"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."
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?
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.
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.
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
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.
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
From nightmare to nightmare ,
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