More paintings,
sketchings
copper plate etchings
I look and see them all,
and fall into
those hand picked scenes,
paintings,sketchings,
etching dreams.

Landseer,
Constable,
Turner,
Vermeer,
they're all here
selling their scenes
making my dreams
come true.

each bough as a lute
dropping the notes of ripen leaves
the tunes flying on the canvas of earth
with the frenzied dance of wind brush

as the pride of passion
on every stump the lyrics sprouting
it is the symphony of seasons
it is the renewal of age old ballad

it is the chorus that of the labour pains of every soul
it is the echo that of the blooming new world

every thought flutter like butter-fly
carry the pollen of future seed
pollination is the meditation of every hue
it is the copulation of fare-well and wel-come

the autumn's shadows of trees
the spring's streams on the cheek of pregnant
it is the melodious cry of fairies

if not remembered --the past symphonic tragedy
it cannot be summoned --the future ballad of comedy!

I am in a frame, a spot on a painting on a wall in a hall full of other pieces of art.
Someone should be looking for Van Gogh,he's been ******' around with the paint ***.
What am I going to do as a spot?

Picasso
apart from painting me blue
missed out the ring finger on my left hand and the people who pass me always peer at me closely and linger a bit longer as if they can't believe it but it's true.

David Bailey took a picture of me
put me in 'Time Magazine
captioned it,
'the four fingered lingering blue dream'
it's a nightmare I tell you.

I wish I'd been done by Turner,in the best possible taste,
but the silly ****** wasted all of his time painting ships of the line.

So I'm a spot or a dot and the audience love it,but
I think it's **** hanging here in a frame
I only came here on loan and
now they've made it my home.
I wish that I'd been painted with a voice.

what words can express this blank sheet,
a canvas that have no paint,
and no one can appreciate it's worth,
and on how to fall in love to it.

how can anyone appreciate this canvas,
if the painter haven't started painting,
nor decided what to paint,
and to whom it dedicated for.

it's beauty is not yet revealed,
and it importance haven't yet seen,
yet don't wait long for its coming,
and you'll find a place to hang on.

My love
refers to me
as an artist
I maintain
that I just paint
as this
color slinger
simply reproduces
the masterpiece
her love
creates

Said Hamlet to Ophelia,
'I'll do a sketch of thee,
What kind of pencil shall I use,
2B or not 2B?'

Look.
Don't.

These are the two greatest choices
someone can make.

The *art is present.
The art is present.
The art is now!
Look.
Don't.

These are the two greatest choices.

The artist is present.

Two months in love; two
decades they feel.

every morning we wake up
older, yet newborn.

I give you a rose with every
moon. soon I will have

to plant you a garden.
one petal for every sweet word.

one thorn to protect you from
each unkind one they'll speak.

beautiful arms. crimson kevlar.
daggers of green. sweet shields...

to believe beyond belief. leap,
choose flight over fall.

many name us naïve.
they do not know:

to loving artists, every day
is new year's eve,

year
zero.

I see you
floating on impressions of lily pads
framed by me painted by Monet.
Up close i get dizzy.
Far off I see expressionistically, Van Gogh's "Starry nights".
In the reflecting I see,
A picasso.
In my real life, I see you, as
Leonardo must have,
with that most beautiful smile.
My, Mona Lisa.

You once told me about a painting you drew,
You told me there was a painting underneath
But when I asked of what,
You wouldn't tell me;
It was too soon.

Everything about you felt like an enigma,
Even though you bared so much of your soul to me,
Your secrets, your fears, your burdens,
And much like that painting,
I felt that I could only scratch the surface of you

You beautiful, mysterious creature,
Enshrouded in secrets,
Wrapped in riddles

I still wonder about that painting,
And what I would have learned
But you were a tome that I'll never finish,
Your pages left to be read by another,
Who would drink in your rich stories
And savor them like a prized wine aged by time and effort

And though I am merely a footnote in your storied history,
I am grateful to be associated with your name,
To have touched your life,
And have been there for you as I have

I will kiss your skin
Like brushstrokes on a painting,
Until they are more numerous
Than all the grains of sand
On that long beach you love so dearly.

They wont leave your body
Until you see the lack
Of flaws in you that I do, and

One day their memory on you
Might be all that's left
Of me