I gaze the wheat field gusts of wind erupt and impede to the very end crows take flight towards the blood red Sun he calls them back rests his weary hands and tired eyes before the long walk into town his silhouette fades as I awaken to view the captured image that hangs from my wall
king of colour a whisper into the future unheard in his time died in the pursuit of painting a world in his head visions of oil on canvas windows into his soul sorry your work is for the rich and famous not for everyone as it was made
"Artists...artists are like butterflies... They have delicate hearts But this society can't handle them..." My mother answered as I told her about Vincent van Gogh... The Starry Night painter was once said to be happy in London ... With a rainbow heart and sky mind He drenched the canvas with his emotions People unaware of this legend put him in an asylum... 'cause the decieved Vincent cut his ear lobe! But he painted...as paints and brushes were still there...just like his brother. He was 37... when voices were all over his mind It was not easy to stop them... So he picked up the gun... And the bullet went straight to that golden heart I wonder how many colors died that day....?
But I could have told you, Vincent This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you..." - Don Mclean (Vincent)
Let's lose our minds amongst the olive trees Labyrinth of oiled imagination Twirl like falling leaves / falling to our knees in unbalanced joy and veneration of ourselves. For there is nobody else but us; there is no other time but now, Red flowers bloom. A blue shadow propels a still landscape into being somehow fluid. Timelessly we swim, wet within each brush stroke branch and painted wave of wild emancipation—to forget the din of the wretched asylum. Vincent smiled: Dive too deep and you shall go insane, The olive grove remains the other side of the pane.
Inspired by Vincent van Gogh's painting of the same name.
A starry night he did proclaim with hues and stokes so untamed, he layed on with palette knife.
The twirls and swirls of gold above the dormant village old, despite his own inner strife.
Stars played cheerfully around, restful hues on slumbering town as though, sleeping with his wife.
While the sun awaited to arise shadows of wheat black to his eyes, he turned the heavens into wildlife.
Locked in his cold dismal room, he painted not of his true gloom, but of a dreamy, wonderous life.
To favourite my painting and artist, The Starry Night by painter Vincent van Gogh. Painted in June 1889, from the east-facing window of his asylum room at Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, he awaited the sunrise.
A billiard table imprints its damp shadow on a yellow wooden floor. The game still unbegun, mere fragment of the sorrow felt by the patrons whose wilted heads will still be here tomorrow, if tomorrow comes. Red walls distended by burning lamps and burned out hearts beating blood through ear drums: Reverie to the night god / Dreaming tramps drowning in their heads in lakes of absinthe color of the ceiling better than being awake but indefinitely absent. The lamps blink, eyes floating, speak all-seeing: Vincent, let us meet before you entreat the crows out of your head into the wheat.
Inspired by Vincent van Gogh's painting The Night Café.
the solemn sighs in empty halls these vacant thoughts that line the walls a chilly breeze through a midnight flare waiting for the heavens to bear to bear a heart that's ice cold and blue thawing in the light of the moon and with each beat that pains, that hurts that explodes into starbursts of woad and gold in the vastness of the sky on this lonely this lovely starry, starry night.