"picaso" poems
When I was younger,
I wanted to be an artist.
I aspired to be someone
who made a difference,
like
Picaso or Vincent Van Gogh.
Someone who was remembered.
So like every little kid who has a dream,
I pursued it.
Saving up all the allowence I earned
In just 3 weeks
I had a total of $12.80.
Enough to fund the dream of a child.
I realized,
I loved drawing.
From the minute I picked up my
$2.50 pencil,
I knew my dream was going to come true;
Even if it started with doodles...
of flowers and stick people.
So eventually I grew up and I gave up that dream
of being an artist that makes a difference.
I gave up,
because I couldn't master drawing the perfect person.
I couldn't draw
how the persons eyes shinned when they saw the love of their life,
I couldn't capture
the beauty in the young girls smile
as she ran through the field of daisys towards her father,
who was coming home from war.
I realized that you can't capture the beauty and the memories
that someone holds
with a dream and a $2.50 pencil.
drawing // a.s.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
His heart was kept in a babooshka-doll
that released memory smells
with every layer that eroded.
The wooden fences faded
to damp brick in the corner
of his head reserved for the harmonica
that played through the microphone
in his neck till the sound got lodged
in his maudlin march
that had him running like he
was angry at the road.
His Echostep
vibrating in
the kremlin skin
and marrionette heart strings
that kept him.... him.
Despite broken wings
he made the air around him dance
with the resonance of each
broken crystal ball shard used
to predict the past.
Each chime raised a mountain,
folding back on itself
hoping the hallucination would end,
till tired hands
batted away golden hawks.
With rocks for claws.
It was all the fights with the wind
that had the clouds leaving the moon's
Picaso skies,
and sailing towards him on warships of
rain and frozen effigies.
They arrived, astronauts
from outer space
burning from the lips
outwards revealing grey
intent and red mists.
He fought back with false start
epiphanies and the falsetto
prophecies that stung the air
with pitch raining down.
Leaving bare branches where once
green hands applauded
everything but empty air,
like listless typewriters furiously
trying to find their voices.
Feirce winds and fake faces
left blinking with closed eyes
in the vastness of battlefield.
Turning stomaches and
blank canvas whirlpools,
storms of anti-peace
scarring the last conquests
of the flightless ape lizard,
and all his gorilla warfare.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 4:23 PM UTC
Josteen Yazzi said the Critic should ask his thought
on the matter of great art and literature
What do you know of art and literature, Uncle?
Nothing, he said, I think about what I do not know.
I do not know why people don't like Norman Rockwell.
Norman Rockwell painted the American Dream,
with Indians in it, some times.
I like Norman Rockwell because I know how he felt.
I saw my people live in a good world that vanished.
Magic or other wise, I remember mine,
the way
when I see
Mr. Rockwell's America as he imagined
he had seen it.
Or maybe he painted
what you should have been able to see,
but for wars and Spanish Flu and cattle barons
and reaping machines and steam and electricity.
Olaf Wieghorst coulda painted America ugly, too.
But he didn't.
Literature. I have nothing left to say, Norman Rockwell, maybe he needed a mentioning for some
reader anchored reason.
We have to deal with that more these days.
People with big old dish antennae out there,
rusting after Direct TV got a satellite to see the res,
Some o'the kids build a radio telescope, outa them three meter models,
so we are connected.
Norman Rockwell painted the Peaceful Kingdom,
just like Mr. Hicks and Mr. Kincaid,
not mr klee or mr picaso, they could image hell.
My ma liked That drippy guy, said she could see the swing of things in he's paintings, What's-isname,
Jackson, damshame, Jackson Pollak right?
but the message is in the medium, that's what my Shicheii yoosto say. Art must sing.
So I can play my drum. And she can dance.
When we think nothing about it.
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 8:45 PM UTC
Im held to the ground by my imperfections. Dodging bullets thrown by those in need of correction. Understanding that life is filled with much uncertainty, acting only on the knowledge that I am most certainly free. Held to my actions and words by the thought of perfection, being only that which determins selections. Into a realm by which the humble are seeking, gained only by those whose words are worth speaking. Determined by a world whose ear seem cut off and closed, and unwilling to listen to that which they are opposed. But truth can be heard by the hearts of the few, whose minds are filled with possibilities anew. Whos lives are practice in the faith of whats real, but whos minds are not blinded to what true beauty can reveal. Because truth doesnt come through trial and error, truth comes from understanding that we are all rare. Held together by a contract of emotions and deeds, that defines us as a society with real human needs. To be loved and accepted, held and adored. To act on these wishes and hope to find reward. Because when the reaper comes to collect on our debt, we are all going to wish to wake in a cold sweat. To find more presious time, in our running hour glass. To hold on to each grain and not let it pass. Without cherishing the moment and giving it our heart. Without telling those we love, they are a work of art. Painted by the Picaso of the ground that we walk. Whos motives no one will ever unlock. But disagree on forever, untill the end of time we will. And break our human contract with the blood that we spill. Of our bothers and sisters who feel just the same, as the men and women who share our last name. So read me your books and give me your shame. For logic is my shepard for this world i look to tame. For i hold in my heart a truth unknown. One not found in a book or scripture alone. Or known by those who try to speak fear, through a book whose hypocricy is well too clear. One only found when you see a mans true soul, and realize 'that is all i need to know.' To stare at the only perfection this world will ever know, and hold him in the same regards as winters first snow. Or summers true spirit, or falls pure brilliance. Or when the sea meets a rocks true resiliance. Imperfection may hold me firm to the ground, but my spirits true beauty holds no bounds. And when the world can see one another through each others eyes, then humanities posibilities will break all its ties. Will be stripped of its shackles and free of its chains. Will be free of its stife and know no pain. And we as a beautify creation of perfection itself, will finally find peace in oneself.
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 10:19 PM UTC
There is no truth, there is no lie
Just a mind making up
Everything that goes by
You can shimmer,and shine
And climb high
On cloud number nine
Mirrors and smoke, horrors and hope
Mind making up
Everything that goes by
If you don’t like the movie have a glass of wine
It’s mind making up
Everything that goes by
Picaso’s paintings may make you cry
Mind making up
Everything that goes by
When we look into a mirror
There’s nobody there
Still we stop
We stop and we stare
Sean Hunt Windermere
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 5:10 AM UTC