If only these words could mend a broken heart, Or a poem could capture each cherished thought. I would take this artist's brush in hand, to trace your likeness upon a canvas. As you were, beside my heart, together evermore.

In a realm of dreams from long ago, A bard would sing to a room hushed in silence. With his voice, he’d weave each verse. A song of magic to bind us. Our essence, drawn beautifully together. In a lover's poem, the unseen nature of a flower in bloom, perfectly captured within a portrait.

Woven into the fabric of time itself, through tales of loss and tragedy. Here lies the true purpose of an artist's endeavor: To reveal the hidden beauty within sorrow. For even a broken heart reflects our capacity, our strength, beautifully created. A painted portrait of resilience, found within the depths of our spirits. As it thrives in our unconquerable ability to love.

💡LightInDarkness 🌑 ©JFO👥2024

My talisman was destroyed
by a sorcerer, who, much annoyed,
bade me worship only him.
I worship not a lowly man
who lacks the power to understand
beauty beyond the realm of man.

Plato’s archetypes are real
in our creations and what we feel.

The innocence of childhood play
The setting sun at end of day
The work of every artist great
Brings me to a better fate

My talisman returned to me
Resurrected, in a different guise.
There is somewhere of no lies,
only adamantine ties.
Where love is indivisible from art
and only death tears us apart.

Reading poems from,
2013-2018,
On here is like,
Walking through the graves,
Of dead poets,
Who breathed breath,
And sang songs,
For years just like us,
But they aren't on here today,
To show us that,
They breathed breath,
And sang songs,
Before their beloved art's,
Death.

Blank canvas,
Is still creative.
Because the fact is,
You can only paint an original blank painting,
Once.

bending pictures to fit into someone else’s frame –
their life… is it not so beautiful from the viewer’s eyes
in some profound way, they must think of me in the
same kind of way

our pictures are stained,

with shame, pain, loss, hardships, desires, envy, bitterness
but you don’t know this of me… you get to watch the picture
while I painted all its vivid features
I don’t know this of you… cos I watch your picture believing
its much more unique – but you and I are pieces that are

                    incomplete.

Maybe art is exposing my soul,
Leaving it raw and vulnerable under
The gazes of all those
Who wander in the museum of my
Heart.

Maybe art is an exercise in understanding,
Where we strain to make sense of
Darkness we’ve never seen the depths of,
Or light that we long to be warmed by
But can’t quite reach.

Maybe art is a meeting of kindred spirits;
An understanding that you were never alone,
Even when you were drowning and no one
Could hear you scream.
Far away, your words echoed, and in
The mind of another lost soul,
They found their place on the page.

A troubadour seeking Abby Road

Strolling with his dog Marshall

Scarlet Shoes, ruby holster

Bus pauses, traffic stops

Stories and secrets housed within six strings

The calm before the storm

Solitude before the chaos

The writing on the wall

Flashbacks of decades gone flutter past Zebra Crossing

Seeking the home of the loud

Touching lives of strangers in ways unknown

A pocketful or crumpled ****

It’s the destination not the journey

Sideway glance….all eyes on me

My swagger makes them stagger like a pub crawl

Bought my confidence in a second hand shop

But I’m trying not to fall in these shoes

Watchful eyes stare at him from the top of the bus