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Xella Sep 27
In Amsterdam a few years ago I stood below 12 sunflowers.
Standing still I stared at the bright strokes, bold
With something but I.
Could not understand I.
Did not see a plan, and I.
Felt small, my heart in my hand alone below bright beaming sunflowers
Some sort of morse code.

Through the frame I look at sunflowers still stale.
For a moment I was nauseous and the world spun round
Like a horror story the painting asks for a gift.
I could not provide, salty eyes and lips
I could not give, a heavy handed thought.
So I turned on my heel
and left.
Based on a true story...for real.
On Cassatt's easel
afternoon stretches out
its pink pastel faces
cool as the palms breeze
warm as the oolong tea
Where is the artistic creativity
That electrifies Earth stupendously?
Where is the music that beckons
Sorrowful people to the heavens?
Where is the poetry that screams
Passion and love in one's dreams
Where are the beautiful paintings
That greatly fascinate
The human eye?
Thoughts
We are all rare paintings

Hanging in a gallery of the world

Abstract

Surreal

Technical

Many more designs of magical

Forced of genetics

Which created our images

A painter with a passion

Our bloodline maps the idea

As the bond of our family ignites

The design we all are seen on

A tapestry made of life and its forever living force

Judges cannot give the prize to any

Just one

As we all have a story within the vision

Of the art that we all are.

Share a smile and invite others to the gallery

As you are a bright message

Waiting to teach its knowledge

To the world

Of the worlds libraria

A valuable asset to the force that moves the Earth

A Solomon truth that marks history.

A book opened with well scripted passages.

Welcome to the “real world history.”

As souls originated well before the Earth.

Now splendor lights our way

Out of our mother’s womb

As we are born changing yet another day
John Glenn Feb 23
Art
You are the woman
with the perplexing smile
The pearl earring
of the golden age
The starry sky
that offers asylum,
The clock that melts
time on tabletops,
The great wave that dissolves
froth and foam
The venus atop the shells
on the waters, and
The charismatic fire
even the seas thirst for
And I will be your artist;
the desires to sketch you
What desires to sketch you
(Read the first line, then every other line that starts with an upper case. Read the second line, then every other line in lower case. Then read all lines as a whole.)
sunshine Nov 2019
sweet smells of chardonnay whispering
and him waltzing in from the kitchen.
as if Jazz had legs and walked by you
I smiled and he danced towards me.
so I said,

"paint me up a storm Cassanova.
Tell me all your secrets and your lies.
And if you don't come back tomorrow,
least I'll know we had a chance to say goodbye"

living room mess
curled up in a ball
talking like nothing's wrong at all


xoxo
-sunshine
Jillian Jones Sep 2019
Just because you do not find the beauty
in words and poems,
in drawings and paintings,
in colors,
in the waves of the grass
or the bark of a tree,
does not mean
that I should not too.

I should not be out-casted
for finding beauty in things that
you do not.
My opinions do not change your view,
Why should yours change mine?

maybe, for once,
take the leap, take the chance
in finding beauty in something other than
what you think is normal.
Not until you take that chance
can you tell me that my views are wrong.

-the ballet of a dreamer j.j
A composer
of the stars,
& astronaut
of dreams,
the unsung
swan of the
night, who
draws the
paintings
of her
thoughts,
the clouds
of dandelions
fields forever
in reverie,
her sigh settles
the seas of
lilac dreams,
as music
plays, she
enjoys the
indigo hues
of a bohemian
way of life,
and every
person
on this
earth is,
in their own
way, an
eccentric
of their
own hue,
upon the
painting of
life in the
microcosmos
to the lights
beyond, one
possesses
the traveler
in the chest,
a seeker of
the secret,
unrevealed
revelations,
a hidden
lover of
truth,
a flower
always
in perpetual
rebirth,  
the secret
dancer
of the
night,
musing
upon the
wisdom
of how
every
human
holds the
aubade
within the
intricacy
of their
silver
scales,
in the
deeper
tides
of eyes
meeting
to become
one in the
balladry
of being
within each
other’s gaze,
for eyes reveal
the drifters,
who sail in
the ocean
of words
and catch
her star-dew,
where she
hears the
hidden,
secluded
symphonies,
they reveal
the lights
of their
own as
time, the
mysterious
one, flows
her fabric
and they
grow closer
to one, she
watches
upon them
unfolding,
as she
opens
her wings,
they close
their eyes,
when two
had once
seeked
to be other
than the
truth of self,
from their
chests are
opening
butterflies,
they awaken
in their
cocoon,
awaiting
the voyage
to the
moon,
the poet
sits by his
window,
and softly
sung “all of
what the
eyes see
in bloom
is poetry”
Some disguises aren't meant to be revealed
Some thoughts aren't meant to be spared
Some beasts aren't meant to be chaotic
Some evenings aren't meant to be charming
Some paintings aren't meant to be catchy
Some belongings aren't meant to be buried
Some flowers aren't meant to be favourites
Some incidents aren't meant to be happening
Some people aren't meant to be suffering
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