Every great artist must be a little insane
Because nothing that vivid could come from an average mind
Nothing that twisted could spring to life
On canvas and not in the brain
The insanity of it all
The thoughts twisting in little spirals
Nagging, tugging at corners of the mind
That for most are empty corridors filled with cobwebs
Searching for a crack in the dam, seeking a way out
They hit the wall and back in again they turn
scoring invidious trenches deeper and deeper
Leaving damage in its wake
Maddening to not be understood
To be so clever that expressing yourself is so outside the realm of possibility
That you have to die to be known
Through the broken windows of your soul
Glimpses of what life is like inside your head
Not a portrait, never truly elucidated
A tortured, drunken poet,
Mad on life’s nauseating boredom
The fantasy of being known come to life on a page
But never real.
An earthy palette
of hues,
blue-greens, and
muted tones of melancholia
safflower oil imparts a
blue period
colors made from
our terrestrial
fruit of flora
reflecting
depth of destitution
giving or receiving
the act of charity?
The girl lifts
their spirits
with humble offerings
collective souls
connect completely
moods moving,
welcoming warmth
of the broth soup’s
steamy ardent aroma,
awakening the dormant
and pitiful perils prolonged
sense of taste
A choice expounding
in what is seen
and unseen,
an elder’s mindful
symbiosis, steaming
savory clouds
of translucent
silvery solvents
from a slumped stance,
vigor spent
She is the life source, a vital essence
maternus unwavering vow
instinctual guard and guide
from conception onward, no end
in her arms an eternal bond
a babe’s birth right, his light
when asked for a sign by the night star
a glimpse of beauty a moment no less
and when ether’s smoke rises afar
She’ll lift him toward the dark vastness
Complimenting the mother’s essence, & its symbolism
Mother's Day Tribute
5/10/26
Dora Maar with Green Fingernails
In Elementary school
I was not good at shapes at drawings
When I look at the Dora Maar with
green fingernails
I look at my own fingernails
with green smeared all over
my hands
I was a fool
painting all over my fingers, and then there are my drawings
Convincing people that Picasso is one of the greatest artists is a myth
green fingernails
Misproportioned – moreover
It’s bland.
I live because in my life
you paint love as surreal art
it’s my bruised heart
scorned, sacred vows of a saint
true lovers’ art
this, you paint…
It appears as me
with altered appeal and
tints of pain,
tainted in taffeta’s
crisp and stylish
Primped and fashioned, contour of course
My soulful eyes
fitting for a muse
my lips are shut,
and my finger pressed
against a smudge messed
I want to shout
let me out of this demure affair
In that case, I pleasure in my nails
Hand splayed, what’s red is green,
Revlon’s recipe
on sharpened tips
secrets we keep, and so what
if my complexion pewters
I’m just an object
An object of veneration
where pain and beauty coexist
Gone direly insane, you’ll find out
I am a photo finish, a diarist
reclusive in my personal struggles
and creative expression
and in this I conclude
that I’ll outlive you
in solitude
Oh dear, dear Dora, fragmented and bright,
A puzzle of planes in the shifting of light.
Green nails are daggers, sharp points on the page,
A geometric dance during the colorful age.
Your purple eye shadow, a block and smear,
Holds two eyes together, yet one’s never near.
One looks to the future, one stares at the past,
In a Cubist arrangement that’s destined to last.
With lipstick applied in a thick, waxy stroke,
Your mouth is a silence that never quite broke.
A triangle’s curve on a violet-stained lip,
As the lines of your spirit begin a courtship.
Oh, Muse of the angles, of squares and of sighs,
With a kaleidoscope burning in deep gold eyes.
You are broken and rebuilt, a masterpiece grand,
With that emerald flash of a segmented hand.
I lean toward her~
this woman split into colors
a woman rendered in angles,
her face divided as if emotion
had been dissected
and pinned onto the canvas.
Her green fingernails startle me,
soft as bruised mint,
as though she once touched something tender
and the tenderness stained her.
She sits with that stillness
women learn too early~
the stillness of being looked at
instead of being seen.
Inside those mismatched eyes
I sense a private weather,
a quiet storm she never named.
She was a photographer
who could coax truth from shadows,
a surrealist who bent the world
until it revealed its hidden pulse.
Yet, here she is,
held in the gravity of Picasso’s gaze,
her own brilliance dimmed
to the outline of his muse.
And still~
there is something in her posture,
a hint of sorrow and a small, steady refusal.
As if beneath the fractured planes
she is gathering herself back,
piece by luminous piece,
her green nails glowing faintly
like the first signs of a woman
stepping out of someone else’s shadow
and into her own light.
Big eyes that seek
A nose that knows
Better not speak
Better to pose
Shades of green
On dainty nails
Lips maybe pink
With muffled wails
1936 trying times
Women so unique
Guard their minds
In times bleed
Art of life
Hidden behind eyes
United by spies
Regimes that die
I consider you
and you ~ you cannot look away
I never lost a finger
as I held your gaze
yet my hands are bloody
as a frenetic knife
is hit and miss
madness curves
around lust
mystifies
as we enact living
your virility
victim dependent
whilst the victim
is still luscious beneath
your paint and distortion
you are at the bottom of the Seine
a moment of tempestuousness
revived in ink
but never found when dredged
worn about my person
on untattered fingers
a bequeathed mask of my own face
I already existed when you created me
yet became the scratches in your dust
tanager so sweet
the envy of picasso
in multi color
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
The searing sun has long been a revolving revelation of angst,
repelling songs of the skies, sung by the strings of the wings.
Pallid, poised only by muscle memory - a compositional backdrop,
past the point of revival, yet something inside me still ticks.
A trembling truth that never drifts,
these broken blues: a silent shadow with loud hues.
The bones of me, tunelessly picked out,
until I'm the aching hollow of unamplified sound.
Where do breathing colors of me sleep,
when deadly nights of the air eclipse upon the web once woven by whispers?
Death just a dropped chin and averted eye,
the slow slump of a sinner's stagnant dirge plays out.
Let those cobalt stones cease writings from vicious veins,
where wilting roses dip their thorns in starry puddles with no name.
Now begging for exsanguination of my pain,
the measure of a man captured, still, in expired offerings of disdain.
Picasso Vs. Matisse
You're Looking At Me
Sideways
But I'm Just Trying To
Catch The Drift.
-Gray Squirrel
05-25-2025
When love has been forsaken, gone awry
you would be wise and clever not to try
opening your eyes in fear that you may see
Pablo's painted sun as though a volcanic cyclops
Vermillion lava flowing in serpentine rivers of tears
Your own, sure to spill, voice screaming aloud
throat burning with doused impassioned flames
— but no one hears you
In pitch of night, keep your eyes closed tight
or you will be caught up with nerves tightly fraught
in deep throes of fright to witness a Picasso moon
Strewn upon its delph surface lies a lopsided grin
Your eyes will blink out of sync and make you think
you've had too much from the worm's bottle to drink
— but no one sees you
Keep your eyes shut for it will make you ill to see
abstract eyes staring back at you, without inhibitions
Each one created with brash and boldly brushed paint
Hues chosen by the master, not on a starry starry night
No, it is not the human artist of whom I now write,
anyone who has been slapped by the cruel hand of Fate
— but no one cares about you
Let’s imitate we share it
The plan to make ends meet
Negotiating fairly
Things we don’t really need
But let’s get rid of “we”
For someone’s lofty goals
Aren’t relevant to me
And different from yours
Let’s set the sail to find
At least a metaphor
That hails a peace of mind
As it was long before
In period of time
When that Picasso’s dove
Saved lives of you and I
When peace was rhyme for love.
my mind is an abstract vase,
adorned with
crystal gold lines~
from pixelated pearls
homing
whimsical wishes
and
blue-rose reveries,
a Picasso paradox
painted
with
sculptured serenity...
but as violin warmth
of melancholia
ricochets in
hypnotic cadence
listen to the
lethargic starlight
orchestrate a concerto ~
depicting this tired tongue,
s e a r c h i n g
for a major chord
of magical mellifluence
to summon the
silver
of your
citrine moon...
for when i n k
flows between
sun-blushed seas
in feisty meter
I still trace your
blue-blaze vibrance~
drawing an ardent ambience
of l o v e
before the r a i n...
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