73 years ago
A kid my age steps off a curb.
And, in the motion of falling, he believes he can reach heaven.
He has the thoughts of someone
with an inverted ribcage
And he’s sick on cigarette smoke and hypocrisy.
A kid my age, 73 years ago, calls me a pervert.
Through the thin veil of time and space
We lock eyes.
I say “I see you.”
He says “You’re sick.”
But that’s wrong and he knows it.
I am not the sick one.
He is the kid with the killing hat
And the giving hands
That despise the people he gives to.
He is the kid with filthy thoughts and phony smiles
Who sees the hollow spaces between his ribs
In the innocence of a child’s eyes.
And despite the filth beneath his tongue
And the alcohol stinging his throat
I cannot bring myself to
Feel anything for him
other than
Pity.
Poetry paints prismatic word-pictures
A cubist painting programmed in plain air
Poetry and painting prize pure features,
For centuries, art crafted with grand care
Let us journey to juxtapose the two
Both attract the primeval painters' flair
With colours in rich red, yellow, and blue
Words sketching with wise theatrical care.
Try to catch and caress the words you see
Draw sights and sounds into your fractal soul
Organic lines jotted down joyously
As fractal forms that fill Metatron's scroll
Golden spirals smeared in an author's room
Are geometry's homage on a loom.
Pencil strokes blacken the page
Crowds blur out around the scene
White leaf enlivened by sword and magic
Heroes journey through the frames
Worlds arise from fingertips
Ink spill out as though blood
Ink can't stain a wounded art
Fingers mar those black-lined strokes
Frames a prison from the crowd
Thoughts withheld remain white
Magic blur out from the scenes
Parchment smudged in pencil dust
I am drawing cartoon trees
challenging myself
experimenting with new designs
some have hearts, one is full of rainbows
Several have faces, mostly women’s
because they are easier for me than a man’s
one outrageous cartoon tree is doing the splits
I need a grandma tree, I think
Picking up my pencil
she was too innocent to understand anything
too small to differ between love and pain
so she learned to express what she felt
she would lock herself in room with her dolls
and take out crayons and began to draw
a mother, a child and a man with big hands
An Amazing Artist
Keen eye for detail.
With light and dark tones.
Shaded hues.
With endless detail.
Abstract to a perfectionist.
Many hours spent.
Sharpest illustrations.
With clean lines, truly an artist.
Always drawing.
Pencils and pens are always working.
A masterpiece.
Pictures with detail are moving.
With great talent.
You are your own biggest critic.
Room to improve.
A wonderful gift to prevail.
Creative through your perspective.
To draw is something …
I could never do well,
The joy a picture can bring
The stories it can tell
I could never do well
Drawing freely on my own,
The stories it can tell
Remains for me unknown
Drawing freely on my own
Pencil, paint and line,
Remains for me unknown
A skill that is not mine
Pencil, paint and line
An artist with a brush,
A skill that is not mine
A talent you cannot rush
An artist with a brush
The joy a picture can bring,
A talent you cannot rush
To draw is something …
I aways start drawing my cartoons with their eyes
Nose and mouth follow in second and third place
Chin, hair, ears, earring, and neck are next
My drawings are predictable; they are always in this order
Sometimes I wonder if other cartoonists draw like I do
Are they in my kind of rut?
Leaves are floating by
Windows, nights are drawing in
Cooling Southern times....
Visual Art
I saw you in a dream
You were so nice
Could remember the face
I tried to make it come alive
Through some art
To recall how lovely it was
But feel it could be better
I’m not that confident
I still feel it could be better
Will try again when my technique gets better.
trees are ridiculously difficult to draw
the one in front of me is a bipolar walnut
her limbs go up, down, over, under, around
they are gnarly and crude but also straight
she is a skeleton of herself in October
tens of thousands of her leaves are missing
I marvel at her haphazardness
her remaining leaves seem to mock me
bet you cannot draw us either, they say
they are not wrong
I am drawing stars and smileys in your Notebook,
while you being away and looking on Justins phone at the back.
You forced sam to sit near us, he hesitated because he made me cry yesterday but somehow after minutes he changed his mind and came to us.
I didn't felt talking, I did never talk to him at all.
So I just continued looking what my classmates did.
I am drawing stars and smileys in your Notebook,
even with a brown pencil with color,
when you came you smiled on your Notebook.
I didn't know how to say thank you in his presence,
So I hope,
the little stars,
gave you warmth a little.
I went to the man at school today
He chats a bit and watches me play
Asking questions about my feeling
Feelings that have got me thinking
How I am, and what I enjoy to do
Where I go, what time I spend with who
He asked. "How would you draw sad?"
What a stupid question, is he mad
But it got me thinking about sad things
About what feeling sadness brings
My drawing would be dark like mood
Everything wilted like overripe food
I want to draw my emptiness inside
Sadness is like a destination less ride
My picture, an inwardly swirling cloud
No end, no escape, no joy to be found.
Did it help? I'm not sure, but it's not like before?
Now some of my sadness escapes when I draw.
I like to draw,
in black pencil and then with hues;
my style is creative but is quite raw,
I let muse bring the blues.
This is but a hobby and I love it so much,
creating an image that I made and can touch;
not to be perfect insomuch,
but just a piece of my heart that says aah !
without suitcases
they surf skies drawing beauty
~tireless travelers~
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