If you love something a lot,
you can do amazing things with it,
like a sun that loves the sky so much,
it colors it gold every morning and evening.
Look at the sunflower.
It turns its whole face toward the light,
like it's saying, thank you, thank you,
and that's how the world gets brighter.
When you love what you're doing,
your hands become like little rivers,
they just keep flowing and flowing,
and hard things start to feel like fun things.
A picture painted with love
glows like a firefly in a jar,
though not perfect, but alive,
lighting up the whole dark room.
So love big.
Try hard.
Whatever you make with love in it
will shine.
How can a cloud be made up of paint that doesn’t splatter?
It’s like someone took gross mustard and smeared it to make that hill in the background.
I don’t get how a painting can have a pond like that.
It just looks fish-less, nothing under there.
If I got so mad that I tore this painting in half?
There would be an obvious tear of anger.
Then you savor the energy.
Continue, slosh.
With paint like grated cheese turning liquid.
Everyone knows your paintbrush wasn’t washed enough.
Everyone can hear you grumbling and grimacing that you’re hungry!
The howl of two paintings.
Have you ever let your paintbrush be alive?
I hear canvas holds onto the old grit from your claws.
My cartoon beings surround me every day
Seventy-two canvases in the living room, all my way
In neon colors – pink, orange, red, yellow and green
Ten reside in flower gardens, most easily seen
Dragons, faeries, and owls, a silver cartoon tree
Mushroom houses, daisies and elves all made by me
When I started painting, I did not envision this
Frogs, aliens and a golden sasquatch blowing me a kiss
THE VAN GONE MUSEUM
A gleaming, extravagant building.
Filled with jewels of art.
The brainless herd pile in at
their allotted time slot. No thoughts
Zombie tourists flock into the Van
Gogh museum. It doesn’t matter
how many nationalities are there.
Everyone does the same.
Observers drone from one gallery
to another.
Their eyes not even focusing on the
painstaking art.
The portraits and landscapes stare
back at the viewer in
disbelief and disgust.
Please comprehend what I am.
The constant shutter of a camera
can be heard but not the slightest
intellectual thought can be even
fathomed amongst them.
Those photos they taken cannot
even echo the detail of the brush stroke
or slight colour difference.
They are a false facsimile at best.
The painting now a lifeless corpse.
A digital copy is what remains on a
seldom used SD card.
Never to be looked upon again.
A gravity trudges the cattle toward
the famous sunflowers ; not for
artistic merit but for bragging
rights and social media selfies
Although Van Gogh is long dead, it
seems apparent his legacy, his art,
his life’s work is now
Van Gone….
Words create my art
Etymology canvas
Syllable brushstroke
artist
canvas is blank
sits on stool virtuous
willows kinky at oak easel
jazzy
Blemishes
breaks and chipped paint
and other imperfections
suggest repairs disturbing
what is perfect already:
perfect imperfection~~
spring paints earth with stunningness -
man gets high from her brushes jeweled touch
Love or bust is for me,
no more sadness or I will flee.
People need to be free,
that is the key.
To fly like a big yellow bee,
in the blue sky is my plea.
Love or bust is for me,
let go and be carefree.
Paint with pretty paints the sea,
paint with your words a big oak tree.
Now enjoy love with a hot cup of rose tea.
When the lights come on, memories evaporate. The walls of the room behave. Porous, primed, and paper white. Fear retreats where it learned to wait. And here I stand anew and unmarked. But, darkness does not forget. When the lights go out, the walls ooze and exhale. The dark consumes me once again. Old versions of myself return, merciless. Wounds not yet turned to scars resume their bleed. Guilt and regret dance like shadows. And I let them watch. They do not accuse. Extending their hands as if we once agreed to meet. They ask why I am startled. They have worn my face for years.
when the lights go out—
the ghosts I once left behind
breathe my name again
If I could write in words, the pictures, I try to paint,
to give life, to the very things that ain’t.
What words for the boundaries, painted within,
with which words, I choose to begin.
Words of meaning, love, and compassion you see,
they cover the cracks, in the painting to be.
A perfect poem, that the world could feel,
a perfect picture, for the heart to heal.
Wherever could we find these words of light,
to help each other on our flight.
But from a heart, that’s seen it’s share,
that knows that life is tuff, and ain’t never fair.
To paint a picture, by just using words you see,
a true poet, always lives out his poetry.
With words of ink, written on pages to read,
a picture appears, as on our words they feed.
Do they understand, the words in which they see,
A picture in words, formed by our poetry.
Once sat friend's home who took a vacation
from repainting ~ rooms messy with white tint
tins, paintbrushes, canvas, half painted walls ~
spent week embroidering at garden pool…
On eighth morning awoke to enigma______
house repainted, rearranged, SOUNDLESSLY!
strange blue footprints on porch, on street pavement
weird phantom painting night, friend spieled sea STUNNED !
_________________________
Twas a portrait, puddles painted.
No face of ours, am I acquainted.
And yet wait still, for quite the visage,
Something new, in someone's image.
It wasn't quite, no frown nor fright.
Though waters spill, from strokes of skill.
Simple paints or mercury,
The subject's hand was cursory.
And so it melted, so it cried.
Lines blurred heavy, and the viewer died.
I say I don’t care
Running fingers through my hair
Stopping in the corner to stare
Ignoring any sign to beware
No country for old men
No state for young love beginning again
No postage stamp for me to send
Nothing special except hoping to mend
Bruised soul, broken heart
Preparing myself for a new place to depart
Living again somewhere far apart
From an existence far beyond hopes of a start
Sorry to say, my emotions I must obey
Invigorated by a sense that resounds betray
Yet I lift my chin and face the sunny day
Waiting for the sorrow to pass away
Yes I must forge the words that I care
This is not the evidence of a dare
Not the account of the clothes I wear
Just heart pounding and mind glare
You were all that mattered
Forgotten footsteps of a baby’s patter
Lost promises of a love canvas’ torn tatter
As I watch the paint cry in a somber splatter
Daggers entwined with gold,
Embedded with my sorrow
Laying beneath the dark
Hope i don’t sway too far
I heard a melody, something is telling me
Letting the dagger hold onto my palm and yet
Drinking my blood so the taste I won’t forget
Maybe i’m human in some other universe
A thing wearing human wearing skin, cuts and lines made a verse
Masking the wretchedness, clouding my wretched thoughts
My home: a green abyss, then was the day I was born.
Cut me and rip out my heart, please
Study it so you can tell me
That my heart is of crimson not envy
I’ll say “I’m healthy” but help me; help me
Find out how I can be human
Prick me by telling the truth and
Maybe then I could be useful
Truthful?
No, maybe if I wasn’t scared to
I’d be surrounded by petals
Delicately decorating my grave
Peaceful up until you mock me
Those flowers? They’re all that I can see
Dyed in a way so it’s all green
So instead of dying, I was painted
Again and again, verdant and tainted.
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