paint

I LIVE ONLY TO PAINT

Folder: 
Poems


I live only to paint.
I am your faithful and loyal servant
whose dreams wash onto my canvas.        
She wakes me each morning
with colors floating inside my head,
dancing with dreams of texture.
I open myself to her,
never knowing where she is taking me.
She pulls me with her magical wand.
While wanting her nakedness exposed,
she kisses my thoughts with ecstasy.

She plays with my heart,
touching my palette with gold and silver,

gifts for a king.
She is my source of everlasting Light
that showers me with images from above.
I take pictures of her in my head
and develop them using my hands.
I work ferociously

to get what I see onto the canvas,
putting all the colors in their proper place.
The painting comes alive.
As this new creation develops,
a meticulous movement of my mind
marches to a melodic symphony

that touches Spirit,

that touches life,

 

that touches love.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

From my book For Vincent and Theo.

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Essence of Art

Poets aren't musicians who can't sing,

Poets are artists who don't need to sing,

They weave words into pages,

Like ice into sculptures.

Words may capture your soul,

Or they may destroy it.

For tell me, if a poem captures your soul

And so does music

Would too much paint not ruin the painting?

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My grandfather´s paintings

My Grandfather´s Paintings


 

Every time we go to my grandfather´s house there they are, all around the place, in every single wall decorating and lighting the house up. I walk down the long hallways, and anywhere that I turn around I can see another beautiful creation. Yes, I am talking about my grandfather´s amazing paintings. You can go into his house every day and you will see a painting that you have never seen before, and that it is even better than the old ones. I just can´t believe how his imagination can take him to so many places and make such beautiful paintings. Almost every time that we go visit him we can see how every single day, hot or cold, sunny or rainy, he sits down in his small white walled office and just paints, paints and paints. There are brushes all over the place; paint splashed on the desk, on the wall and even on the floor, but further from that, there is a masterpiece lying on his desk. My grandfather is not actually a painter, no, he´s an architect, but as soon as he retired he couldn´t leave his passion for drawing, and so he decided to begin painting. Everything in the house is like a timeline, all the paintings organized from the oldest to the newest, from black and white to colorful and full of joy. It all begins at the front door, as soon as you take the first step inside the house the adventure begins. First you can see a complete golf course painted hole by hole, and then you can see a complete and amazing set of beautiful flowers, and further on comes his latest and biggest creation, all of the little towns from the city that he lives in. This last creation was so big that it had to be taken to somewhere else, the white walls of his house just were not enough. So my grandfather took the next big step, he decided to take all his small town paintings and open an art exposition in the city of those towns. So now, you are not just dazzled when you enter the house, you are also amazed when you visit this exposition. The exposition is composed by more than seventy-five paintings and believe it or not he is still working on it. Every weekend he goes and visits a new town, he takes a mental picture of the place, goes back to his house and begins to reproduce it on the paper. My grandfather is really an old man and he has been through a lot of things, losing his wife for instance, but nothing has made him lose his passion and he has always kept strong. 

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Hide - February 21, 2013

Conflict's repitition leads to progression severed;

a life in which the enemy you're no better.

Outrages, rampages, fights beyond any cause

lead to a world in which you're no better off.

 

The only resolution to a problem so unreal

is to find a place where you no longer feel.

The pain of others on your life already cold,

forces you to hide to cover up what you're told.

 

I need to escape from all these lies;

these indescribable pains, all the time..

I need to recover, to get a hold on myself.

I will discover what truth is left at all.

 

I sit alone in the blackness of reason;

a pathetic target for the others to tease on.

I don't want to face the pain of publicity,

but I cannot stand the pain of no honesty.

 

Cover me in paint, lock me in my coffin,

never let me see, let not any light in.

I need to be concealed, need to be away

from the lies, scars, and pains of every day.

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"Carrion"

Folder: 
My Work

Vulture's thirst,
rapier vision.
Grace reversed,
inquisition.
Stoic mass,
contemplating.
Upper class,
salivating.

Lumbering
interruption.
Numbering
deconstruction.
Poisoned weather,
breath is tiring.
Clung together,
mute inquiring.

In formation,
hunger blinds.
Sweet oblation,
blood is wine.
Helpless screams,
rendered faint.
Crimson dreams,
splattered paint.

Jealous treasure,
wounded beast.
Sate your pleasure,
in the feast.

We won't pardon,
those who transgress,
God's special wardens,
when they won't confess.

So can we the guilty,
in His Court today,
deny we're as filthy,
as dark birds of prey?

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Judge not.....

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