope you enjoy reading  them as much as I enjoy creating them.

The Poet
by Jerry Johnston

I am but a hunter of phantoms and such
with a net made of gossamer wings.
And a brush with a flourish, and a spatter of paint
the color of wonderful things.

I'll not be a peddler, no matter the sale.
The wind fills my wings and I fly.
No captain of indurstry, or legend, or king
just a humble interpreter, I.

And if that's not worthy or not good enough,
then pass me as though I were still.
Invisible but for the glint of the sun
off a silver thin strand of fine silk.

But if I should please or amuse you a while
then you know me for all that I am.
For when I am gone from this misty old world
you'll know I've done all that I can.

I am but a poet, a teller of tales.
A painter of pictures and words.
A writer of music, the spinner of yarns
you forgot or never quite heard.