#renaissance
The pain of the renaissance man
(me, the renaissance woman)
Is the inability to experience everything, all at once
Two lifetime’s too short
I wish I could touch the stars
Reach the top of every industry
Climb the mountain of sports
Be the best that’s ever been
No, don’t tell me it’s not possible
Jul 15, 2025
Jul 15, 2025 at 7:27 PM UTC
The way I could admire your beauty for centuries
Breathless
I walk through the marble halls where echoes play,
With each arches high and domes that rise
A beautiful vision sculpted beneath the skies
Columns stand with perfect grace
Watching the gold lining interlace
Each curve and line, a story told
Of ancient forms in marble bold
The brush of you paint the walls
Where knowledge blooms and beauty calls
I find myself in love
With angels looking from above
Shall you never go to waste
Fine art forever encased
My love, you bless me with your grace
Truly a genius ace
Jan 6, 2025
Jan 6, 2025 at 1:06 AM UTC
If all the world's a stage
Then Bill and me
are on the same page
So when treading the boards
step softly
don't go crossing swords
give the best performance
From you're soul,
Lift others from their holes,
Put a smile on their face
If things don't work out
Try changing roles
Make it the best play ever written
Try for a good ending
maybe leave someone smitten
When the curtain comes down
And
It's just you on you're own,
there should be no frown
go to you're backstage bedroom
Sleep tight
Under the full moon,
Awake
As the birds sing,
who knows what the day brings.
Nov 19, 2024
Nov 19, 2024 at 5:06 AM UTC
If all the world's a stage
Then Bill and me
are on the same page
So when treading the boards
step softly
don't go crossing swords
give the best performance
From you're soul,
Lift others from their holes,
Put a smile on their face
If things don't work out
Try changing roles
Make it the best play ever written
Try for a good ending
maybe leave someone smitten
When the curtain comes down
And
It's just you on you're own,
there should be no frown
go to you're backstage bedroom
Sleep tight
Under the full moon,
Awake
As the birds sing,
who knows what the day brings.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 7:05 AM UTC
Upon the announcement of my arrival
my ancestors weaved brillant threads to make a quilt for my bed
with steadfast hands, they weaved themselves a plan
who i was to become, what kind of man
upon the days of my arrival
my ancestors fantastically wrapped me up in the quilt of blue and red
this quilt housed me for many seasons
itched me, pinched me, left me cold at night
bit me, tripped me, straggling my rights
the brillant quilt made to protect became my golden cage instead
their plan created my strife
their plan corseted my life
after years spent suffocating in the threads
i decided to break away from the plan
emerging like a little chick out of an egg
i chose to live my life today
still the foundation laid was unscathed
every trigger sent my heart into disarray
independence fortified, return to the egg
the quilt might be itchy, it might be tight
but it is easier than learning how to fly
Jul 12, 2023
Jul 12, 2023 at 1:55 PM UTC
i close my eyes
and can’t help but wonder
who had helped Him
create you?
Did Michelangelo help Him design your face from stone and etch your beautiful imperfections into your caramel colored flesh?
Was it Raphael who decided that honey was too beautiful and decadent a substance to be left only for edible indulgence, and allowed you to have pools of golden honey for eyes?
Who better than Titan to pull from the clouds, and the water whom then MUST have pulled inspiration from silk when allowing your skin and hair to be as soft as the robes I wear to bed with you.
I wonder when He called Leonardo Da Vinci in? Was it when he decided that you were going to be beautiful? Or when He decided you’d be intelligent, or when He decided you’d be kind?
I close my eyes and wonder, did they help Him create such a work of art in hopes that you’d be mine?
After all,
I close my eyes
and dream
of those whimsical, renaissance skies.
Dec 12, 2020
Dec 12, 2020 at 12:20 AM UTC
It was almost a birthmark, a death sentence embossed on the deepest crevice on her heart. Grace had always known that the noble blood fleshed her existence. In return of power and glory, she must wear the brightest crown which will light the horizons to a warm shade of amber. That someday she would rise together with the sun and cradle the stars with this invigorating honor.
The princess fancied the notion of becoming next queen for its promised delight as other royals often tell her. Every time she shut death to birthday candles, it was all that she wished from the watching gods above. To be the perfect heir, the ideal ruler, and especially, the greatest candidate for the crown.
From the gardens waved the precocious white bloom of calla lilies. The clouds were a dash of milk frozen from the never ending stretch of blue. Faint chirps of birds echoed around the towers. On the palace ground, Grace acquired skills of a squire, for it was written through time she would defend this very castle in her hands. Days were occupied with lessons and lunches, meetings with lords and charities. She was a lady of compassion, inherited the old queen’s discipline and sophistication. The townspeople loved her greatly. They cherished her like a living ornament caught in a sea of the unlikely. A depiction of a good woman whose soul was constructed to comply with the rules and duties she is given. Accustomed from the expectations, the princess endures hardships, turning predicaments into something magnificent. The entire kingdom was pleased. And only then, the exploring winds tell otherwise.
Nobody knew Grace wanted to dance. There was this rhythm of renaissance enough to make her pointe shoes swoon across the dungeon room, her shadow--the audience. Instead of being entertained by minstrels, she would prefer the empty theater which she calls home whenever the sun sinks a sudden thought of change. Or that one time she secretly headed for the woods, not far from the stream, and put on a show for the skeletal trees to applaud to. A perfect piece of broken melody. That is what she all was. Her desires transformed into a banquet she must not feast on.
Because she is everything the crown is not.
A young amateur star, an artist of fascination, and a dreamer of the unknown. Perhaps, these were enough reasons why she became a magnet for chaos and everlasting detriments. It murdered her during the day-- kissed her a goodnight. The almond eyes that sync with her cinnamon tea, swirling in brown, blinked briny tears. From withstanding the pain, sustaining the hold, even though the harsh fate made its call. The only concept which drove her far is everyone’s acceptance.
But who could she be really? A figment on the stage? If at each glide the eyes foresee her as a rebel, much to her chagrin, who would look at her then? If the depth of the ocean has been buried within her voice, to everyone’s astonishment, who would listen to her anyways? What if she does not fulfill the responsibility which the kingdom predetermined for her, approved of her? Who would love Grace?
She built an empire so high, she cannot climb down her own stairs.
The message of the wind sounded like a terrible lullaby. It was too venomous for her dilemma. Because until this moment, this scenery, this pronounced living, she never stop hoping that one day, she will no longer be a stranger to herself. When the archbishop lifted the crown from the velvet cushion, the stones shimmered its vow as the brightest. The Queen’s authority shined through all of them. Before she sheds a tear, it already settled on her head, delicate and ethereal, faultless. Grace realized she spent most of her life fitting the crown which does not belong to her in any form.
No! She is not going to mourn another morning, nor sleep the night with a heavy heart. Fear might threatened to slit her throat, but she was not having it! The princess unveiled her mask and hurled the kingdom’s crown beyond the assembly.
“What a disgrace!” They thundered.
The formation of her identity is what stunned the people. None of them expected such disaster to occur, due to this, her royal majesty has sent all white horses in search of the beloved child. Nowhere to be found, her linen dresses flickered in fire while the crowd stared in horror. And she was nothing, but a forgotten soul.
Trees were once again clothed in green after the icy blaze of winter. The princess raced through the minty grasses and drank the enchanting smell of lilac, almost like a doe playing in the wild. She felt light as a feather, dancing in joyful exuberance. Other girls joined her below the white sunshine as they twirled and sang. It was the perfect moment to reveal the blind side buried for so many times. The blood that once dripped in the glass of her ill-reflection began to fill the rims of imperfection. Luminescence was so brilliant she had to squint to see.
The brightest crown anyone can wear is to be their true selves. No matter who you were born to, or where you live, despite the obstacles, and consequences. It does not make you less of a person, for you already are complete.
She was not a disgrace. It is still Grace after all.
THIS GRACE…
Aug 11, 2020
Aug 11, 2020 at 6:44 PM UTC
Let’s make out in an art gallery.
Maybe the more I fall into you
and the more you fall into me,
We will become a work of art
and fade into the background.
No one would notice the two lovers
for all they see is art.
Let’s make out in an art gallery and become
our own renaissance painting.
-let's be the art j.j
Sep 20, 2019
Sep 20, 2019 at 12:46 PM UTC
I bolted
this hanger
though steep
as the
cliff to
fly her
planes to
new heights
her hills
of Charlemagne
was renaissance
with the
reign in
just a
freshwater danced
such music
until dawn
Aug 31, 2019
Aug 31, 2019 at 11:50 AM UTC
Loneliness is a sketchwork of pen and ink of iron gall,
Brushed over in brown wash of wood soot from oak,
Disguised then under tempera of golden-ratio of yolk,
Flared over with fiery oils to the smoke-blurred brink, sfumato,
Or pigment of the fresco, a shade of off-life, languid as watercolor,
Or from the too-fondly-felt impasto knife.
But bares its bones in the light-dark cleft of Caravaggio,
With diminutions of death and the storm’s dark imbroglio,
And sunlight as flesh made into soul,
The skin stretched whole around the world.
Each sky is just a sketch
Of loneliness, left unsigned,
By every hand.
Jul 4, 2019
Jul 4, 2019 at 10:11 PM UTC
I probably love the truth
And the Truth is poetic
I propose that poetic lines be banned
Does that sound poetic
Jul 2, 2019
Jul 2, 2019 at 2:44 PM UTC
Venezia, its musical key of brick and shade
And the canals in rejoining polyphony
Sweeten the dour Church-ear.
From the impasto knife and loose brushwork,
A thumb-smear of waves and gently-bristled strife
Rise to assumption of the cloud-submerged bay,
Mural of cristallo, only-light without landscape,
Made too from the winds of Murano,
Its clayed blowpipe of waterways molding
The lagoon of blown glass and bouquet of colored sea-shadows.
The Tiber lies on its side, like the lion and fox,
Licking its paws at empire’s dust,
A drifting gaze of water that already foresees
The swift-run northward to Romagna,
Where the veined fur of the roe will succumb…
A ripple twitches like one dark claw of the Borgia…
The watercolors of the Arno are a fresco
On the wet plaster of the lips of Firenze, Tuscan fire-dream.
Or like the warring leg in curve of counterpoise,
Sprung foot-forward to the daring world
And arm slung down in stone-victory
From this valley, too much like Elah,
With taunting eyes turned from the Medici toward Rome.
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 10:06 AM UTC
she was obsessed with this idea of rebirth because she messed up too many times; she believed everyone deserved a Rennaisance, and it was her vision of the circle yeats drew,
and it was for dreamers who squatted in gutters along alleyways hoping to find a muse fallen and buried in the filth;
and it was for realists who really had fallen and buried themselves in filth because their homes were lower than that;
and it was for addicts, who believed they had really been to the moon and conspired against naysayers;
and it was for conspiracists who knew all along the moon simply didn't exist because they had it manufactured in their kitchen;
and it was for sleeping girls with trembling hands who sought out this kitchen in the night whilst everyone merrily slept;
and it was for the sleeping boy who really wasn't asleep but lying naked under sheets and limbs;
and it was for the tangled limbs that still quivered next to him from a dissolved ecstasy, boyish and sad and hungry;
and it was for that hidden starving hunger that still plagued the neighborhood's homes and lingered on doorsteps, begging;
and it was for begging peals of laughter that his mother sent up from the rooftop when the sky went dark and only her kin across town, reeling, beastly, gorgeous, could ever reply;
and it was for unsent replies, for conscripted soldiers, for wars fought by better men and surveyed by lesser;
and it was for less-than-scrupulous masters who hid under their solemn cathedral art that spoke higher than god himself;
and it was for god who left the world to fend under his illusory cloak of stars, so dim it only mocked his fiery wrath beneath;
and it was for that fiery wrath, the kind that incited and ravaged and devastated, merciless with abandon for all of mankind's own misgivings;
and it was those misgivings that had started her renaissance, her quest for glory cores and sovereign minds, for signs and streets and women and colors and light and the end of all suffering;
it was for restart (like a death, but shorter), somewhere between termination and a genesis in vitro (the liminal space found within and without); for her alone, solitary line cleaving the shadowy folds of time, defiant, windswept, miraculous, insignificant glitch through the eternal night; for her, until she commanded time to stop; for her, hungry; for her, powerful; for her, terrified; for her for her and only ever her: the regifted universe.
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 10:11 PM UTC
A new era of making love
from underneath our bedsheets.
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 12:04 AM UTC
nobody knew how much she’d broken her own heart.
it was cracked to *******
and so much pain she couldn’t bear
her smooth skin painted in tears
salty like the sea
and cold, and unforgiving like dismal melancholia
she walks across the room
tiptoeing like she’s treading on new snow
amanda reaches for the bottle
and drowns in
a saintship made of modern renaissance
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 3:58 PM UTC
if you kiss a statue in the dark,does
it leave a mark?like the moonlight's
cold stain on pale columns of necks and
thinner bones of knuckles,or like the
heavy-handed cracks on thighs and
mine own,leaking gold to match._it's
easy to admit a mistake in the dark_ is
what you say,but marble lips leave
little space for contrition.there's irony
in that,in rennaisance-made lovers who
screamed for dominions and settled in
ash instead.history is adjusted,and the
cycle continues.but they left their jaws
open,and the light is pouring out.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 3:45 PM UTC