Isn’t it strange to admit
That body and soul live separately
I feel the ground at my feet
Being far from here consciously
It’s three thousand miles away
Maybe more, but no less than that
There I have some good mornings to say
For the feathers flown off from your hat
Every time I can open the door
To the pictures you took for me
Isn’t it strange that we hoped for more
Knowing it wasn’t to be..
At least not in this life, as they claim
Will we end up following this
Unconscious life of the blamed
Only for one more kiss..
An Artiste paints his pictures
With every stroke of his brush
Takes his time to see it through
He’s never in a rush
When his masterpiece is finished
He stands back to admire his work
Satisfied he has done his best
A bottle of wine he will uncork
He may have drawn his picture
Painted out his scene
Thinks that it’s so special
The best he’s ever seen
No luxury like that for me
I can only use a word
Describing what is in my mind
And things that I have heard
Paint a picture with my soul
Using only my imagination
Drawing a vision in my mind
And delivering it as a creation
The finished piece must always have
A beginning and an end
Like rhyming slang it has to say
What you did intend
Imagination is the key
To the words that come into my mind
Creating a masterpiece it would seem
Is a task so hard to find
An Artist has his colors at his disposal
I only have words to use
If he paints a classic picture
It’s always in the news
Bus a Poet’s work is more refined
Rarely in the public eye
No masterpiece created here
However I wonder why
Water circulates somewhere in the US
Where rain isn't left to condense,
To well, like life leaves space for time.
I'm fanning my hands on a street in
London, Soho, where we never went
But an unplaceable conversation is in the tides of heat, one that spoke of Her.
I decided I needed something disposable -
A balloon-buoy swayed with an unease that carries -
Eyes that make mothers cross the road.
I bought one and he gave me two more, haggled, too hot to... fight. Paid, left with this in my hand.
On the bridge. Wish I had a weight.
It's a pain to hold but I don't want to watch my money sweep past Big Ben and the disgustingly scenic city scape.
Water circulates like these e-bikes.
Round the pre-plotted roads -
I think of the Romans, dead in the ground.
There's probably a few still in the Thames.
Death feels so historical.
We discovered clouds that hold rain forever.
I have everything in my pocket.
Within arms
Reach
CLEAR PICTURES-:-
classic
parallel
lines
centre
composed
pointing TO INFINITY
converging
vanishing
perspectives
deliberately
established
to CONVEY A MESSAGE
concerning
ferential
dimensional
graphic
statements
DISSOLVED PICTURES
indistinct
unreal
postures
of
engaged
intensity
expressive
turbulent
alternating
symbols
of
nearness
in
reliable
assimulating
naturalistic
senses
clearly
recognisable
memorials
of
infinite
moods
fiery
coagulations
in mirrored
interpreted
interplay
defined
polar
essentials
provoking
attention
I would often wander through the Tate
walking round the galleries and halls
admiring all the portraits
pictures and artwork on the walls
it was almost quite the hobby
then a painting I espied
of a proper Peeler a British Bobby
arresting is not denied
corporal punishment is implied
I admit would you believe and have to say
the stripes on his sleeve were a giveaway
but I was unfamiliar
with the artist responsible
as the vignette was neither a Sargent
and yet no more a Constable
When I lived among you, I too
Used words
Your words.
When I lived among you, I too
Was filled with talk.
The long and short dialogues
Filled
With their little imprecise creatures
Inferior characters,
Manipulable,
Untruthful,
Sometimes out-right deceivers
Now I rely solely on silence
Filled with feeling
Or music filled
With the notes of pictures
“But what is this you write, if not words?”
“It’s a way of reaching you”
Special Words from a Special World
Not uttered from the realm of the present form
Poetic marks, syllables from the soul
God’s messengers from the other side
Sign posts of Mercury
Vestments of angels
Constructed in a more perfect structure
Searching out to you
To pull you in
Into the silent world outside your present heart
And mind closed by sin
Outside of your present reality
Epilogue
Once beyond understanding
Now understood
Without words
In a new sonata form
Transformations
Of opposites
Inversions
Of error
Transmutations into
Silent feeling
Musical song pictures
Containing the structure
Of final LOVE
Within a new sonata form
Rooted in a timeless garden
Of divinity regained
Stand on longlegs,,
cool shallow water.
Colors are pinks not reds.,
Tourists taking pictures,
as we look away.
Today no eggs.,
You were camouflage mornings
and Busch Light nights,
mud on your boots
and laughter in your eyes.
A little wild,
a little stubborn,
all heart.
You held babies
like they were the most fragile miracles,
taught them early
how to ride,
how to hold on,
how to be proud of where they came from.
You smiled crooked
when you thought no one saw,
flipped off the camera
like grief would never dare to touch you.
But now the silence roars
where your voice used to be.
Still—
you live in the scent of oil and earth,
in the deer stand at first light,
in the grip of tiny hands
wrapped around a steering wheel
you once guided.
You live
in every picture tacked to the wall
with roses and pins and aching love.
And you live
in me, the mom who still can’t bring herself
to wash your clothes—
because they still
smell like you.
For once in my whole life, I did see not;
What is wrong from the right angle of view,
But been just has really hasten my shot...
To get tough handling matters without clue.
Which saddened my heart afterwards to learn,
The other side of the point not researched...
Cum unjust conclusion felt off concern,
Yet succumb not to view insight perched.
With bumps, face romances fearful death's hand,
At reach jogging heart near the hole of time...
Where difference between minute and hour, sand
Eon's alacrity without fear behind crime.
But grace and shame don't pin merciful space,
Like how repentance and favour hack case.
When you pose for a picture
Does that picture picture you
We take photographs with people
So they could remember us
And leave memories behind
So they don’t forget us.
And the contrast
Between the two are the same.
We leave these moments
Scattered,
Hoping that somewhere
Somebody will discover them
And make sense of everything
We chose to neglect.
Is it strange
That I saw a bit of flapping curtain
And thought of you?
These rainy days do go on,
And the soft pitter-patter outside
Reminds me of your warmth.
Oh to be enveloped by you again.
The chilly breeze is ever so cold,
But my heart's not out there.
It's with you.
You keep me warm.
And safe.
You're a broken mirror
That sits in the trash can I live,
Reflecting the sky
And giving me hope.
I miss you.
So much.
I hope to see you soon.
What shades of colours do we paint
while walking on this earth?
Do we leave behind a masterpiece?
or a squiggle with no worth?
Will the colours that we choose
look vibrant, - do they shout?
Or are they like dull grey lead lines
so easily rubbed out.
Are all the brush strokes that you paint
precise, done with finesse?
Or are they like thick crayon scrawled
on paper in a mess?
And will you hang upon a wall
admired by the best?
Or stay unseen and never shown
Remain an unfinished sketch?
The colours that you choose in life
portray your inner self.
So, are you rich, red, powerful paint
or a shade left on the shelf?
You could be bright and beautiful
in orange, yellow, green.
Or does your glossy outer fade
and quickly lose its sheen.?
Are you a calm and turquoise- blue
just like a tranquil sea.
Or do you live with black or grey?
that’s all you’ll ever be.
The colours in my life are prime
though that can be changed.
to any shade I choose to be
if mixed or rearranged.
Seek out the artist in your life
ensure he paints you true.
Be one to stand out in a crowd
there’s only one of you.
Pictures plastered on my offwhite walls.
Some coloured, some drawn, some art.
Some represent where I walked in halls.
Some represent deepest parts of my heart.
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