like tears in the rain.

Just a little fall of the sleep that settles upon me like the onset of the night chills
that comes creeping along the edge of my dreams and then slips away
I drowse as my mouse crawls across page after page as if there was a decision
to search rather than the sudden need to just browse. Always looking for something
more than the nothing I feel at this time of night, did I get it right? Did I get it right?

Just like the last time I was touched and with the sudden pressure I felt the rush
of fingertips warm against my back, my mind going back to the thrill to the chills I felt
with the accidental contact of her soft skin- my fingers would brush, then like
maddening  moments that my heart would thrum and by blood would drum until
like plucked feathers falling in dizzying swirls- I would remember that nothing else
could ever make me react to an equation that quantified no answer, no distance,
no resolution, no sum.

Just like the impressions that are left on the piano that sits in my mother's house un-played
I wanted so desperately for that moment to have stayed that somehow there could be
have been something more than the lives that I have wanted to live and since have
found out from where and whence I have strayed. This is not all that it could have been
it's not all I wanted to say or sing or feel like that moment from out of the clouds when
the sun showered down light upon the forest and the openness of the glen as my
train sped by the point that my words would have held no meaning save that they would only
echoes my fears and my tears as the years have traveled on and the light fades now into
what is left like this empty page, a moment of reflection that truly just shows my age

Just like the song that comes in to my mind and the cries that my heart makes when
I remember what she looked like in the gentle fall of the summer rain- I wonder
again if it  wasn't a dream or another song that was sung when I felt so low as to
write down the methods of what I have hoped would seed, would grow. There I found
it and lost it like falling off the trail, left somewhere far behind and now I sit here in the dark
and weep for all that I have left in my mind.

tears in the rain by 14-bis

Crows (Art-Poetry-Art)

Change by Marie Stone van Vuuren

Nine crows flew away into the fading sunlight,
I watched them take wing, reeling around in the sky
they fled in opposite directions flapping with all
their collective might.

Three flew away into what must have been the west
their wings were flecked with yellow bits of sunlight
there was drops of red upon their ebony breasts.
I looked down and what should I see
but one of those crows considering me.
I nodded in thanks with proffered solemnity
He clucked his remorse:
"There were some crumbs, but no tea."

Three took wing on the winds for the far east
their eyes sparkled with mischievous glee
they sang as one, none in tune to say the least
I looked around and there he was still staring
this self same bird, his accusation still flaring
I tried to mumble out my apology
He croaked his contempt as if to say:
"A few miserable crumbs and not tea?"

Three rose in the updraft, two went into the north
the last turned back to head off towards the south
All this I have witnessed just as I have put forth
yet when I sat down to contemplate my day
I find the last crow- cup in hand, with more to say
He interrupted my erstwhile reverie
He caws his complaint:
"Only the crumbs and no intention of tea!"

What have you learned? This crow says to me
I reply that I saw nine birds I saw to be.
the crow cocks his head at me mockingly
there were never more than three
that is all we needed for the crumpets to
share with the tea.


This is the second installment in the Art-Poetry-Art project
This time I started by selecting a painting my Marie Stone van Vuuren.
you can find her art at Marie Stone Art

There are birds in Paradise (for Julia)

Sun Conure by Julia Patterson

It was like walking out into the morning light, 
it was like finding the rays filtering down from the tree's own height
it was like finding that first song cawed in warbling word
from the branches above where I stood peering
into the gloom for some glimpse of the illustrious bird!

It was like finding the sun where one expects to find only the moon
it was like a spray of color, it was there and gone only too soon
It was there one moment and then gone the next
I write the words and still don't believe my own text.
A few seconds of brilliance then wings taking flight
like the splendors of a rainbow fading away from sight.

It was like awakening in the midst of a flower filled room
away from the dreams, away from the midnight's gloom
and then I feel the warmth of this illusion 
a reluctant retreating foreboding confusion.
Was it the touch of feathery fingers across the shallow of my skin
or some distant memory that I remembered once again?

I remember her words as if the brushstrokes were made to be mine
in all those years since we were together under the impressions of her line
was it one note of the music that we shared 
was it that we just didn't know enough to even have cared
for the treasures between us, a dimming glory, something that no longer will suffice
this is all I recall then. There are such birds in Paradise.




This is a Art Poetry Art Post.

Valentine's Day Cliche

It's often been said that roses are red
and violets are blue and that is the reason
that I am supposed to be in love with you.
Why has everything that we have to say
about love come down to this particular moment
that it has to be summed up on one lousy day?

You know how I met your mother?
No, well it wasn't on the sidelines of
the football game- that's where Aunt Jen
met my older brother.
No, it wasn't in Paris on the Seine
nor was it that moment I stood outside
her apartment in the February rain.

There are so many many songs about the
funny thing we call love, silly lyrics made
to rhyme misplaced words with that one above.
Why must we be driven to such maddening ends
about one emotion that hardly determines
much more than it supposedly portends.

You know how I met your father?
No? Well it wasn't that night in the park
and it wasn't when he and his brothers
went out sneaking in the dark.
No, it was in New York in the spring
never been barefoot in Central Park
that was your Aunt Jen's kind of thing.

There are movies that think that the most
romance that can be presented to the adoring
audiences is to sell them all on the idea that
its about some random chance.
That themes of passion can always and
forever fresh and new.
so let's rehash old plots and continue to
lie about all the ideals that Valentine's day
swears are still true.

You know how I met the girl of my dreams?
You're funny, no it wasn't when I spilled my
latte and the coffee shop was filled with
her angry screams.
You know how I met the boy that changed
my life? No, that was when your Uncle Bill
ran into (not over) Aunt Jen, his current wife.

Happy Valentine's Day
all you lovers, sisters and brothers
fathers, uncles, cousins and aunts
Jen included, thanks to her, that was
how I eventually met your mother!

Rhyme, rap and a reason

Words...
words are like weapons loaded with meaning- can be delivered like screaming
missives of major destruction to the unsuspecting masses in rapid lines like 
synonyms streaming out from the pen to the ears in lightning repetitious time.
What did I say, to make you go away, I only wanted you to stay, from the end
of my sentence to the breaking of the night into day.

I sputter then utter in melancholic mumbling the reasons that I need to 
explain the multitudes of the my meanings, while still managing to find the
breath, get out of my depth, escape the terminal boredom that is death
to the word rapping rhyming I am doing like metric thumping as the keys
on my keyboard keep jumping as letters form words until the fixation
becomes some mass medium modifying the moods across the nation.

Words are my party, I came to get down
words are my party,  I came to take this town.

Rapid rhyming when it works is subliming the adverse use of verse
life so many sentences, it takes some patience to rehearse
shall I keep count, is it necessary to know the amount of words
or syllables so that I can convey the urgency of this my insurgency
upon the senses or the needs of the multitudes morality
over the questions questioning the fatality of mortality.

Words are my passion, I came to throw them down
words are my passion, I came to take this town.

Do we even want to have a reason to get down?
can't it just be the cause of gaining such momentum
as rhyming it with a word like renown?
words are my passion, I came here to get down
I came to take this to the next level
I came to shake the house, I came to revel
in the dance of letters, the method of words
it's all a little strange, its pretty absurd

Words are like metaphors, I came to write them down
words are like analogies, I  am the verb, you- the noun.

Think of it like a "thesauric" form of teasing
there is always a rhyme, rap and a reason.

This is a repost but with the Art Poetry Art update. What is Lost,

Painting by Julia Patterson. 

 What is Lost...

It's sometime in the morning, somewhere before the dawn

breaks into the twilight that comes after the moon

passes from the cloudy skies obscuring the stars

that were there before I went to sleep knowing that

there would be something I had lost when the light

comes creeping into my bedroom and I can still

stand the empty sheets

the place where you would have slept, 

the fears that you could have kept 

the moments of doubt that were left

are all I have now here bereft of 

my tears like echoes of "I love yous".

It's like memories of a relationship in my dreams

falling soft like feathers fluttering through my mind

like the words that fall from my lips like drops of rain

meanings without implications, desires midst the need

that you wanted from me and were lost when I stopped

trying to fight from the minute that is all I have left 

to blame in the end

All the ink and all the paper on the table

all the justifications, all reasons to enable

all the maybes and all the endearments fail

I am alone and I cannot offer any apology

that is not static, repeated or stale.

the ones that I have loved are now all that

I have lost, it wasn't old nor was it anything

that I believed to be true- 

it was more like my whisper that I wanted to

to find what was constant, what could have

been as simple as saying

I love you.

Variant with the poem overlaid.

About the Artist.
Julia Patterson is from Kentucky, she is a lover of animals, having
many as pets/companions over the years.
She is also an advocate for animal rights/fair treatment.
She is also very talented writer.
She is also a very good friend.

• • Artist at Lightning Strike Studios, Owner at Lightning Strike Kennels and Writer at Large.
• • Studied at The New York Institute of Photography
  • Past: Academy of Art University and Ohio County High School

A new project ART POETRY ART

What is it?
     It is this idea where an artist, takes something the poet has written and interprets it into art.

 It is how one person translates one art form into another.

 It is based on impressions.

Questions like:

 How does the poem make me feel?

 What do I see this poem as being about?

 It's an experiment into how we read things that are not literal,
where does it take our experience and knowledge and imagination.
How we process all that from literal into visual.

It's not a unique idea persay.
It is just unique to me and the artist.
I mean to have the process go both ways.
poetry into art into poetry.

I invite everyone, to come on this Journey with me.

I hope to have a new piece at least once a month.

See you there.

Another rainy day in February

I went for a walk in my memory, I thought of the many places I could see
I stood at the gates of someplace I could only slightly remember
like a fading memory of someone I only thought I could ever know
I went for a walk but there was no one to talk to- not even
the winter's misery upon the grass that will not grow.

I looked out from the dirty windows of my bedroom, I shed tears
since I should be going home someday soon. I wanted to call my
mother but there is no phone that can reach her now- across the vast
distance like a shadow receding along the paint peeled walls of a house
that no longer stands even in the memories of this my shattered past.

The days are bleak and the sun often refuses to shine, I want to write
even when I have no reason to rhyme. I want to run out into
the day's bleary light, but I cannot find my shoes, I know I had them
sometime last night. It is inconsequential and a little sad
that I come by all this honestly since we were all a little mad.

I went for a walk in the month of February, it rained like
it does this time of year. I sometimes feel I can feel my mother's
unfamiliar touch, her voice as it echoes her own misgivings about
life inside my ears. I often think that she gave into her fears,
that her losing her friends and family was far worse then
when those memories had faded, nothing left in the end to save.
I should go out tomorrow and plant flowers in her grave.

Now it is time for the final act, I am but a poor player on this
darkened stage- empty but for the echoes of those years
What if I could reach out and touch the candle's flame?
Would I know what line from Shakespeare to utter with rage
then sputtering flee from that one hour I had to walk
there in my sorrow and shame?

There are no good answers to the questions I have to ask.
There are no ways to thank my parents since they have passed
There is only this metaphor like a prayer, a funeral masque
In the graveyard where the ashes of those who loved me still remain,
Here is the plot, there is the stone, upon which is engraved:
Here lies one fool, forever apart, forever alone.