Far

There once was a man

On a solitary beach

A man who lost his plan

Life was far above his reach

He was a sad man

All youth gone from his face

Is he a bad man?

Or one who couldn’t keep the pace?

A Superman

Flying through the sky

Indifferent look in his eyes

A Clever disguise

For his heart was crushed

By a damsel in distress

She broke him down

With a soft Caress

So take me far

From the land of the broken

To the place

Where loving words are spoken

**

I want to go there

I walk on the decks, walk down the halls over and over.
Every day.
Some days I called for my family, but I gave that up long a go.
I sit down for dinner but the waiter never comes.
Sometimes I strain my ear for the band but I don't hear them play,
haven't for years.
My slippers wore out long ago and I can't slide my hand along the once smooth railings.
They are rusted and creatures sit crusted on them.
Sometimes I cry and sometimes I close my eyes and listen to the silence.
I don't feel the cold but I know it is cold,
I wish I felt it.
I walk the decks with bare feet, my nightgown grazing my legs.
I gave up on the idea long ago that I am alive...
that I survived.
But why am I the only one who walks the decks of this ship
so far underwater?
...
Ninety two years I have walked the decks, but I am peaceful now, it is my ship, my water. The rust and coral does not hurt my feet.
Maybe I am a part of the sea.


















I don't remember being me....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zgEGVKwURKc

Creative Writing

Art. Artistic expression is very personal. If you want to know someone, to know their passions or desires, look to their art. Find their artistic outlet and study it; the lyrics of a song, the subject in a picture, the style, medium, or subject of a painting, or the story or line in poetry or literature. Looking at a creation, one can find the deepest heart cry of the artist.

I love that writing can be either completely transparent or so complicated it is nearly in code. A successful piece of art conveys some emotion that the writer or artist was feeling at the time, or an emotion they want the audience to feel about their subject. Like a song that makes you cry or want to dance, a line of poetry that brings laughter or quiet to a room, a painting that takes your breath away and you can’t think of why.

I was looking at a color stain painting. It was just color, that was all. As I looked at the splotches and squares of color, warmth flowed over me. The artist was able to share his feelings with me without a word or even a clear picture. I have never seen or met the artist and he was able to share an emotion, a feeling with me.

In that lies the amazing power of art. Sometimes the content of a poem has nothing to do with the way it makes you feel when you read it. The tone conflicts with the words as if the writer was conflicted and confused and they expressed it onto paper.

It never ceases to astound me. There I am, feeling what they felt years later and miles apart from them. Sometimes the feeling is so subtle that you only vaguely notice, other times it fully pierces your consciousness and you are rushed by a passion that was in the hand of the artist as they created.

            In the immortal words of Picasso, “Everyone wants to understand art. Why not try to understand the song of a bird? Why does one love the night, flowers, everything around one, without trying to understand them?" Why try to understand art? Art is to be felt, not understood. It is wonderful to be an artist, because, by creating something, a song, a painting, a poem, a sculpture, I am sharing myself. I am taking an inexpressible emotion and releasing it into the air. 

            Writing is an art form. With it you can do with words what artists do visually. This is what draws me so much to creative writing. It is the words part of the art work. Being an artist sometimes a story will come from my art and sometimes my art comes from a story. So my writing and my art go hand in hand. From this comes my passion for writing that nearly rivals my passion for drawing. 

"I'm Nobody" Says Emily Dickenson..

Oh to be nobody would be to be free
to travel through the air light as dust
To dance along with swaying grass

To be nobody I could truly see
life as it is, life as it must
I would forget the past

I wouldn't compare myself with thee
I could flit and thrust
unseen, uncast

Close my eyes I cease to be
Nothingness cannot rust
Nothingness cannot pass

So I will be nothing and you will be so
I'll dissappear and you will grow
I will not care for I will not think
I'll walk on the water but will not sink

I am nothing-you can't see me
for I will forever cease to be

On A Dare

Guy sits next to girl who was sitting alone.
Guy: "Hi."
Girl: "Hm."
Guy: "I'm Scott"
Girl: "I'm gay."
Scott: "Me too..that's a relief, my friends over there dared me to ask you out."
Girl: "I surprisingly don't hate you for that. My name is Tinka. So..do you get extra props if I say yes?"
Scott: "I don't know, I think maybe they'll all owe me a beer."
Tinka: "If I say yes, will you share those beers with me? And I mean the good stuff, no cheap crap."
Scott: "I guess you should be entitled to that. Am I allowed to ask you about your name? Is it short for something?"
Tinka: "Only if I'm allowed to ask about yours. Is it short for Scottish?"
Scott: "..."
Tinka: "That was a joke... A stupid one apparently. My name is just Tinka, it's not short for anything. It's just my name. My parents have a weird sense of humor."
Scott: "My name is Scott, short for Scotterson."
Tinka: "..."
Scott: "Not funny?"
Tinka: "A little. So where will be go on our alleged date?"
Scott: "Somewhere with a good beer selection and really good burgers."
Tinka: "I like the sound of this..will there also be good desserts?"
Scott: "Most definitely good desserts."
Tinka: "I'm there. Here's my phone number..and..I'm not gay."
Scott: "Huh. Me neither."

One fresh day in May

It's that kind of day when you're so weary that it feels like you've forgotten how to smile. You skipped your morning stimulant in your hurry to be prompt to that job you don't care about. Your eye lids are beginning to feel as though weights are attached. Your herculean effort to keep them glued to the computer screen is failing fast.
Susan Hindle just came into your work space and started talking about her cat that has the intelligence of a person and you're beginning to think you preferred the quiet hypnotic clicking of your mouse.
The battle of the eyelids is nearly coming to a close..literally.
"Susan," you interupt, eyes snapping open, "Susan, oh my god, your cat story just reminded me that I left my garage door open!"
"Oh Susan, I have to check on my cat! What if he's in danger!"
Susan is touched.
"I..I didn't think you had a cat, Mike.." replies Susan breathily. Susan is flustered. Susan has a crush.
"Mike, go..check on your cat! I'll cover for you." she relplies.
You take her hands and look into her eyes magnified behind thick glasses, "Susan, thank you."

You are driving with the windows down, a complacent smile on your face. You're almost home, where your empty house and tightly sealed garage is waiting and in that garage is your hammock that is just begging to be set up for the first time this summer.
This is a good day and you find yourself thinking, "maybe getting a cat wouldn't be such a bad idea..."

For Art's Sake

He came into the café where I worked every day at 2pm. Every day at 2pm he drank a cup of coffee. Black and it must have been cold, for he sat with his back to the counter, staring through the window. Staring out the window for a half an hour at least before taking a sip. And then he would draw on napkins, ten at least, sipping his coffee as if he were taking a drag on a much needed cigarette. Day after day, and not much was said. It was nice when he came, like routine. I looked forward to his long mess of dark curls and somber brown eyes, nothing particularly attractive, but I liked something about him. It was the day he had a fire in his eyes that I started to notice. The day he drank his coffee hot and blinked nearly not at all.

Cup in both hands, shoulders hunched, sipping.

He finished the cup and took my hand, paying for the cup with a tip too.

He did not say a word.

He just grinned and looked into my eyes, my cheeks mirrored the fire in his eyes.

Then I started to notice.

I noticed when he was gone. His normal chair would draw my eyes as if it were covered with blinking neon lights with music.

He skipped a day and he seemed different.

He skipped two days and seemed paler somehow.

Then he came and his hair was shaved.

Then the circles beneath his eyes looked as if they would swallow his brown eyes.

One more day, he came in, thin and muttering.

I was afraid, I didn’t want to look at him anymore.

All I heard him say was “turned to brown. Masterpiece, but it’s all brown.”

Then I saw the ambulance and police cars, and his pale thin body rolled out on a stretcher.

I guess the day he tipped me was the day he went mad.

The day he decided to use his blood for paint.

The day he made paint brushes from his long dark hair.

The day he died, he must have run out of paint.

The paint turned brown, and he just couldn’t keep it alive.

So at 2pm, I take my break and drink a cup of coffee, cold, and look out the window.

I don’t know if he was from this city, or this country, or what his name was. He never said much of anything.

I don’t look out the window to find out why he did it.

Not to go mad like they say he did.

Every day at two I think of a man I never knew. Every day at two I remember a person that others may forget or never know, filling the chair that was once filled by him. I look out the window and doodle on napkins drinking my cold black cup of coffee; not to go mad like he.

But for his sake.

For art’s sake.

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/aravis121/