this is a rant
on who the painter is who paints a white canvas.
who makes it blank, all the same?
Who paints with one color, the confused?
My painter, the one who created this canvas
this universe this creation
paints with many shades of
variance. He paints not
one nation, not one race, not one star, not one season,
he paints
many faces,
many days all different
many nights some dark
some radiant.
He painted  us the colors
of all of heaven. Gave us the many shades of gray.
He painted a sunrise yellow of goldest glow,
a night to see the day with a new perspective.
He painted choices right
and painted us the freedom to choose.
Trees of many green with barks light and dark
some are white. All are right.
Remember who painted this.
He painted a sky
not always blue.

Muse
Inspiration, motivation
The will to make art
Whether bending colors to my will
Or carving a painting out of words
The muse is the color in my brain
The hand that guides mine across the canvas

I've lost my muse
I've lost the will to try
To try to make art or weave silk from words
And when I'm longing for it to return
You're there like a desert oasis
When I think of muse
I think of ideas
Of the will to write and create

When I think of you as my muse
I feel like Pablo Picasso
Painting perfect figured from oil colors
Shaping beauty with my hands
Until the words take your figure
Arching across the page like the curve of your body
And painting pictures if your beauty

You are an idea so abstract
I could have never created you
But I'm honored
To create from you

Swirling notes of earl grey and red
Tinkering bells of vermillion
Voiceless silhouettes of sea green
Silky fountains of chromium
Shining chimes of turquoise
Swirling thoughts of silver
Roars of violet
Shivers of peach
Footsteps of twilight
Shouts of mango
Kisses of the sun.

Trying to paint on a canvas
None of the colors struck a chord
And the brush cleansed the palette
Devoid of any colors
On the canvas was unfulfilled dreams

To clear his head
he strips dark and light,
smudging charcoal
across the white.

He renders me
with edges lines,
scratching bones
until they shine.

To unblur the mess
inside his head,
etching softly
while words unsaid.

I dreamt in every shade of grey,
A world of darkness,
A universe of black .

Little did I know you were a painter.
You hung canvases in my soul
And drew stars in my eyes.

You are the rainbow
In my world of black and white.

Watercolor crimson skies
bleed indigo blue pastel lines
waterfall rains spill over
Yellowy blues sink viridian green  
paper clouds bloom fire
a sunrise to devour

She is a sable brush
born of resurrected ashes
sifting her soul in colors
Hillsides greening, looking out
a painter of days and ruins

Rolling over with desire
Lay neath the fuchsia petals

Morning sun sets ablaze
Your cinnamon hair let down

He wonders how ? that ,
That perfect porcelain face caged  him ?
When he has painted it

The fragrance he can't sense
Becomes his captor .

He stroked those almond eyes
With the dark of the night

She lay in his picture , his muse
Like aphrodite herself came alive on his canvas

Wishing he could just lay there
He curses saying ....
He's just an artist and he'll find another muse !

Come and gone, the calm
but the storm is far from over
it lingers in the what-ifs, and taunts
us from the fringes of maybe

This storm, will eventually pass
and the memories of love gone
reborn as odes and psalms
birthing life, from their flowering decay

The poet's capacity to love, rivalled only
by their ability to suffer, but
what a beautiful misery it is! as it lies in wait
for the moment it will flood from pen to page

Laughter and sonnets, will perch on sated lips
after sadness has run its course
and for awhile, all will be well again  
leaving poets to ponder love's mysteries

How ironic it is!
the way lovers leave, repelled
by their hatred of the very thing
that once drew them near

You see, poets are like paintings
beautiful from afar, we are
but flawed strokes on cracked canvas
the closer you come

Yet still, there is beauty in our flawed and fragile array

We are the words within our poetry, but
we are so much more than sweetened syllables
we are everything you wanted once, and you
**never even made it past our cover

there was a little mouse he just loved to spray
with his little spray cans he would spray all day
doing his graffiti colorful and bright
bringing joy to people bringing such delight.

spraying in the park and the bulidings too
little works of art for everyone to view
full of lots of colors cheerful and bright
spraying through the day till very late at night.

people came from miles travelled from afar
to see his works of art  mouse he was a star.
he still carries on to this very day
with his little cans he sprays the day away

like *******'s paint splattering on canvas
like Warhol's Campbell soup in print
like Cunningham's democracy on stage

she loves him like that; she loves him like Art