My art
for my eyes
is not commodity
cc: CC ‘23
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My art
for my eyes
is not commodity
cc: CC ‘23
I’m tired of searching
for all things
hidden in plain sight,
I’m just trying
to find my way home
They say with a pocket
of keys all things
turn out all right
better than being
in the cold alone
I heat my hands
on a cauldron of lost years,
lies of dreams, visions
of tears
don’t let sunbeams
detour around you,
intercept and receive
their flow
my solar plexus was warm
next to your warm solar plexus,
around your way, around your nexus
of the woods
Where the heavens
about you would
constellate
pulse madly in rhythm
realized over eons
(if one could tap their foot,
thrust their hips,
keep time for so long)
under the vast night sky
with the right pitch of darkness,
I can see you there!
cc: CC ‘23
Morning sun,
I yearn for
a guitar, a
rake, a paintbrush
cc: CC ‘23
We can't... and we shan't! cc: CC '23
The lines of the tree,
never more fluid or
more succinct
cc: CC ‘23
The night is not dark enough,
not yet deepest blue - indigo
enough, to reveal the star field
I envision, too much ambient
light overhead, in the glade,
to allow them glitter
A flag, the world is,
unfurled this night,
the heavens our crest,
to live till we die,
our motto, a cry to rally
this rage against the day,
this birth of light,
as you know, do not go
softly
cc: CC '23
In memory of an old voice once found here (click thru on Impressionism)
who - without light - always precedes genesis afloat, adrift, a thought (perhaps) somewhere unfolds swells crescendos... kaleid- oscopic origami confetti-orgasm everywhere what would be calm now frenzy hot frenetic beginning a new start a lust for stars, for all things celestial eternal inter-planetary wanderer who gets lost around any bend cc: CC '23
It is the morning of
the long shadow,
inordinately lengthened
such that no artist
would ever assert
these values, these
lines, what God
so easily renders
cc: CC ‘23
Nowadays I have more than one
vanishing point, my different
line sets converge
some objects appear
smaller than they are
while others…
perspective does that,
makes things shrink
the farther away they get
till one
ultimately tapers
to a point
below your horizon
is a dark pocket
I gravitate to
concentric circles target it,
cross- hatches shade the surround
clearly evident
though subtle gestures
no line escapes
tracing back to you
cc: CC ‘23
Alphabet City 