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Posts Tagged ‘dust’

Pensive as I was in this lazy afternoon.  Looking out in the window and the hazy light filtered through. Sending dust like a strobe of crystals. I stared. Just stared for the longest time.

The muse didn’t come as I expected.  Like an acrylic tube on the verge of squeezing out  of its contents, I just stared coldly. Nothing spectacular. The portrait on this blank canvas are just collections of imaginary lines and some vague illusions on my mind. And build a colony of dots. Like Van Gogh.

I could paint of scribblings out of nothingness. And my thoughts wander  into wide spaces. And wanders still. I see only spatters of red, black and white against this concrete grayness. Of anger splashing buckets of paint into surface. Like Pollack. 

I could paint the sky blue if I want to.  I can make the leaves of the trees rustle and sway with the winds.  I can make a brook  serenely flow through underneath a little wooden bridge. I can make distant hills fade into indigo. Like Monet.

I could paint a man without a face. And apples falling like raindrops. And doves flying.  The tragedy, the pessimism and idiosyncrasy of a human being. And a dark world encapsuled into an umbrella, black and mysterious. Like Magritte.

I could paint a typewriter with keypads of pain. And some melted clocks. Of swans reflecting elephants. And the gory details of death. Of treachery of reason. Of denouncing fascism. And bizarre existence of realities.  Like Dali.

I could use color yellow and orange interspersed with black squares, sharp angles, cubes and rectilinear forms in human subjects. Of some gothic revivals. Of somber shades of blue and blue green. I can use pink painted into some circus scenes. Of collages with pieces of everyday things. Like Picasso.

The brush is waiting to be lifted.  The easel is upright and ready.  The mixing palette is parched. The canvas is already stretched out to its frame. The sketchbook is laden with unfinished illustrations and  images, waiting to come alive. Where freedom is knocking on this soul’s threshold. 

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I prepared a meal tonight

for two-

 

forgive me

If I burn the dinner.

Just don’t know how

to hold the pan.

 

I wage a battle.

And I am afraid

of the flames,

and the sound

of the oil

furiously

expelling water.

 

I waited for you

till two-

 

forgive me

If that is all I have to do.

Just don’t know how

to hold your time.

 

I braved through agony.

And I am afraid

of the thoughts,

and the images

of the empty plate

silently

collecting dust.

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Crisp sounds of the crushing snow

chills sensation to the eager toes.

with ice castles and the snowman

lovingly smile at this skiing yard.

 

Pieces of white cloud softly fall

Like angel’s hair in a divine show

Frost filled in the ivory horizon

A postcard captured joy of seasons.

 

Sweet embrace of the midnight sun,

Misty air swirls in magical swarms

Like a tapestry the ice lovingly drapes

This once nostalgic landscape.

 

The icicles hang on the limpid branch

Where its palms canopied phalanx

Of towering giants among the forest

freezing its once watery flesh.

                    

Greenery lost in this wintry shade

bathed  in milky whitened frail

fingers shimmering, glittering

showering dust of creamy dreams.

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