#gogh
I often lose myself in doodles, sketches, and drawings... Trying to replicate great works but more often originals of my own creation. But when I do try to replicate a work from lets say Monet or Van Gogh its because a piece stood out to me and the image lingers in the back of my mind like a shadow cast by a single lit candle in room as vast as the universe itself...
https://postimg.cc/kBGGjwPr <---- What I've done so far compared to the original found in the Norton Simon Museum in Pasadena California...
I believe whole heartedly that the eyes in this painting belong not to the peasant but to Van Gogh himself... Either intentionally or not the piercing stare will forever be burned in my mind.
Apr 18
Apr 18, 2026 at 4:52 PM UTC
“I often think that the night is more alive and more
richly colored than the day.” –Vincent Van Gogh
I painted Tuesday with stars hoping
Van Gogh would woo the iris
to rise from their winter melancholy.
~ ~ ~
What is a day without stars
or night without sun?
Beyond the horizon
Van Gogh’s brush
paints sunflowers
on the cheeks of the moon.
~ ~ ~
The sky fell in starlight strokes
of Van Gogh.
Like a child chasing butterflies
I collected wishes on the tip
of my brush to paint joy
in my valley of sorrow.
Aug 18, 2025
Aug 18, 2025 at 3:41 PM UTC
On a velvet night,
so silent and heavy
that the breath of life itself seemed an intrusion,
Vincent smiled and bid the world goodbye,
he closed his eyes
and left to join the landscape of his paintings
Jun 25, 2025
Jun 25, 2025 at 11:28 AM UTC
The tension in the lounge this morning was so tense you could cut it with a knife and send it off to war. Big Sid the male nurse tried to ease the tension with humour, but it didn't work. Bradley obnoxious **** said something to Bridget which brought her Gaelic and foul language into the locked ward. I sat watching them and lit a cigarette. The nurses gave Alun a piece of paper and a selection of crayons. He showed me his interpretation of the Mona Lisa: a round faced girl with curtain styled red hair and a smile like a slice of melon. Vincent sitting beside me in the lounge wasn't impressed, but Alun couldn't seem Van Gogh, so it didn't matter. After dinner of overcooked pork and potatoes and vegetables, I had to go and see the shrink. An half hour of one way talk with a new prescription of medication and my moody silence. After teatime of boring sandwiches and sawdust cake, I sat in the lounge watching the braincell destroying TV until bedtime. Life is becoming an unraveling piece of crime.
May 30, 2025
May 30, 2025 at 11:47 AM UTC
Starry night
Even the stars still dream
Of Irises Sunflowers and van gogh
Reynaldo Casison
Mar 11, 2025
Mar 11, 2025 at 11:10 PM UTC
somewhere in the distance, I see myself in the light
what's in the dark, is whether I'm still alive when illuminated.
May 15, 2024
May 15, 2024 at 1:37 PM UTC
Oh Vincent
whatever did you do
ripening fields of summer corn
and sunflowers of a brilliant hue
a shade no other eyes could see
except for God and you
Feb 29, 2024
Feb 29, 2024 at 1:07 PM UTC
'Green blue of the sky
heated white-hot'
Vincent saw, what we could not
captured through an artists eye
he put aside his pain
to give us fields of lavender
and glorious scented rain
Nov 24, 2023
Nov 24, 2023 at 2:35 PM UTC
my lips feel ****
I a bit vile
I feel decisive
tonight
I'm burning down
the my oh my
Van Gogh's turquoise
inside
self portrait in the wild:
a woman loves to
toast to cloudburst
I think I might
recycle the devil
for poetry's sake,
tonight it smells
of cinnamon,
of flemish paintings
Feb 3, 2023
Feb 3, 2023 at 3:27 PM UTC
Oh Vincent
if only you had known
the world would one day marvel
at your sunflowers
and those waving fields of grain
you left us
but they will remain
a part of you
the beating heart of you
the art of you
for your success was unforeseen
you left us
with what might have been
May 31, 2022
May 31, 2022 at 3:10 AM UTC
oscillating back and forth
head tilting from leeward and windward
an abstract puzzling my imperial gaze
a Van Gogh in waiting
perchance a reflection illuminated
in broad mesmerizing strokes
some tantalizing insightfulness
else a superficial escapade
do the color menageries
stray my mindfulness or hold attention
each vivid hue enlightenment
to soothe & provide enrichment
is my inspiration desperation
to find meaning in the simpleton
gravitating and debating
between beauty and gargoyles
does incredulous creativity scare me
or woo me into submissiveness
the artist plying servitude
into mine cavernous cavities
Alan Scales’ exhibit of
Turquoise Abstract Landscape II
provides fodder for my mind
to exponentially explode
Andreas Simic©
Apr 22, 2022
Apr 22, 2022 at 10:58 PM UTC
Science holds keys, doors,
Black holes and symmetry.
Science is the gatekeeper
When it comes to facts and logic.
There is no place for science in the
Universe of imagination, science
Don’t own a paintbrush and could
Never be a Picasso or Van Gogh
No matter how many starry nights they glaze at.
Apr 1, 2022
Apr 1, 2022 at 4:08 PM UTC
The first thing I see
when I pull out the top drawer
was the diagnosis. Meds, there you go
it pretty much said that.
I wondered about all the
creative people doing
some remarkable things,
creating and being alive.
Except they all one day
killed themselves.
Van Gogh stood in
the overgrown field before
he shot himself.
Sylvia Plath knelt down
and stuck her head in the oven.
Virginia Woolf grazed the smooth
peebles, thinking about what
she would write about those peebles,
Only to shove them in
her pockets and drown in the Ouse river.
Nearly everyday, I tell myself
I want to be a writer, or an artist-
Both, actually. That’s all I ever
wanted to be, but the fear of
spiraling, and becoming them
Is deeply disturbing.
Yet, I craved for this life,
To paint, and create stories
with a dash of madness
They all did likewise.
Mar 31, 2021
Mar 31, 2021 at 3:04 PM UTC
Let’s greet at the Church at Auvers,
And allow gates to uncover
Dewy daisies and dug up skulls
And crystalline spheres full of love.
Let’s meet at the Church at Auvers,
And behold our hearts as lovers
Where the moon glints its purple light
And our youth and fire shine so bright.
Let’s kiss at the Church at Auvers,
And let ourselves rediscover
Golden bulbs of precious life
Of luck and laugh of love so rife.
Let’s wed at the Church at Auvers.
At midnight, unknown, undercover;
Soft moon-kissed skin touching skin,
Lives entwined, lovers with a grin.
Let us leave the Church at Auvers,
And let’s dance across this river,
Towards an ardent red sunrise
Of perpetual paradise.
Jan 22, 2021
Jan 22, 2021 at 6:57 PM UTC
His command of color
Most magnificent
He transformed the pain
Of his tormented life
Into ecstatic beauty
Pain is easy to portray
But to use your
Passion and pain
To portray the ecstasy and joy
And magnificence of our world
No one had ever done it before
Perhaps no one will again
May 30, 2020
May 30, 2020 at 8:29 PM UTC
I slept beneath
a mad hatter moon and
dreamed of a big blue
tarantula swimming in
a yellow moss
covered pond. A rat
terrier passed me a note:
Mercy and love
are
fleeting, they fade away
like the
tangerine sun; they
are lies like
the dead bulls under
a ****** red
Spanish sky.
I asked his name,
"Mendacity" he said,
then turned into a
pack of
cigarettes, no matches,
no lighter…
I drank from the
pond and became a
sunflower.
Vincent shot
me with his
lonely cornfield gun.
He sat down and smoked
his pipe, as crows
lied
lied
lied.
He said with sad, iris eyes,
"It's impossible to ****
a mermaid, or eat
a starry night."
It's the impossibility
of a thing that
drives one
mad;
like a mustang
caught for the
circus, but always
dreaming of escape to
the thundering
fields of its youth.
I saw toothless
orphans throw rooks at
his soul, as those beautiful
eyes saw way too much…
I want to
pound
it in,
drive it dripping
home through the
core
of a rose, to the
bottom
of the tulip. I'll
get drunk on
nectar of the god's, then
reject immortality. (Who wants to live forever?)
There has been a drastic
Mistake.
I see it at the
zoo in the
monkeys caged,
glazed eyes.
No wonder they
throw ****
at people.
"Such lies, " he said.
"The artichoke, avocado, and
algebra; the small of
a woman's back and
the emerald head of
the hummingbird."
"If the artichoke and
avocado are lies" I said,
"then truth is the
tight, tasty, creamy
green line that
refuses to settle or waiver;
delirious, delicious."
"No" he said, as
his hands stroked
that lice ridden
crimson beard.
"It's conception and
growth, then cast
out
****** and naked
cut from the
cord,
and a lifetime spent
trying to return
to the womb, **** first,
but only spilling and
spreading the
nightmare of being,
the fever of living, to
another
sorry soul that didn't
ask for it.
I woke up,
drained the elixir,
and starred at
Vinnie's self portrait,
the one with
bandaged ear, and
I
thought…
Yea,
God is into practical jokes.
May 8, 2020
May 8, 2020 at 6:25 PM UTC
I’ve got a secret that lives in my head
no one knows of it, not even me.
It surfaces slow while I lie in my bed
I wish I could sleep peacefully.
Wind is biting my ear, my left side is ice cold,
I’ve turned numb; I’m not even tingling.
A lifetime of bronze and silver, finally received gold,
but to place around my neck; I’m still hesitating.
It’s been a starry, starry night,
with Rhone’s reflection shining bright
and our Irises connect and only ever see light.
Studying sorrow; pain vs. fear,
so I’ll sit back and contemplate for another year,
would you appreciate the sentiment of Van Gogh’s lost ear?
It will be while on the dryest island where I find my lungs filled with water.
It will be collapsed on ground when I finally stand,
and encased and embraced in ice when I start getting hotter.
Promises will be made
and secrets are kept,
you’re inside me as I’m flayed,
exposed and I feel in debt.
You know that I love you,
that I only think of you,
and no one is your equal let alone ever above you.
It’s been so long at Eternity’s Gate,
I missed the Almond’s Blossom; I was too late,
and The Potato Eaters complain with what is on their plate.
Studying sorrow; shame or a tear,
so I’ll sit back and contemplate for another year,
would you appreciate the sentiment of Van Gogh’s lost ear?
I’d jump to paint your shadow
or even draw your outline in chalk,
I’d drag myself behind you even if you were to allow
me the privilege alongside you to walk.
Feb 13, 2020
Feb 13, 2020 at 2:01 AM UTC
There goes Vincent with
his jagged sky, and
ragged beard.
His cobalt blue are
stained with the glue that should
hold us all together,
but it doesn't.
His sunflowers are lost
on humanity.
When we can't hold
on to what we pretend to love,
we **** it...
Usually in small
treacherous ways,
like apathy or
arrogance.
Feb 2, 2020
Feb 2, 2020 at 3:46 AM UTC
Its eighteen months since her delivery
Now she is penning odes ostensibly
Crayons in both hands: she is standing tall
What Dada says? "No writing on the wall."
With great care baby writes her graffiti
Not much untouched by her audacity
He tries to compromise with a new book
but baby says, "Daa Daa"; with a stern look
He has to admit the walls are hers now
Filled with scribbles and a chromatic cow
Its her version of Van Gogh's Starry Night
without the stars; a novice oversight
She's more surreal than Salvador Dali
The writing's on my wall: Pure Graffiti
Dec 11, 2019
Dec 11, 2019 at 4:38 PM UTC
The gallery is closing soon,
hurry up,
don't say you will come
another time.
I bet you want to see "Sunflowers".
You say you can wait.
You can? Okay, but
what if they can't?
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 4:09 PM UTC
brush my lips with more reds
make my smile look alive
let the youth touch my hand
allow the colors to dry
bury my casket along with my sins
and the poems i can never sing
get the black book and the priest
let the funeral of an art begin
brew the finest lies you got
the vengeance of the word
a ghost will haunt your dreams
a ghost that bears your name
the sick truth of a man
sought refuge to a face
a better death; to be betrayed
than drown in yellow paint
May 20, 2019
May 20, 2019 at 1:37 PM UTC
How does it feel to be disliked by your whole village
But loved by a world you never got to know
Arles never once treated you with the same beauty as you saw in it
Concern for your wellbeing never came from the people you passed
Not even after they learned that you had taken your last breath
Your memory contained nothing but whispered rumors
They painted the picture of the madman who kept no company
Disregarding the compassion that flowed out of you
Only some knew the truth and what events molded
The trauma that shaped the man who frequented empty fields
Auvers-sur-Oise knew you as a separate man entirely
They stole pieces of you that you did not even have of yourself
Made you their crown jewel, nothing more than a story to keep the town alive
No part of your legacy remained untouched, just as no relationship you’d held stayed pure
Your own doctor claimed your art and in turn your reputation for himself
But how were you to have stopped them
Especially when you were not around to plead for anything different
How does it feel to be disliked by your whole village
But loved by a world you never got to know
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 11:29 AM UTC