art

Sketches

My sketchbook is my life
    small pieces
large drawings
                     thirty seconds
    to twenty minutes
sometimes they require
much more time
          days and weeks.
Each is special
          each is unique
some I love
          some I hate.
Copies and reworks
    pepper the pages.
Expression of
         life through art.
My life.
         My sketchbook.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 4/19/09.  April Challenge Day 11: About an Object.

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Sweetest Dream

Folder: 
Just a thought!

Sweetest Dream

Today, I ventured the untaken path, never before, having the courage to go this way!
The voices, unfamiliar to me, their names, None recognizable by sight.
Only one, having resemblance to my own, I dared, a fruitful encounter!
Sharing a common bond, I was invited to see her treasures!
I deemed myself, not worthy of the beauty before me!
Listless, lifeless, hypnotized by this, "Angel of Mercy,"
I stared into oblivion...
Time, not a thought, as the hours sped away. Truly captivated, and awe struck by this creation, my chest palpitating, my soul, Quivering with delight!
Her face, smoothed by fine lines... Sensuous brush strokes,
Divulging her innocents, Arcturus eyes, steeling my heart!
My eyes welling up now, while this single essence of a mesmerized
Thought, spilled out from my lid.
Senses heightened, through this glorious embrace, I hear the droplet as it makes a splat, on the paper in front of me!
I am truly blessed, and will cherish her loveliness,
Till the end of my days!

                                           by Barry Anderson

Author's Notes/Comments: 

'Inspired by a person, who sent me a picture of an Angel she had drawn!"

"The Divide Between"

Folder: 
Tributes

by Jeph Johnson

 

Crossing the creek the evening of September 21st
Impressed with the sunset and holding hands for the second time in as many days!

 

Marveling at the magnificent and Portland had many,
but I went outside the city to entertain the image of our lips embracing.  

 

Even a cheek would suffice tonight, September 21st.

 

An orange fireball bounced on the horizon, rebounding harvest moon.

 

Canadian Geese and molting Mallards continued hacking and quonking.

 

Soon, I thought, as the creaky country skywalk swayed with the Gorge winds.

 

Her loveliness spanned both banks.  I trembled too.  

 

Props were in place for fulfillment.
Props were in place for failure.

 

Romance and suicide share side-by-side the middle of a bridge.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Inspired by the painting "The Scream"  by Edvard Munch, 2004

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My Poem

Folder: 
Volume One

 
 
 

~~)(~~

My Poem”

 

 

 

I keep Slipping, Falling down

It's hard to keep going, when everything wants you to quit

my heart, my emotions were your advocate.

Every poem I write

takes me even further away from the light

bleeding my soul into the paper

Hoping it would make me feel that much safer

 

 

"This is my poem

this is what I'm all about

suffering from a major drought

Writing to just get it out

What is all this for

through all my riches, down to being poor"

 

 

Every poem I write, Every song I sing

takes me back to the beginning

sitting there hurting, wanting to vent

how fucked that this world is bent

 

 

"This is my poem

this is what I'm all about

suffering from a major drought

writing to just get it out

What is all this for

through all my riches, down to being poor"

 

 

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

(Updated; From Psycho- Confessions)

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My Art

Folder: 
Volume One


 

 

 

~~)(~~

My Art”

 

The Pain becomes my words

The knife is my pen

and my body the canvas

my sedative is my Cannabis

and everything else is just material

A life so unreal, to numb to feel.

Murdered before I was born

pray to god my heart was torn

why is self-mutilation so taboo?

the sky is not always fucking blue

I write what I feel, and I cut to heal

this is my Art

A picture of the moment

A picture of the torment

The pain will always be there

weather on paper or not

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

(Updated; From Psycho- Confessions)

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"Artistic"

by Jeph Johnson


She is art

too pretty to touch.
too smart
too dumb
too little
too much.


She is art

and all I want
is to appreciate. 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

circa 2000 

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