i believe,
that every time an artist dies,
god lets them paint the sky.
with the stars.
to say goodbye.
the forever changing sky.
full of artists.

The Artist


I need a Muse.  
Do you think it could be you?
Can you pick up a paint brush
And show me what you can do?


I need a painter of portraits;
To fill in the gaps inside my head.
I need a Goddess of Love,
To notice the stuff I write in my bed.


I need an Artist, who is simply magnificent,
A breath-taking vision, who is simply Heaven sent.
I need an Angel to paint me a Picasso,
Of my poetry in pieces, before I end up like Van Gogh.


Slightly impaired by deafness, I guess.
Going grey now; thank you stress.


Hi Mona, how’s Rembrandt?
He’s been seen drinking in a bar,
With someone called Cezanne?


Call Michelangelo; Donatello will have a plan.
Leonardo’s busy with his inventions,
But here comes Raphael.
Turtle Power!  Hi Master Splinter.
Do you have your easel and paints ready,
To see you through the winter?


Paint me a story
And I’ll write you a picture.
I think if the two of us worked together,
What I see, to you, could become much clearer.


Are you sat there looking for some inspiration?
Then read one of my poems, sing one of my songs;
Maybe then you could paint our creation.
Maybe then, I could write poetry about your art.


My vision brought to life,
With the gift of your care.
Paint a picture of us together,
So you will remember that I will always be there.


If you ever need some inspiration,
Just creep inside my mind for a little vacation;
An escape from reality, or from your personal Demon’s.
You will see we are all the same;
I have as many foibles as you do.


My heart belongs to any Woman who truly wants it;
But she hasn’t told me how she feels yet,
So I guess I can’t live without it.


But soon I will meet someone
And offer them my love;
Because an artist without inspiration,
Is like a poet who has never been in love.


Joyous tragedy! Shakespeare laughs,
As he tears apart love with just a couple of paragraphs.
Dead and gone!  Not our fair Juliet.
If Romeo had just gone home instead,
He would have turned into a moody poet.


(C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.

Forever continued


All artists are searching for a Muse,
To inspire their love for their work.
So I must love my Muse,
Each and every time.
Even though this to you,
May seem to lessen my love’s light,
This is not true;
For I still hurt and bruise,
After each time they stamp on my heart.


But still I stand here telling you all my weak points.
Do you me believe yet?  I believe in you.
I must go now,
To tell more true words of being blue;
But some poems are as endless as my love for you…
They could be forever continued.


(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.

whatever floats yer boat
paint a picture
sing a song
even write a note
just get out
and tell yer story
whatever floats yer boat

the message
is important
you could paint
it on a goat
just get out
and tell yer story
whatever floats yer boat

a writer sings
a painter paints
an author uses words
it's no good
unless the message
isn't seen or heard

keeping thoughts as secret
isn't good and here is why
because sharing brings them life
and otherwise they'll die

write a letter
do a play
or even bake a cake
the message
it is important
who cares what form it takes

say it loud
or scream it
even put it in a song
opinions
are for sharing
even if they're wrong

a writer sings
a painter paints
an author uses words
it's no good
unless the message
isn't seen or heard

keeping thoughts as secret
isn't good and here is why
because sharing brings them life
and otherwise they'll die

paint a picture
sing a song
even write a note
just get out
and tell yer story
whatever floats yer boat

Having a million
Stories to tell
But lacking the
Proper words

Having a
Brilliant vision
But unable to
Paint it

Wanting nothing
More than to create
But the motivation
Is absent

But we try
And we try
Again

Oh, Andy-
speak to me in paints:
red, yellow, blue

When I told you I wouldn't be good at this,
an inability to sketch hands that punched at everything leaving me weak.
Keane's sorrow filled eyes upon oil made more sense to me.

I was never angry or mean, just sad and hopeless.
Lichtenstein was more your speed with obscene images of ******* women
and dialogue of broken hearts.

Van Gogh never made sense, but his attention to detail caught my eye.
To not know what goes on in your own head is identifiable so,
my head is art crafted by Picasso.

they hospitalize you once you've lopped your ear off
when giving a part of themselves to a lover.
I'm not cut out for this- the starving artist,
the tragic sketcher,
or the natural- born painter.

I've calloused my hands,
shed tears on pages of sketchbooks
put paint that looks childlike
and nothing worthwhile,
in all the time spent learning,
I've never learned how to be an artist.

I thought it was the mantra to be pained and miserable,
but you accounted for bold choices and vivid primary shades.
I feel betrayed, that my art alone, isn't enough to be good.

They will never frame my name,
or immortalize flaws in which could never be erased.

Like our conversation in my dream:
"I can't be mean." -Me
"Killing yourself isn't much different" -You

So Andy, what is the color I'm feeling? If it isn't blue?

—V.H.

Here I sit,
watching the reflection of my past grandeur mock me from within it's folded paper pages.
The ink letters dance a mirage of bittersweet enjoyment in the face of my frustration.
The drawings of flowers twist and curl over the lines in the book,
clutching onto every word,
every syllable of woe written amongst the leaves.
Faces fall from petal soft whispers,
and within their atramentous eyes
I find myself lost.