art

Other Life

Folder: 
Hand Written

"First, he says, 

 

first and foremost,

the cub has it's roar, 

or did I mean Lion? 

 

He tells me, 

performs for me, 

the vivid imagery

of the courage and strength, 

 

trying to give unto another.

No script, no paper, 

off memory, his poetry

is in his heart, 

 

and apart from my written word, 

wow, can i perforn like

the one singing bump and grind? 

Well, I most definitely have 

 

not the voice. 

But, 

the artist has instead

his art in his soul, 

 

and no pen or pad

or book in hand, man, 

this man has it. 

So does She

 

giving me sweet epiphany, 

alliteration and onomatopoeia, 

hyperbole, dreams of red velvet, 

a memory of perhaps

 

succulent treat, 

and after a beat, 

another artist approaches,

such powerful words. 

 

All of them, 

potential no longer blocked, 

mind unlocked,

her voice giving me thoughts. 

 

I am home, 

I am surrounded by poets, 

artists, lovers, dreamers, 

those who have suffered

 

more than I, 

hearing some of the pleas. 

It would indeed be

enriching, more imbued positivity. 

 

And perhaps comical

as I watch one poet

almost run over another

on trip to couch.

 

I grin, laughed, 

laughed more when asked

to rurn to page 24. 

Hands, the color red, 

 

subjects being poured about

by all these great writers. 

Such emotion, 

they read,

 

I listen.

Tonight isn't about me, 

this is about them, 

and I am humbled again. 

 

Tonight is about you,

and you, and all of you 

who pour their soul, 

so vulnerable. 

 

Lessons, being preached to me, 

wise words, being brushed 

across my canvas,

their paint so vibrant.

 

Their pain so real, 

like my own. 

What I strive to do, 

being done unto me. 

 

They want to write, 

they make me want to 

write, right now. 

Never stop writing, 

 

requesting got returned keys, 

being alive. 

Poetry has kept me alive. 

You, artists, breathe into me...

 

life."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A poem I wrote while observing a poetry reading of other poets. I read this piece during the 'Open Mic' portion, each poet smiling at my own nod to each of their own pieces. A good night of art.

Imagine Everything Is Backwards

I just want to be

With the night.

 

Quietly write.

 

Just float in space,

And feel misplaced.

 

Weightlessly fly.

 

Gather letters and words,

Sounds that taste like rain.

 

Voicelessly sing.

 

Carefully calculate

Senselessness.

 

Condense the expansion.

 

Melt it into an ice cube

And swallow it whole.

 

Shut in the out.

 

Turn on the dark,

Greet each subtle whimsy,

As I dangle from the edge

Of a crescent moon.

 

...and swoon

 

I want to be with the night.

Alright?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Imagining anything I want is backwards. 

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Give Me a Tragedy

Folder: 
2016

If you want art

give me a mess,

give me a tangle of lives

 

I can’t make sparks

with perfection and puzzle pieces.

 

If you want a mountain

give me a valley,

give me hopelessness and black

 

I can’t wish

good into better.

 

If you want change

give me a time bomb,

a collision beyond time and space

 

I need rebels to

make a ripple or a splash.

 

If you want a story

give me a tragedy,

hand me something I can work with

 

I can’t build a castle

out of beautiful words.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 7/6/16

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The Painter and the Writer

Folder: 
2016

When the painter sees glitter

that’s all she can paint

And the hills are alive

with the colors inside.


When the painter sees darkness

that’s all she can paint

And the hills crash to earth

without the universe making a sound.

 

When the writer sees laughter

that’s all she can write

the chaos all around her

swallowing her up

 

When the writer sees living

that’s all she can write

And the question unfolds

to reveal a cold hard truth

 

but sometimes living is what the world

needs to hear.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 6/30/16

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The quotes garden - II - Starry sky

Oh, silent night, with endless sky,

In which I dwell my soul, again,

Across the light, when shadows cry,

Into an empty space, like grain -

And soon, under the moon, they die,

As if they try my soul, to drain

In silent fields, where soon they fly,

With me, my muse and rain!..

 

 

 

Oh, starry sky, you tell me why

Thoughts are spraining in my brain!..

In the silent moon, they dry -

And my heart, they quickly slain

When I ask if she should cry

Near me – and once again,

I die, with her, under the endless sky!...




©Th3Mirr0r

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Only You

Only you on my mind every hour of the day

I think of you when I dream it's as sweet as a baby sleeping 

It's only you I feel flowing in my veins 

I wake up wishing it was you I wake up to every morning 

 

But it's just a empty cold side of my bed that's been untouched 

It's you that I see when I daydream 

I wish and pray you can be here with me to hug me at night 

God made you just for me to love you 

 

I can see your Spirit it's beautiful and loving it true 

Your love is bright it shines more than the sun and stars in the sky 

I can see threw your defenses I found the real you

Only you make my heart beat the way it does 

I feel like a little school girl 

 

I love seeing you smile I can't help but show my dimples 

When you laugh I feel like turning red as a rose 

Only you can make my eyes twinkle with love and happiness 

I love it when your there for me when I need a helping hand 

 

Only you understand me for me and my reasons for things 

I like it when you stay up late with me 

I love it when you make me feel like the most beautiful girl alive 

I'm grateful god brought you to me 

 

I just want you to know only you I love 

And only you are my first true love now and forever. 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is one my latest true love quotes for him. I've been doing this for quite a while so make sure you leave a comment and rate my work.

Art, Artists and Famous Painters

Folder: 
Just a thought!

My views on Art,  Artists and Famous Painters..."Artists Paint Art"..."Practice makes Painters"...

There were a multitude of "Famous Artists" who painted...

The number greatly reduced by those who could actually do  a "life-like painting."

Many "painters" were (in today's terms), impressionists...colorful and stylish, yet

Lacking definition and fine detail...My own discription, "Crayon Painters."

Not suprising they were starving if "painting was their only income"

Years after death, someone decides to tag them as "Famous"...

1. Because it survived, 2. It was Signed and 3...Became "Antique"...most in museums,

Now famous, Forgotten Works by  So & So...  Hanging on a wall and worth something.

  We study and learn from them now, taking notes on style and stroke, background and color, taking

joy in producing a "mimic" painting from the past, or just perfecting a style which pleases the eye.

   In conclusion... Do the art work you like, throw in a little patients, get good at it and maybe,

just maybe....in a few hundred years... one of your pieces will be seen in some... "Famous Story Book,"

and bring someone a smile.


    Barry Anderson

Author's Notes/Comments: 

"Art, Artists and Famous Painters"

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L.E.V.I.

From nightmare to nightmare ,

wake up from a nightmare,
 And enter this nightmare,
 it's never a dream,
 
 if ever at all ,
I stand I fall, 
Berate befall,
It's Never a dream ,
 
 
Control is a lie,
I live I die ,
L. E. V. I.,
It's never a dream,...(there is more but to slowly unleash the damn of me is taken well)

Fireflies in a Jar

We try to collect our thoughts

As a squirrel gathers acorns

Stashing them away

Hoping they avoid theft

 

We fill up our journals

Volumes of memories

Scraps of paper, unrefined

To polish neatly someday

 

It is not these individual morsels

These fleeting bits of wisdom

But the compilation of concepts

That comprise our identities

 

As artists we must trust

That these revelations came from within

From the ebb and flow of life

And many more will spring forth

 

On a summer evening

Fireflies flit about

You can't catch them all to make a lantern

They will die, forgotten in the jar's stale air

Author's Notes/Comments: 

(Feb. 2015) Trying to cling to thoughts in order to write about them makes them disappear so much more quickly. Have faith in yourself that you can just let it flow. You can't force creation!

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