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Ira Sosa Sep 12
With a cursory press of a key and arco of the strings,
They look at each other,
Determining when to start through what looks like telepathy,
But it is instead the subtle movement of arms and chest.

They begin.

With the movement of bows bouncing on metal,
And the dancing digits upon black and white,
Sound reverberates between the audience,
With eyes and ears in tandem absorbing the scene.

They continue.

As they pass over bridges,
And draw out waves with their hands,
I listen,
Swaying and breathing and performing as though I am beside them,
Despite being above them,
Yet feeling so below.

Becoming one with their instrument,
And bringing me along,
I smile,
As just like they pull beauty out of their tools with their soul,
They guide joy out of me,
For all of us.

They end.

Then again, they start.
With new sounds from a new person,
With new intent,
And new methods.

They change.

From haphazard joy and dance,
To somber death and confusion,
They become one with the music,
And follow in its suit.

They continue, anew.

As the sound changes,
So do I.
Listening with sharper ears,
Hoping to catch a different magic in my ears.

They continue, still.

As the cello draws honey,
The violin; its dew,
And the piano waterfalls arpeggios,
I am content.

They end.

Full of the food of life,
They stand,
To let us feast with them with our hungry hands,
Giving our own vibrations to fill our drooling souls.

They leave.
And so do I.
Both of us fed and quenched,
From the performance.
A professor of Piano, Violin, and Cello can make some bangers...
neth jones Sep 12
lovers forgo their faces
       defacing in the act
mammering their information to unreadable smudges
  they slur in kinetic fluctuation
experimenting material forms fray
     each    the others face is vented away
     betray being human
  no separated being
and then...

     to return in the tender moments following
             a bumbling landfall
then they are athletes
     enamoured and praising of the other
     flushed and radiating
having rushed the life from their breath
they heave in its return

Later     in a **** trip down to the night kitchen
they forgo they faces in a foxes forage
hers ; over-lit by the fridge light
          face thrown into a mask by extreme shaddows
his ; beyond this light in the dark
they are bodies
sneak children
the raider and the lookout

after many years make the familiar relation
her face disappears into a hand mirror
and his is pulled out
into a middle distance beyond the dresser
durred in thought and waiting for 'go'
to the restaurant tonite
or that career social that neither wishes to attend

                                        - fell shy of Eden
inspired after veiwing art by Alex Colville and Francis Bacon
Mimmi Sep 10
No name  

Oh to be someone
With only a care for next task
No need for counting breathing
Then also who not to be
Than to be that someone
Who needs to think about tomorrow
A calculator for the steps
For you have to be
Someone who lives for yesterday
As aching is also an art
Ever After leaving nothing behind
but the broken glass slipper
no name
How to be carefree?
Kevin Sep 6
The presence of our contemporary age
Alters artistic vision down a spiral of emptiness.
Artist no longer create the visual page,
Their spellbound by ambitions of digital laziness.

Visions lost to the age of simplicity,
Erased to machines’ evil desires,
Deluded by storms of deception,
Creativity ceased as hell endures its fires.

Instant gratification — the new reality —
The yearning for excellence, no endurability.
Modern day artistic creativity,
Coerced by digital debility.

Tradition bankrupt by false realities,
Lost to a pallet of ones and zeros;
Artwork with no archival ability,
The future lost to modern day technologies.
Without creativity innovation ceases to exist. Without innovation society dies. Mediocrity becomes the normal. And from these ashes rises a generation who embraces servitude with open arms.
M Vogel Sep 5

She is shaking,
fingers on keyboards, trembling

A confined spirit..
               now  untethering

You are absolutely beautiful--
Immersed within  this magical-Unfolding
as music  mates to words
Fingers, strumming now

Now finding their perfect placement

     ..On the keyboards
     of her newfound freedom
     A beautiful spirit   now returning
     to a once-little body,   beaten

     for being her beautiful spirit's  home.
     Now with headphones  on ears
     there is a  restoration

     of years and years and years,  

...Of those years, and years, and years.
                   .      .      .

Tell me about pure Joy, churches..
the nice cars in your parkinglot,  
    aint showing

The look on her face, while untethered

     tells me everything
     You can only dream of 
      ever knowing.

This is true Church--
This beautiful  Sunday-mornin' glowing
This spirit-infused flesh

A perfection of music
momentarily, flowing.

From hidden cloud
her flesh-infused  spirit
is my one chance
at pure Joy, knowing..

My love  for her,

     In heart,

     In Art,  all  hers
     I  am  become


The smell of rain and streetlight thrown
A love, a lantern in the snow
But when she feels it taking hold
Finds it so hard letting go
Can I tell her that we'll shine,
She dreads the devil's yet to show

So **** reluctant to expose it to me,  so

So I think of the things that it taught me
She starts to think.. "evil has lost me"
I walked with the wolves, and it haunts me
She steps with intention to run free

So stunner, don't ever move softly
You've been on a journey they can't see
When dancing in ballrooms, you will lead

Promise you'll smile off a memory

the angel opens her eyes
Kevin Sep 4
It is the thing we create from within.
From the depth of our soul
Where our passion does live.
The place we seek to find the unseen,
Those things that are seen
Within our minds and our dreams,
The things that others have not yet seen.

A vision where those can gaze and be free,
By a master at play while capturing his dreams
Upon the canvas where the art lives and breathes
Away from other influence, that he may have seen.

The art does not copy the others of known.
Instead, each piece is the artist's very own.
By bracing his feet upon the ground where he stands,
The art comes from within, from the master’s own hands.
Before the onslaught of digital and its mediocre output, art was considered a treasure. Not anymore. It’s become a world of anything goes. The way of the masters lost to a sea of 0’s and 1’s: no more perfection, no more beauty with the stroke of a brush. We entered the creative world of the mundane.

To view more of my work, visit me at
Brian Turner Aug 31
Unexpected smile from the lady beside me
As I say goodbye after a day's work in the office
Such joy,  such a great smile , such radiance
Perhaps we can can it?

Unexpected number plate 'Ph1 1LL'
As he undercuts me at the traffic lights
Calm down Phil
It's only 8 a.m the morning
I'm sure you'll get to work ok.

Unexpected gorilla bursts into my home
Heads straight to the office and grabs my laptop
Logs into my old Facebook account
And starts sending illicit messages and naughty pictures
You're welcome mate, grab a banana too

Unexpected kindness from the beggar at the parking bay
Tells me that the meter is broken so don't bother
I buy him a sandwich
'Ham and white bread will do'.
No problem mate enjoy
Inspired by Artist David Shrigley piece of art 'Elephant chooses to stand on your car' Tate Liverpool
Maria Mitea Aug 27
the gray line
is not for people without hands
Elsie Greek Aug 19
The simple is crafty,
It's driven by thriving,
It's cool and it's artful
Envisioning the sublime.

Allow me be simple now,
That's not outrageous.
All sorts of one substance,
All forms of dim treacheries.

A smooth olive sparkle,
Not the one with the edges
Abiding with the peeves,
Deeply drowned in dry Martinis.

Too diligent to continue
Because if a life is only simple,
It becomes completely unbearable.
Taste makes me feel all the complexity
Of it, but the simplicity is just a scale
At which I am capable to create.
Sara Brummer Aug 18
It’s the essence of sensation,
the elastic feel in the body,
spiritual flame in the heart,
the wild movement that
lights up earth and sky.

It’s the centrifigal force
that radiates mood’s sunshine,
the moment of unexpected torque,
infinitely complicated yet simple
in its sublime resonance.

Each step is gifted,
each step an idea,
a word unspoken,
a poem in the making.

For dance is flux and motion,
a viseral trance, a carefree discipline
of endlessness promising bright
tomorrows until the final release
beyond earth-bound dimensions.
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