I stand, cold.
ice white, lit bright by
delicate light
High above casting
block shadows basking
art in light.
I step front faced with
Monet ahead, to right, gaugin
I stare, Rembrant, clad in
thick frames reflecting
scant expression on the face
of art on art, tête-à-tête
I am wisps of turner set
in stone and city galleries
staring back into the old disease
of oil eyes meeting mine
receding grid tiles on floor, axis legs
axis, human waxes indifferable
from porcelain busts in clear boxes -
bowels of heart and lungs
quivering on canvas, draped
hastily on white walls
Cold light, turned down, reflecting
frame, but not the painting.

From when I was a little child
I picked up on thought and sound
It isn't always visible but it is still around.
It's the talent and the beauty
The poetry of life
You find it in a sonnet
Or the colours of Monet
In Pavarotti's voice
The world just melts away.
Shakespeare's words? They drip like honey
And illuminate the stage
It sends shivers up the spine
What Wordsworth scribbled on a page.
Jules Verne could tell the future
Da Vinci saw what was to be
Their vision shaped the world we know
Now that is great to me.
Does it have a name?
What Rembrant found within his art?
That secret, silent something
That burns within the heart.
As a child Wolfgang Mozart
Drew everybody's gaze
He serenaded Europe
Wrote music to amaze.
Was Bogart such a legend?
Now, don't speak before you think
Not everyone can breathe life into
A person made of ink.
The passion is alive
It lives inside the soul.
When pen is put to paper
Or the bow goes to the string
When that magic is embodied
We hear the angels sing.

Bug Eyes

"Bug Eyes" is what she calls me.
Every time she says it, my heart
Ascends through my throat and
Up into my brain; the way she smiles
Turns my stomach to bubbles, my knees to
Yoghurt - I know I'm strong, but how weak she makes me.

That laugh... how it sounds like a symphony.
How indeed - you call it obnoxious,
Yet you are wrong, not even Mozart or Beethoven compares.

Never have I met a woman like her.
An angel, a goddess, a gold-plated
Muse that inspires art that would draw even the
Envy of Rembrant; Rubens; Michelangelo.

I must have a lucky charm or a
Shooting star - how else could I have nabbed her?

Knees turn to jelly when I kiss her,
Eyes turn to hearts (no matter how much they bug),
Luck isn't what led me to her, what
Led me to her is much rarer than that.
You are a wish upon a star; quite the miracle.

"We forever praise the artists for the paintings
that they display.
The beauty of their work as the brushes dance
while revealing the waves ocean sprays.
A sunset grabs two lovers hearts staring at
the portrait for them to see.
Holding each others hands their minds are suddenly
set free.
Yes, we've had our Da Vinci's, Picasso's, and
Michelangelo's, but without the creation of Canvas,
Rembrant, and Van Gogh would of also been
two lost souls.
Yet, the true artist whom seems to never receive
praise. His creation of HIS earth became HIS Canvas,
and HIS stage.
His immaculate visions of beauty were given
to the earthly artists to see, but as for the paintings, they
were originally God's.
made possible for you, and for me,"