In endearing silence,
Exists the stillness of black and white,
The painter holds the palette against their chest,
And their heartbeat colours in the pigments,
As their brush strokes the canvas,
Droplets of light begin to surround you,
Like floating fireflies, or stars on earth,
And in your eyes, colour blooms,
You sit, framed, in black and white,
But the smile you wear when you stare at wonder,
Brings your colours back to life,
The painter captures a portrait,
Made from the paper of destiny,
A picture of you finding yourself,
As the silence waves goodbye,
Leaving behind echoes of your hopeful laugh.

You can paint infinity
on a set of plates
that lay here before me,

share a season’s story
leaving out what is gory.

You can dance in skewed
perspectives,
make rainbows cry
while a little child
staves off this painted rain.

You can make manifest
the spirit over which
you give dominion
to all who live in
this little world.

Let lovers walk
from pools reflecting
many shades
that illuminate
the end of days.

Can take the infinitude
of every instance
that made you, you
and summarize it
in multiple tints
of blue;

Take the beauty
and wonder of
a stranger’s face
lit by inspiration
as she reads
by a windowpane,

while I can take apart
and break the art
you made with your heart,
to write this silly little poem.

I have in me a bit of Tuscan sun
The wildness of mistral
The calmness of a Cezanne village
I often walk around the countryside of Pissaro
And see the colors, still abundant, undefeated
I stroll around the lilies and the harbor of France where Manet painted being thrown out of his house, not able to pay the rent
I dance with the beautiful girls in high society Parisian parties of whom from Zola to Maugham spoke about
I learn art in silence, in the bright orange color of the day drawing the French young girl
Whose face is like Madonna
Her innocence, her laughter, her flawless body
Excite me, breaks me, creates me
I walk with clean head and red wine in the streets of Montmartre
Searching the gone and dusted studio of Renoir, Picasso, Monet
I stand exactly there where there is nothing old except the moon
And the Sacre Couer
In the morning I take the first train to Auvers Sur Oise
And walk into the cemetery
Where lie in the gorgeous French sun
Vincent and Theo Van Gogh
I utter to them, "Can dream ever be false?"
It is when I heard the footsteps
I turned
The girl in the yellow dress stands at the gate of the cemetery
Whom I draw every day but never captured her beauty
The French girl
We both stand there as it is
As if 
framed
paused 
Frozen
We, the Impressionists!

my reincarnation is that of a treasured cup

i’m almost entirely certain that my death will play a role in the cup’s creation

whether it be the clay I molded my alien hitch hiking signs into

or its maker lays back and reads in a hammock the same hours I do

just half way around the world

once my soul has leaked and drained through hell’s piping system

and what’s left escapes through condensation

the clouds will carry me to a bazaar

where the ceramic painting class is struggling to use oils

with rainy weather

in ******* up the work of most attendees

several of them will hide me in backs of cupboards

until they move or my soul dies of dust

one, if god allow two

painted mugs

are repeatedly stacked with layers of sediment

coffee, *****

tea, *****

coffee

tea with *****

a cigarette accidentally

my father should feel proud to know

his son’s vices followed him through the afterlife

that i got a nice home

that i accepted leaving parts of my soul in old cupboards

(Dad), i didn’t mean to contact the aliens so recklessly,

and i feel like I have to get off my *** if i read too much

i’m sorry i thought smoking was non-conformist

you’re right, i lied a couple of times

it cost just as much integrity as you said it would

i know i will do much better as a treasured cup

I stared at my canvas,
Unshakable, proud and bold
I swirled the colours around
And my story, I told

I started out with rose
Pouring my love
I added some white
The colour of my dove

I sprinkled some sky
Calling me wise
And a touch of yellow
For the sun to rise

I worked on it for days
And months and years
I wanted it to be perfect
The life I held so dear

Finally, one night
As bright as a ray
I felt complete
I stepped away

Staring back at me
Was my smile