#van
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
*And whatever happened
To Tuesday and so slow*?
Van Morrison’67
~~~
in the young days and nights
of a youthful summer,
Van’s Brown EyedGirl
played endless on the transistor radio
the dry heat was endless just as well,
and the slow was just the way the
time was counted, when it was counted,
which wasn’t too often
was 17 years of age with no cares,
worries did not exist, ‘cept when I dreamed and conspired inside
how I was gonna get that blue eyed blonde devil temptress
to kiss me
before the new school year commenced
at the quarry where we all went swimming,
the music asking questions,
that nobody knew how to answer,
whatever happened to Tuesday,
and so slow,
so slow, we never knew what the name of the day was,
no reason to check the farm implements & hardware store calendar,
or to X off any day special,
for there was no such thing
No, never got to kiss her,
left the so slow,
me and a buddy. took a rebuilt junker and set out for Cali,
where the girls,
where the beautiful girls, just surfed and smiled,
and the nighttime beach parties went on
till the when the last person left so quiet
not sure how,
ended up,
in Seattle & Oregon,
where met I my brown eyed girl
whose car was over heating, steaming on a coastal highway,
on a Tuesday,
and it was no longer slow,
it was treasured fast and a whirlwind blast,
and
that was 2025 - 1968, so 57 eons,
nowadays, know what the name of every day is,
where I’ll be and for how long,
but truth be told,
in my happy moments
if you asked,
could not tell
the day, the time,
when the brown eyed girl and I
smile into each other’s eyes,
and so slow
is the sweetness of our lives,
Dec 13, 2025
Dec 13, 2025 at 1:26 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
In a town where gulls call over foam kissed stone,
Where sea salt grief clings to wood and bone,
Stood a hotel twenty three rooms small
A place where secrets crawled the walls.
It’s wallpaper was floral and faded red,
While whispers rose up from the unmade bed.
The year was nineteen forty seven
And she’d never know he was on his way with a vengeance
He wore a hat pulled low to hide
Eyes like storms, deep and wide.
Her name was still a song he wept
A curse he caressed a prayer half said
His love had been a ship at war
Cannons blazing towards the shore,
But her leaving? That was the gale
A wind so cruel it split his sail.
Hatred now was fuel to flame,
Drinking down whiskey
And forgetting his shame.
He climbed the stairs with measured tread
Knowing the ninth room housed her lover’s bed.
Opening the door was like splitting a scar
Inside lingered her perfume, the sounds of light jazz, the scent of cigars.
“Don’t” she cried out, but he did not hear.
The sound of revenge pounding in his ears
He pulled the steel from a coat lined dark
A love burned hand, a flint struck spark.
One shot - like thunder cracked in two,
She fell like a wave the sea once knew
The floorboards wept where she now slept
Where evil came to lay her to rest.
He left her there eyes full of dread
Hate on his lips and blood on the bed.
A man who loved like storms love the coasts
Broken down by revenge is now haunted by her ghost.
May 23, 2025
May 23, 2025 at 11:59 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
i hear your waltz, dear bird.
the soliloquy,
the melodies that pull at the strings holding what’s left
of my heart evermore.
i listen, to the shuffle of your ruffled feathers,
your light feet
dance to the creak of hardwood.
a sonical prison.
as this intrepid cell guard is
fueled by my schizophrenia,
and van gogh like delusions.
none of grandeur.
so here are my ears, one sliced from reality,
the other searching for its vibrations.
each majestic, and just as much
consequentially miserable, piano strike
marks a new set of steps for you.
and although i no longer feel,
nor see, i still hear exactly how you carry yourself.
and from that i draw insane conclusions.
from there, upon just listening,
i can imagine what your ****** expressions are like,
and from your laugh as you dwindle around this penitentiary
like a loose branch amongst gusts of wind
i can tell you’re free.
free to fly. free to feast.
free to find a new mate.
free to watch the world burn
from a bird's eye view.
just as we used to do.
free at last, most importantly from us,
more specifically from me.
and although i no longer
feel, nor see.
i still hear exactly how happy you are.
and that isn’t the most heart shattering aspect of our ordeal,
or should i say, my ordeal, to live with, alone.
because the part that really allows me to carefully and diligently pluck single strands of hair from my head as if i could somehow string out the memory of you out from my infinite depths,
is the fact that i can hear, clear as day,
another bird’s chirp,
another bird’s laugh,
another set of feet, on this waltz you’re on.
and when i say heart shattering,
i hope you hear it break, as the sounds of it
reverbs across this room’s vast loneliness.
oh, where are my van gohg like delusions now?
i’ll continue my search, since now i fully know that
you’re just gone. with the wind.
fly, my dear. and leave me, here.
to die amongst your waltz.
-melancholicreator
Feb 22, 2024
Feb 22, 2024 at 7:26 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
“Whatever happened to Tuesday and so slow?” ^ or
Absolute Absolution
<>
the slow Tuesday fragrance fills the nostrils,
Van Morrison in my earbuds, reminding that
“This Must Be What Paradise Is Like!
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here…”
Sea salt spray spicy sauces the atmosphere,
Many boats, some silent, noisy too, transverse the eyelids,
entertainment of the vista, decorating time’s motionless motion
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here…
the voluble hush, delightfully confuses mes sensories,
noisy cacophony orchestral avians, waves, and a human voice,
punctuate the music, absolute absolution of mes sensoriels
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here…
Indeed, it is a Tuesday, and the slow of the surround sound,
vanilla spotted with rainbow sprinkling of the noise of life,
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here…,
so full, so rich,
so vast the strands of colored variegated, perpetual motionlless
moves me to tears, steals my emotional refuse,
I too,
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here…inside of me…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~—————-~~~~
(1) Lyric from Brown Eyed Girl, Van Morrison
Nov 6, 2023
Nov 6, 2023 at 3:47 PM UTC
She ran a boarding house in Boston,
But they used her size to terrorize men
And lead them to the lock-holes.
Or was she a lady clad in black ruffles,
Presented to the Queen in 1844?
Perhaps she was a racehorse
Foaled in Harlem and won a prize.
She had peddled drugs and run a gang
In the chaos of Civil War,
Black Mariah escaped from the darkness
Of Edison’s studio to roam the world,
But in it found herself re-imagined.
They named police wagons after her
It’s said, but no one knows the truth.
Did she cross the battle lines again,
To tread on civil rights?
Or swing the batons in Chicago
And fire rifles at Kent State?
She seems to take time out to charm
Gruff-voiced men who sing her praise.
She prowled the streets of Brixton,
In 1983, with truncheons at her side.
Through gas clouds, dragging men to jail.
Black Mariah is with us still,
Helping to create tyrants and traitors,
To stop the mouths of those who defy
She’s an accessory to the killing.
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 7:09 PM UTC
Jou koffie moer broer
said the colloniser of Jan's brew
Apr 6, 2023
Apr 6, 2023 at 3:39 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
***These are the endless days of endlessness
These are the days, when time is just present
There is a disbelieved past, a future unimaginable
Here is the only now, a permanent-present-tensing-participle***
*Faces smiling semi-graciously present, desperately seeking coaxing
The winter dark, living room occasional lit by one, mostly TV glow
Radiance lives inside only, but well remembered songs cause
Cry outs for who, the what, the needed, we’ve forcibly memorized*
*Observing winter’s river from kitchen window, it’s colored
Dirty-dusk-blue, like my eyes, add overlaying images of sparkles
But my magic not powerful, my love can’t see them
My bag-o-tricks can’t bring her sunshine, 2020 sorcerer’s gold*
*These are the days of endless dancing alone,
Longest walk from bed to kitchen, worn the weary wood shiny
True romancing still abounds, but so well hid, 99% invisible
Even when you ask without asking to be held oh-so-tight*
*These are the days, riverside, when slow flowing waters offer
No hinting of faraway treasures to be someday discovered
The magician vain struggles to find loving tricks to unlock
Her loving grace, her water-to-wine breathing demeanor*
**These are the days, that forever need remembering, saving
No savoring, the absence of joyous everyone, everywhere
These are the days of absence+abstinence that lasted forever
You've got to hold them in your forever heart, lest we forget**
Dec 8, 2020
Dec 8, 2020 at 9:14 AM 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