A place where you can be human.
Golden box filled with a cryptic variety
The folded paper to help me decipher
which chocolate I just placed in my mouth
Without that paper I poke and prod each truffle
looking for the perfect one.
And when I find the one that suits me
I close my eyes and lean back
Enjoying the fruits of my labor
It is laborious searching for that one piece
That one you can’t quite put your finger on
-Saschia Johnson
Eugène Henri Paul Gauguin was a French post-Impressionist artist. Gauguin is now recognized for his experimental use of color and Synthetist style that were distinctly different from Impressionism.
We never really know what stupidity is until we have experimented on ourselves.
-Paul Gauguin
Going off the well trodden path is much harder than people say. He also said,
In art, all who have done something other than their predecessors have merited the epithet of revolutionary; and it is they alone who are masters.
One of our greatest painters feels anyone who does something different is a master. I think I might have to take him up on that challenge. Keeping in mind that while experimentation is exciting and important, it’s also important for me to hang onto my own voice and those little gems that are part of my story. I’d rather have something new that’s genuine than something that’s experimental and fake.
I had to share this.
Would it be tempting
if I told you
that I am not completely what you witness?
Would it still be
if I’m always loath and a fucking mess?
I’ve claws
and vampire teeth.
My soul sprouts on venom.
My tongue is a blood-sucking leech.
I laugh because everyone does.
I cry because I laughed like this.
But I crave to howl
like one stray wolf
in search of a wolf like me.
I unfurl the obsession of outer-space… in my head.
I’m in deep shit, yet I put mascara in my eyelashes.
I’m the perimeter between life and death
yet it’s always me who is dying.
Would it be tempting
if I told you
that I’m not in my senses?
Would it still be
if I’m a liar and nobody’s guess.
I’m trapped in my ribcage.
I puncture my own heart.
I’m afraid that some day soon I’ll fall apart.
View original post 78 more words
Since it’s Saturday I figured I would post a silly little poem I wrote with my daughter. We had fun working on it together.
She’s my secret treasure
That no one can measure
She likes lemonade
Freshly homemade
And hot baths with bubbles
Take away her troubles
She has a neighbor bumble bee
And they like to have tea
She has two other neighbors
They’re called twiddle-dee’s
And they like to tease
She has some friends
That have pet hens.
She wraps up in her little blanket
And sometimes wears an anklet
-Mom and Daughter
I can’t keep my eyes open
The lids
they’re being pulled down by a crane
And the weightlessness of sleep washes over me like
waves
Some bigger than others
I want to skip all this creating and let my consciousness free in dreams
But I’m almost finished just a few more sentences
-Saschia Johnson
some of us lose all the time
time after time
until our true colours have bled out
and we start to see things in black and white
question on which side our shadows cuddle light
which sun offers up a tanned braising against a weak pale puffed burning
eagerly the skin turns to paper
and we’re unsure if we can capture enough words
before we become curling ashes in our pyres
for some of us, art is the air we breathe daily, until we drown ourselves in the bathtubs of our failed accomplishments
the drain sings lovely songs
bubble babble trickle symphony sung in the voices of those held dearest
in places where physically none are held anymore
these empty arms and trembling hands remember the way we painted each other
stroke by stroke, our brushes one anothers blushes
crimson your cheeks
raw-red from the joy-cry of understood and accepted
and named true
with words lovingly whispered through actions unspoken.
Would you like to add your opinion? Instead of commenting on this post please write/create something to be shared with the community.
Wanna read more? Here’s another great piece in our Morality Collection Frayed Ends by Geoff Blanchette
It’s a been a year, since you went away
I wish I could have said what I wanted to say
I’m still here, looking for answers to explain
Why you decided, your life couldn’t be the same.
Missing your voice and the look of your face,
Knowing that no one, can take your place.
Certain songs remind me of you,
And your memory will always be true.
-Doreen Schmoegner
Doreen Schmoegner began to write poems at 15 years old. The writer has poems published as Doreen Hobby at Poetry.com and has written many short stories. People inspire me to write, is what Doreen says. A former teacher in college invited me to join a monthly writing group and that was 17 years ago. Recently, I started an Advanced Fiction Writing group which I call, my intellectual stimulation.
Welcomed by the man with the tall purple hat
I could do nothing but freeze and fall back
The wizzies wanged and the scared babies screamed
This place is a real life dark day dream.
Full of thinking thinkers and mind tinkers
I think I’ve done it, some one thing rightly,
Writing writing writing all nightly
Give me a Dumdum to suck while the rest
strive so eagerly to reach their best
But here, yes here, this is where it’s obtained
my life will never
ever
be the same.
-Saschia Johnson
“I have a weakness I scarcely dare to avow. [It] consists in preferring rather mournful aspects to all others, low skies, solitary plains, discreet in hue, where each tuft of grass plays it’s little tune to the indolent breath of the wind of midday… I wait impatiently for the bad weather to come, and I am already negotiating with a seller of umbrellas. I assure you that bad weather has more life than good.”
-Pierre Puvis De Chavannes
Art lives everywhere. I don’t think that we have to wait for rainy days to make art however, I think that it’s finding art in rainy days that is just as important as finding art in the joyous days.
These critics tell me how this is bad
so bad
They cringe and shrivel and their fingers twitch horizontal
And I say, with the most innocent eyes I can conjure,
I like it this way I like it a mess
And rugged and the honesty that’s so pure it makes you cry
dirty sheets and pants damp with sweat
Don’t tell me my way is bad just because
You live by the way someone else wipes your ass.
-Saschia Johnson
Jayne.press