What Is Abstract, Pablo Picasso

See I don't need to write
A bunch of jargon, complex wheeling wagons
To pontificate bluster, jab & perplex, wrangling
Devotional minds, don't disturb meditations

I would rather draw
Or leave brush strokes on canvass
Projecting my lunacy on view
Like graffiti on side streets

Are you with me, fingers snap
Like are you still with me, in the room
Snap snap, snap out of it
If not just say before we proceed

As we proceed
With a state of confusion
In a maze farm lost
Trying to wiggle out of disorientation

Lets go back to basics, basis
Baby steps on trail drive
Leaner's driver given
On the fool's guide to the universe

Images and maps posted
At vantage points
To bring lost sheep home
Are we there yet, they ask

Awaken with chants of bravado
Were you there
Present to see
Bared witness with sight

As the journey starts
Sleeping bugs bites to infect
Inducing a state of
Sleep paralysis, nodding off

Lets pray the one with his hands
On the driver's wheels, steering
Is still awake, for God sake
We pray, AMEN

Death is always close to sleep
And people that have come close
To it,  death's door that is
Always seems to testify of a dream state

Let me ask you a question then
Are you awake, asleep or dead, deader
Which one feels like the strangest of all
Life imitating art for forgery on Pablo Picasso

Are you with me, not on hypnosis
Like are you still with me
In the room or wondering
On day dreams of thought

I do not mean to confuse you
Sir, sir; Madam madam altered presence
Ghost on a day release, please take a seat
Calm down the asylum on prison break

It is Pablo Picasso
Go figure on
What is abstract

Breakfast Tables

Symbols in pictures appear to manifest 
Postures and gestures in sitting posts  

Questions question's mark signs  
Rain down, black on white canvas 

Impressionist's manipulating positions 
Of conceptual gaze, provoking thoughts 

If a chess board could be seen by observation 
Then I did say this would be a chess game played 

On breakfast tables, early yawns brightens new day 
A jag of hot tea or coffee served to wake minds 

I would meet you down at the cafe' shop 
Around the table for a breakfast fest of minds 

What is poetry to a poet

I hang on a cliff  edge wanting to let go 
And holding firm to draw so tight, my life 
I would not let go of grip to fall 


I yearn to unload these thoughts 
They sit with burst on my mind 
Begging to come out and be heard 


Read, noted, examined, re-examined 
And be understood in context by so few 
The rest just blaspheme, leave them out  


Though in the same light, lone candles, shadows of day 
I fear what would manifest out on paper like scripture 
When I open these taps of my mind to draw fluid thoughts


What is poetry to a poet I ponder 
An open book, abstract dairy of  the very private 
Or creativity with words from the subconscious  


Half the time I am at a loss to know 
Half the time I wonder if writings hold any meaning 
What is poetry to a poet, yet each time I write, I write    

Repetition is a skill

Repetition is the better use of the word 
A phrase in time, in time, at a time and again 
For effect, at a time, at a time, ask Andy Warhol 


Patterns, being that, saying that 
Knowing that, as it stands that 
Recycled at a time, each time, in time 


And nature does not opt out of this excitement 
With leaves, and flowers repeated in sequence 
With zebras, and giraffe, tigers and crocks  


Cliche is a posh word with snobbish nose 
On steroids of hippocracy  
Seeping tea, in china cups, "whatever!"


One may say, one may do, one may say 
Does one know, that one may say 
Indeed one may say, "merci"


For enlightenment, of this much, as much, for much 
Use of the word this much as one may use
Indeed one may say, repetition is the mother of skill 


As in being that repetitive is a better use of 
A word, a phrase, a line or two at a time, and again 
It works in poetry one may say, why not if it works well 

Perfection of Art

An artist would never call a master piece perfect 
Guess that is why death adds  more value 
For the biggest critique is finally put to rest 


Much in a rush to hang or publish, I am not done yet 
Hold on, a little tweak here said Brown Ford Madox 
A little tweak there, a little, a little, a little more for the "Hayfield" 


And with each time seen in new light 
A little more, a little more, tweak here 
Have a little tweak there 


How can one call this a masterpiece 
Oh no, no, no, no, a little tweak here is needed indeed
A' w'h each time, in new light, a little more, a little more


Guess that is why, death adds more value 
With the put down to rest of the biggest critique 
A little more here, a little more tweak, tweak, tweak

He haunts the work, each time in new light
Adjusting verses, ryhmes and brush strokes
To tweak, tweak to perfection, old Ford Brown does

Painting by Ford Madox Brown

Sown Alive

Sown alive in a window  
Behind plants that gather form  
They climb to surround, they engulfed her soul    


She sat there naked in cradle 
Her eyes engaged, glowing psychedelic 
Embrace to enchant, deep contemplation  


Her thoughts capture distance, of escape 
Clouds, shape formers signals a paradigm change 
They conjure rainbow twinkle, then contradicts  


Beauty that calls out, the allure of seduction 
Sent men and women on their knees with delight 
To worship her voice of Venus 


Like the green leaves that surrounds
She held life full, radiant, gifted 
Artistic loving, enigma of a kind, kindly 


But she was sown alive 
Still with life, so much left in her 
She was sown alive 


Sometimes the winds carry her singing voice 
Thoughts of her comes to mind with twinkles of melody 
And in that instant she takes life's form again 


Long enough until the music stops 
Long enough to delight to celebrate her life
Long enough in 3 minutes while her songs play 

Arts and Food, Fed

I got fed, stood on rocky hills 
Where pastures of savannah replaced thick forest 
And the dry spell of drought, changed the richness of the land 


The livestocks, that which symbolised my freedom 
My riches and my very survival; cattle on open fields 
Had long lost the battle, to the seasons silence 


Skeletons w' PhD lay across fields of carcasses of wasted meat 
The winds carry echoes of rumours of worst to come 
I hear the birds whisper in anger, as austerity engulfs the poor 


This was the fault of the politicians, they saw this coming 
But opted to line, the bankers pockets as safeguard 
So now a dust storm blows, like biblical revelations 


And many a men, with pride queue in lines 
To be fed by the collapsing safety nets 
It was never meant to carry the load of so many 


And for a while, some have lived on it as their birth rights 
The jungles lay empty without hunters harvest 
Without the farmers basket 


Decomposition of the very fabric of society 
As sons of yesterday, sons of today, fathers of today 
Sisters and mothers, yell out for reasoning wise 


Why must they, have they, lost their dignity 
At the expense of the wrong doers 
My mind is tiered of pondering, lamenting makes me thirsty 


Ticking clocks as constant reminders of obligations 
Count down, on days into nights then another after 
I walked into an art house and got fed 


This time it was my soul the most that starved 
I walked into an art house, where painters galleries  
Lined the walls, with abstract expressions painted vivid 


And warriors held their guitar ready to engage 
A'  t' front line soldiers came with words to recite in poetry
I walked into an arts house, on Stokes Croft  and got fed 

Subjective Perspective

A blow with a word strikes deeper
Than a blow with a sword 
Words are all we have 


Famously, frivolously, chitty chitty  
My girl says I make up words  
Sometimes I leave it blank, empty head in a room 


Meaning, this thing, "this thing" being my favourite line
Fills in the gap on thoughts, of  my missing words, read my mind 
Ok ok, time out, ours to hold, on hold, I remember word


Lets see, in pictures view  
Mirror, mirror, on the dictionary wall of words 
To whom is the word, best to behold 


This hold adds meaning in definitions expressed  
Thesaurus gives options, go on make my day 
On words to replace with, then with, them with  


Poets like big words, again with confusing conundrums 
As if methaphors are not  
Hard enough to decipher   


So brain works, brain food 
Brain storm, tic toc, tic toc,  sudoko
You should know by now


Already by now this is me ranting. 
But to t' point to be made, by now, on words with words
Chaos and order are two sides of the same coin 


So who holds order, ready in exchange for chaos 
Curiosity always gets the better of man in exchange 
I am heading towards order with word, patience,  me love 


The thing is, this thing is 
Poetry like abstract painting 
Needs subjective, perspective, rendition  


For the individual to make their own 
Mirror, mirror on the wall, this thing, with words 
Who is the most beautiful, of them all, to be used "subjective" 


Note: if you understood this poem, then you did better than I did

Now There Is Silence

Quiet the room stays, eerily 
No words spoken
Silence fills the air,


Yesterday there was liFe 
In this house a family
Three voices heard giggling 
Now there is silence


Arguments, Shouts, Shouts, Shouts
Doors banged, to shake the frames, structure  
The very foundations, of once called home
Over silly things ended by the silence


I have to have my say, to over burden you
Let me have my turn to talk, always I am right 
By default, it was your fault, always is 
Never good enough, is what you do


Now there is silence
Now you can have your say, in empty kingdoms
And perfect, all so wrong 
Save your arms and throat, from hard work


But the room feels empty, ghostly 
The emptiness and silence echoes, eerily 
In itself creating a burden of realisation  
Over thoughts of guilt 


Now you can have your way, your say
Perfect once so wrong 
But the silence feels,  fills 
Full the emptiness with misery 


Questions now being asked, on reflection
After the penny has dropped, was it all worth it
But the price has all so long been paid for
Now there is silence, ghostly silence