Life isn’t always what it seems..

Life isn’t always what it seems,
and here I am
I am feeling green.

fresh, newly painted
a face-lift onto my dusty portrait
in the mirror I see myself
AS IF: All brand new.

Life isn’t always what it seems,
and here I am
feeling blue.

Wishing I was much easier
less difficult, stubborn, moody~
somebody different,
slipping sideways into someone else’s skin~

snakelike, voodoo like a real Doll,
is where I begin,
Again.

And, Life isn’t always what it seems,
and here I am
feeling red.

isolated,feeling a overwhelming
sense
of dread.

No. No. No.
Life isn’t always what it seems,
and here I am
feeling yellow.

I sit with a cup of
coffee-blackened Joe.
Just so you, know
I am only human.

now I’m feeling
somewhat
mellow.

Life isn’t always what it seems,
and here I am
feeling green.

Something brand new
deep inside my skin
itches, trembles, and grows
into a seed of small
beginnings.

Life isn’t always what it seems,
and here I am
feeling naked.
feeling green.
feeling blue.
feeling red.

There is one hell of a messy
palette inside,
my own head.

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Old forgotten Art- Curiosity’s a game…

Abstract oil pastel drawing 99    Old Abstract Pastel Drawing, from 1999, I created it back then, but why?

I have no idea. Every bit of art I make somehow tells a story, I do not always recall my own. My story of how I made it, why I made it, what it meant to me at the time? I think What interests me much much more is what you as the viewer, think the art says to you? And why does it say that? What story do you see in my artwork? Is it confusing-a rambled jumble of colors and shapes? Or do you see symbolism or narrative in the layers , just beneath? Tell me what the story is? What does this old forgotten drawing done in oil pastel say about me-the artist? Or more importantly what does this artwork say to you as a viewer? Leave me a comment, play along if you wish, what do you think and what do you say the story is?

Coffee-colored morning

Black coffee-colored morning

glory…listening to music.

I ponder the singular, the slight of hand, the parlor trick;

the impact of music on my morning mind.

 

Yet it is well past noon.

cloaked in a beat up nightgown,

and not much else,

wondering how…

to get my butt into gear again.

 

words hang like little

thought bubbles above my head

but if i try to catch them

they rupture instead.

 

The crisis of a blank page

staring back at me,

on a whim and dare.

 

I’m like a black-jack dealer

dealing out emotions instead of cards.

The slight in hand, poetry involves

in invoking an image or a mood

to entice the reader.

 

I try to take you along for the ride

in the spin-cycle of my dirty mind.

Some poems fall flat. Others, i can revive

with a bit of CPR if only I tried.

 

To breathe life into ?

words?

Poetry much like reason,

escapes me momentarily.

 

I sometimes find,

I say an awful lot about

nothing at all.

Grasping at straws

The infertile piece of my mind,

where the words refuse to root and grow-

where the sentences become silence

and i fight to find words-

in fact I am grasping at straws.

 

Unable to summon an image,

or two,

like a old black and white Polaroid picture-

developing slow.

 

I take my time

try to beat out a rhyme.

 

Why do we write?

Why write something as old-fashioned,

as poetry?

I ask these questions to my soul,

wondering what words

will fall next

across my page,

 

as I am just mutely

in a deep dank daze.

 

somedays the right words,

they never come.

other days, i am full of verbage,

full of riddles, full of phrases, half-baked imagery.

 

Being a poet is never easy.

Though there are some, who make it look so.

The roar of the fan, in the summer morning heat,

Like a quiet Lion, never missing a beat.

 

And my mind soldiers on empty.

a poem left incomplete.

grasping at straws,

longing to say

something significant-in some kind of way.

 

word soup

wanton flavored word-soup

spilling syllables all over the damn place,

sipping secrets and slurping words

of wisdom and of choice.

word-soup, filled with vowels,verbs, and maladies.

hot soup-

burns the lips and throat

sooner than later,

i begin to choke, on a swallow-full

of paragraphs, chunky vegetables, pasta galore.

a sentence here or there,

stumbles down a dribble down

my chin.

word-soup better to serve hot,

but not boiling, hot not warm, best to SIP slow.

sipping, slipping, seldom

into serenity,

sipping into possibilities,

sipping up the warm hot stories,

sipping the sunshine of

a single stanza

of a poet’s principles.

Music, madness,magic

melting into a word soup-

brewing into alphabet

tangled letters strung

together tasting them onto

my tongue-

do not be wasteful.

savor every bite

of this wanton flavored word soup-

take a deep sip-swallow and then,

begin to write.IMG_20130331_134503Art photos 1.17.13 024IMG_20130330_093314IMG_20130203_203008

Monster reading

An abstraction
dwells beneath
a mathematical fraction…3/4 of what,you never
knew before.

botany
interests me-remotely vaguely.
An artist bums blankets
sitting on his bicycle
in the snow.

Monster reading,
compulsive, obsessive,reading
used as an escape
from the everything of
Life which haunts you.

Monster Reading,
among velvet teardrops-
a pervert puzzle which rules
Hope.

Hope nurses doggie flowers,
into a pot of surrealistic flowers,
the room begins to spin,
lightly as you monitor,

where have I been?

puzzle purple stars
strung out above the snow;
there’s no-place to go.
Yet, off in the distance

a siren
songs
a love song,
about Spring.

the seasons will eventually change,
from cold and dreary,
to warm and muddy
An artist curls up onto a corner,
on display, wearing blankets
of gold and grey.

performance and street art,
carefully disguised
as homeless-insanity
but you never
can tell these days.

a cardboard sign reads
will work for food,
yet your car is sure to drive
on past.

Monster reading
among velvet teardrops,
a blackened page,
empty except for the story,

one day you will write it
all down the everything
the artist and his sign
the weather and it’s crazy cold crime,

the truth, the lies, the nitty-gritty,
the everything in between
you will take you favorite writing tool,
a pencil or a pen or a crayon

and you will start to write,
a perfect amazing story,
starting with the end,
moving backwards to fill in facts.

You will start with your last sentence,
which will go like this,
“Nobody knew, how very deeply loved he was till he was gone.
Washed up on the shore like an empty wine bottle. There was no
message left inside instead there was….”