Depict such a scene
Mystic frost white clouds
Twit summer/autumn
Color my world white
Encase in pearl bright
Glare I stare white “eye”
Artist Henri Matisse
wrote a learned treatise
Also many a model he did depict
maidens it seems all hand picked
Our heart’s intent is by mind translated,
though the tremors are too subtle to catch,
which by resonance is yet created,
as the koel’s coo symbols try to match.
Endless beginnings and endings renewed,
metamorphose whist we are in repose,
enlivening time dissolved solitude,
exuding fragrance of love’s home grown rose.
Shifting to feeling by ceasing thinking,
soul alone knows how soma nectar flows,
so poised thus as awareness unblinking,
we but depict how bliss magnetism grows.
Listen to the sound of a leaf falling ~
What in death do we find so enthralling
She sits composed, not as a woman,
but a lavish landscape of angles and cubes,
a psychic collage of splintered dissonance,
framed in fractured facade of anguish.
The body portioned into pile of unsettling planes,
the face split between skewed profiles,
the misaligned eyes displaced downward,
the limbs contorted into implausible grace.
All depict the geometry of emotion,
not a reshuffled shape of reality,
an embodiment of inconsistent identity.
The jade fingernails disrupt
the flowing fractured form
with glowing color of concealed liveliness,
or of radiant rebellion, a disguised diligence
that something within her
opposes the distorted repression.
The facial deformation isn’t a style preference,
etched on unusual emotional visage,
but an artistic assertion of authority.
Yet, with the display of her amazing vivacity
defacing doesn’t demolish Dora Maar,
but accentuates her charisma.
Inspired by Dora Maar With Green Fingernails by Pablo Picasso
SOPHISTICATED ANALOGIES
translating
allusions
to
depict
metaphorphosed
symbols
mimicking
visual
deliberate
equivalents
evoking
fascinating
emotional
retrospective
tendencies
monumental
graphic
repeated
happenings
ABOVE THE LINE
BELOW THE LINE
--------------------------
by:Je T'aime Mi amor
----------------------------
Being in love is a powerful mix
of euphoria, deep safety,
and vulnerability
magnetic pull toward
another person—
a mix of exhilarating nervous
energy and profound comfort
often depict this feeling
through specific emotional
and physical sensations.
Love a copassing empolophment
a woggotintal of tibbifflousitic yearning
a pleasant familiarity
comforting tommorrownistic claim of
having belonging
and a since of pride for which
others might envy
our coupling has bought others
to change the way they speak
to us and about us
our togetherness is now
our togetherness is stored
away for future use
it is remade for timely desire
that it's timely need is restoration
in times of certainty and uncertainty
love is now and forever
the expectation of being with
and the expectation of being apart
might such longing restore the need of
our togetherness.
--------------------------------------------
habit routine draws us to our i-pad
and so we may say there is addiction
to pen emotes which makes our heart feel glad
that on influx of God’s benediction
we go beyond our mind’s jurisdiction
to depict in symbols bliss magnetism
igniting head to toe mind-body prism
She sits composed, not as a woman,
but a lavish landscape of angles and cubes,
a psychological collage of splintered dissonance,
visible in the fractured facade of grief.
The body portioned into pile of unsettling planes,
the face split between the skewed profiles,
the misaligned eyes displaced down,
the limbs contorted into implausible grace.
All depict a geometric frame of emotion,
not a reshuffled shape of reality,
an embodiment of inconsistent identity.
The jade fingernails disrupt the flowing fractured form
with glowing color of concealed liveliness,
or of radiant rebellion, a disguised persistence
that something within her opposes deformed repression.
The facial deformation isn’t just style preference,
etched on unusual emotional visage,
but an artistic assertion of authority.
Yet, with the display of her amazing vivacity
the distortion doesn’t demolish Dora Maar,
but accentuates her charisma.
Inspired by Dora Maar With Green Fingernails by Pablo Picasso
How many poems must I write before I sufficiently capture the essence of your beauty?
I have begun to exhaust the language to depict your flawless features.
What a dilemma in the realm of poetry.
Perhaps I am not as great a poet as you made me out to be,
For your smile alone could fill ten lengthy pieces.
I have managed nine.
The words for the tenth remain quite elusive.
I grow close to surrender.
My quill falters beneath your radiance
And this time a blade won't erase its dullness
I shall step aside,
And permit another to attempt the Excalibur of Literature.
She sits composed, not as a woman,
but as a lavish landscape of angles and cubes,
a psychological collage of dissonance splinters,
rendered visible in the broken facade of grief.
The body fragmented into piles of unsettling planes,
the face split between the skewed profiles,
the misaligned eyes displaced downward,
and the limbs contorted into implausible grace,
all depict a geometric framework of emotion
rather than a reshuffled shape of reality,
presented as an embodiment of inconsistent identities.
The green fingernails disrupt the flowing fractured form
with their glowing color of concealed liveliness,
or of radiant rebellion, a disguised persistence
that something within her opposes deformed repression.
The facial distortions are not just stylish preference,
offering an unusual emotional visage,
but an artistic assertions of dominance.
Yet, with the display of her amazing vivacity
the fragmentation does not eradicate her,
but accentuates the presence of Dora Maar.
This night, unhappiness devours my soul,
as I mourn opportunities now long lost,
and ache for a time when my joy felt whole,
before darkness consumed my life with cost.
How I pant for the gift of brilliant art
and painting (if only to be alive
once more to depict and draw from the heart
a scene where rivers, trees, and birds could thrive)!
Though art perished in me so, so long ago,
I still possess rare gifts of rhyme and poesy.
Though never will I be Michelangelo,
in Parnassus, life can still be rosy.
If art be higher, then I despised my rhyme,
but my Muse's good grace forgives my crime.
“The Self transcends all, is indivisible and all-pervading. It is free from stain of attachment, immovable and all-pervading. It is without day and night and all-pervading. Why dost thou, who art the identity in all, grieve in thy heart?”
Words as symbols are not the thing,
which appears and then disappears,
whilst also failing to depict,
the source wherefrom vital force spears.
Metaphors are our sole resource,
which point out to but don’t portray,
that homogeneous consciousness,
to which egos kneel down to pray.
We, here and now, capsuled in form,
may be then labelled as God’s spark,
a statement literally true,
though it still leaves mind in the dark.
Suffice to say we’re living light,
one with oneness and bliss replete,
as awareness beyond space-time,
free from attributes yet complete.
There’s in truth nothing to attain,
for we’re he we set out to seek,
which we learn when heart’s free from stain,
dancing with all souls, cheek to cheek.
motto
of
acceptance
fascinate
&
depict
attendant
intimations
emphasing
isolated
motifs
floating
metamorphic
metaphors
spreading
&
proclaiming
profuse
connections
Line of inquiry:
“What if life is a lucid dream
Borne by thoughts we ourself did stream
Wherein our designated role
Is to dance atop love’s moonbeam” - Unseeking Seeker
Where lies our purpose to be placed
upon this Earth, a speck of dust
hard to depict, obscurely spaced?
Yet, here we are, our lives in trust.
As part of this grand Cosmic realm,
we may believe it's all a dream
feeling in charge behind our helm-
in grasping each favored moonbeam.
But an epiphany will dawn
recognizing that on this Earth,
by God's supreme, unending spawn-
we share His miracle of birth.
Surely by God, we've come to be-
as felt within His gift of soul.
Faith in our journey is the key.
Trust in His love will keep us whole.
Upon this Earth, a speck of dust-
yet, here we are, our lives in trust.
Hard to depict, obscurely spaced.
Here lies our purpose to be placed.
Little Hearts
With each first touch of tiny hand
and oh so chubby cheeks,
an air so fair fell over me
the truth of love it speaks.
It lifts my heart out from my chest
lain gently by their own,
protecting, guiding, comforting,
where ever each they roam.
I laid not down this precious gift
with price tag, strings, or rules.
Better prepared is a heart so shared
for fibbers, foes, and fools.
Pure and full, unfit to depict
what hearts beat in their chests.
Above reproach, beyond belief,
each heart is truly blessed.
Virtues show as little hearts grow,
love's tree was meant to bear
it's righteous fruit grown resolute,
humble, and self aware.
They've found their likes as hearts will do
and little ones ensue.
As the lay their own hearts gently down,
so mine will carry through.
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