Painting life

Blending the colors just so

creating the perfect shade to suit the soul

adding a little of this

a little of that,

testing to ensure proper hue.

Like life  if applied too heavily

easily thinned out a bit as the hand moves,

delicate curves to add shade and dimension

a little dilution to achieve the effect desired.

To be content in knowing we can go back

correct the mistake gently

easing the lines into a quiet blend

like a sentence spoken through silence,

the perfect specimen found through diligence,

patience and harmony in each stroke

I see this creation like life in its own way,

always changing

like mood that can be softened with the right touch,

as the water moves the mark across the cotton

I see what I feel

was a calm and quiet peace.

Day number two of my watercolor class and I found time disappearing as I lost myself in practicing the techniques taught, creating the perfect shade I wanted and leaving with my mind lost in a quiet place, pondering the sun upon me as I drove away and just enjoying the moment and happy for the lesson. Peace and blessings, K

Shades of gray

Paper mache thoughts
staircase of memory moving in skies of the mind,
he cuts out the stars they say
building his universe piece by piece,
and hanging the brightest
slightly shrouded in mystery
behind a veil of emotion.
Water winds its way through to find
his toes cautiously testing to find
hot or cold
as he leaves the ripples behind
he watches them undulate into
the common answering wave,
as they slip together along the seam
becoming one they move
in and out from source.
He paints to live
in this world of pain,
wracked by unanswered questions,
he knows where his sail is moving
as he coasts along in the playground of mind,
cutting shapes
he puts them together like his worries on a shelf,
one at a time he stares at them all,
knowing it feels like never enough-
he looks for the guiding star he had lost
to find it resting quietly waiting
where he had always left it,
tucked into the heart.

Yellow

I needed to be yellow,

caught in the place between sun and flowers

where the butterflies flit lightly

and care is just a word whispered on air.

I needed to be saffron,

scented addition of things beyond reach,

gathered together like something beautiful

filling the air with want and hunger.

I needed to be the point

where all things meet like sharp petals

reaching into the sky for nourishment,

soaking in the warmth of a new day.

I was dancing in fields of time

nothing meant anything

just the here and now and the reaching,

the endless stretch towards the sky

where I longed to fly like the yellow bird

that returns after the harsh ice of winter abates

and the feeder waiting like a gift

to abate the hunger built

by the endless search

for fulfillment in the movement

from there to here,

returning once more to land

where I began.

Image-Fields of Innocence -Sargam Griffin

One at a time

I counted them all,

slowly savoring the moment in my fear

of not getting to the end,

of leaving one forgotten behind.

This is what had to be done,

seeing the images that left my thoughts jumbled

like graffiti images on walls

wondering whose hand did create,

what pain was felt when the slashes erupted

in spray painted skylines of wonder,

whose soul could feel this deeply

and were they just another number I counted

on infinite hands.

Could I be as he or she,

living in this bottle contained of joy and peace,

carefully sprinkled like stars on the heavens

and dusting the earth with an Oz-like magic,

could I invoke that smile through tears,

when hope seemed like the midnight sky

letting no light in through steeled clouds,

I still counted them all for I could see

behind the curtain there lay

another like me,

and another and like Pi

going on and forward forever without end,

could I too grasp the immense constellation

of this thing we know as love

and acceptance,

and the glow of warmth filled as I asked

and I knew the sensation of falling into it all,

lost in this pillow of a thousand feathers

and buoyed by the collective

of the universe together

holding hands to catch me as I fell.

When there are no words to describe

the flight of a million blackbirds in the sky,

dotting the blue with such beauty

turning the sun into a speckled yellow robins egg,

cracking the sky open as they dive and soar

I stand in awe some days

by these things I’ve seen

and these feelings that drift through,

I count them all,

for they are all so important

to my heart,

to remember

for when I no longer can

I hope to know once upon a time perhaps I had.

 

Watercolor world

Dripping from the palette

this watercolor world slowly blending

into colors of the emotion

coming together in beautiful unison,

an artists touch of thoughts

expressed on parchment weathered,

her life unfolded through her memory

captured and hung

a moment of her life

movement bleeding from pigment.

Changes in hues of yellows to blues

roots grown in deep so strong

yet the sense of floating amidst the falling

and being a part of the view

as the wetness dries becoming

a dash of echoes broken yet together still,

and how I longed to be the hand

that held the portal to create

the majestic find of a universal truth.

Beautiful art: Anna Armona Watercolor Painting

Angels

Who belongs to the hand that carves the angels

into the cold stone of nothingness

beauty created smooth and serene

touched by the gift of ages.

Eyes that see where nothing sits

etched piece by piece from marble

bringing forth the creation of an angel

never meant to fly free.

Does she sit pondering her moments

as those who pass by reach out to touch

her silent face that cannot cry

for remembrance is her gift,

partake upon passing

to never forget who lay at her feet.

Souls without face and only a name

perhaps a year or day

never why they could not stay

but to gift with the angel for the balance

she rests sadly by,

until years pass and no one recalls

why and who,

she will still continue to touch

and inspire images to signify her being,

the gift of those who loved

once upon a time.

For some reason when I saw this image, the song from Annie Lennox kept playing in my head so thought I would share the words that won’t let me rest until I put them out there. One of my favorite songs from her, Youtube it if you’d like. It is beautiful indeed.

“Dying is easy
It’s living that scares me to death
I could be so content
Hearing the sound of your breath

Cold is the color of crystal the snow light
That falls from the heavenly skies
Catch me and let me dive under
For I want to swim in the pools of your eyes”   Annie Lennox-Cold

Artful season

Lights strung from trees

setting magic to the night

moonlit backdrop

perfection of a view.

Ghosts of seasons passed

float in the mind untethered

kites of whimsy

behind a smile in memory.

Tis the artful season all around,

the universe of mirth has come unbound

and reaching out into the soul

singing merrily as it goes.

By morning creatures lay deflated

yet my mood is still elated

’cause I’m in a space of light and love

and nothing more I need ask from above.

An image taken/created by  Alison Belsan of downtown Venice Florida. I asked permission to use and have yet to get a reply, so till I’m asked to take it down, I shall give credit where due for this magical image and share. Busy days working, a bit behind in reading and as you see, writing, but should have some time coming up soon to play catch up. Until then, stay joyful, find peace and sharing love and blessings with you all. ❤ Kim

Ghosts dancing

We move between the words

shimmering images slipping into stories

visualizing ourselves whole again

as we feel each selection

as if it were us.

We are spun like silken threads

woven into each piece of humanity

we are no color discernable

simply apparitions of a form

filtering in as the whisper of the wind

that became one with this dance

feeling the pain of the life we had lost.

We are the dancing of ghosts

heartbeats thundering yet still unheard

it is the passage of time that haunts

the knowing that changes had become

a part of us,

as if it had caught us unaware while we stood

staring at the sun above

never knowing that as we wandered the sentences

we gained body

and could finally be seen once more

at least by the invisible crafter of stories

who must have heard

our midnight cries.

How we danced then in joy,

as we spun through rainbow-colored images

surrounded by kin of the world

and we sang the verse of a thousand worlds

as we moved into each moment,

free in our love of beauty and as we watched

the stars moved past like bullets in the night

as they tore a hole into the sky,

allowing the spirit to join,

to gather us as one,

finally giving us life once more.

Beautiful image by-Steven Fresquez -at Fine Art America

http://fineartamerica.com/profiles/steven-fresquez.html?tab=artwork

Ship of dreams

We graced the clouds like children

traipsing about and skipping over bumps

laughing at the magic of the universe.

How had we forgotten

those moments that slipped in while we lay weary

fighting each moment that tried to steal us away,

not yet ready to sleep we fought so hard,

not realizing that the best was yet to come.

We cast our ships to the sea of stars

lit by the moon we found our way each time,

trying so hard to remember the words,

the stories we lived in those places

and being woken not ready,

not noticing the images slip quickly away

like rabbits startled into the brush

we rubbed our eyes and stepped tiredly from the warmth,

oddly content by a full night of rest

unaware often of where we had travelled

across the cosmos on the grandest adventure,

but now that we are older

we look forward to those moments of escape,

quiet places we slip away to visit

happy to find the calm and peace craved

sailing our ship of dreams

we ride the gentle waves

into a sweet bliss.

Watching

We watch emptiness,

the dried hull of fertile lands

states of a parched world unheralded,

disrepair too far gone.

Dirt blows on winds that never cease,

sucking moisture into nothingness

becoming clouds so very high above,

we cannot touch them

they are not ours any longer.

We add water to the cracks

praying for some growth,

anything to slow the erosion

as helplessly we watch,

hopelessly we know what shall be.

We are the faces that look within for something,

anything that will turn this tide of darkness

and we speak our prayer words to the sky,

asking for relief at any price,

but we had already paid once so long ago

and pockets lay empty like the dirt below us,

our prints the only sign that we had been

until they too

were brushed away on the fickle winds

that carried us into everywhere

and nowhere all at once.

We write the testament to our being

wondering if someday and somewhere someone shall find

the strange inked symbols that will be studied,

will they take heed of the history,

will they laugh that we had been nothing

silly beings who could not stop time

to save themselves,

who could not learn their own lessons

marked hundreds of years ago,

by poor souls that we have now become.