All I have is love….

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I just got here and all I know is that I have is; love for you and it’s inside of me and I can feel you and hear it too as if you were like music; the music that I love. Sounds of soft gradient whispers in this cool night air with blue eyes, soft tears; the night and the rain. Just us.

Its a love growing; its love glowing and changing tempo to the rhythm of long slow wet passionate kisses as if reverberating a lift, always wanting more sweet repeating.

Its about a symphony and the ballad and From here I can taste the fluid melodic memories. It’s a love song shared.

Such love is a grace with such thrills; the remains of a treble’s shrill with no end to a beautiful endless stream of melody. It’s so perfect.

I love to listen to guitars humming of harmony under the sheets: Wild, passionate and scattered; its about the delivery of the finish with after shocks of thought.

Thoughts of you playing all night as we drift between the rafters, where all I have is love…and it still lingers in the air.

The Artist Within

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In this painting, there is an artist it reminds me of and I think of quite often and even though the years may change and the faces may change, I don’t think the heart really ever does.

Once you love someone, it remains within. And each time I look at it, I can’t help but feel reassured; that there is something more about it; that it grants me a certain peace.

This image on the canvas was created with hope with love, fascination and wonder and I see so much strength in your eyes… the way you get back up during those times when you feel like you’re out of rope.

I believe in you and I think we’ve got something worth fighting for…a dream that shall come to be. It may be a photo but it’s a part of the landscape; it’s my painting, a muse held so deep inside the artist heart that I don’t know where the art and artist begin or end.

All I know is I can see the man child becoming and that he means the world to me. I can see the paintbrush holding whispers as if it sweeps to the floor, fading into sunlight, stroking the face with such warmth as it slowly envelopes around each line.

Where all the colors of tension are held together, then slightly fading into shadows; where there is dark, there is also light too; a shining perfection of such, upon my beautiful muse.

It’s a perfect landscape; where the sea walls are not painted, there is no wallpaper here peeling at the edges and no floorboards creak; only cliffs and an ocean.

It’s about the shadow of you in the passage to who you will be in the entrance approaching ever so cautiously, but each step more hesitant than the next ever so quietly, as to not disturb the beautiful silence of the art within the artist.

Words Unfeigned

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I think my mind has been locked with your soul. My heart has always been there for you but why do I feel blocked from your images. I see the truth and I believe and I won’t be held back no longer. Once I dream that I thought I was in love… I know I am.

It was the day you found me at your door that led me to find everything you didn’t want me to see. It was real and it was as if we hadn’t ever spoken, until now. The sensations are deep inside my wanting, causing me to write feverishly, beneath your hand. But then, you heard me whisper; “Teacher” and inherently, I saw your body recoil at the sound.

You took my hand probing the pen into the ink and into it’s warm, glutinous moisture, thinking of words so intoxicating leaving waves of inner excitement. Your inspiration surged through me, rendering me almost powerless, I was as if mesmerized, physically entranced by words on the page sounding like the songs you write in theorems of your own lyrics and I felt it with a pleasurable sensations rippling wildly inside of me…

Then you had taken my hand again and placed it on your pen, your own hand covering mine and enclosing my hand around it pressing down on the paper; I began to write once more.

I had compulsively squeezed tight, feeling the hot rigidness of the instrument giving slightly beneath the pressure, and I heard and felt you gasp excitedly against the sounds of my own heart beating, filling the room with a new air and a new light and then I realized surprisingly the power of words.

It was an anticipating thrill of delight that raced through me. I would never have dreamed that words could be so big, and with a pen so long and thick, that my fingers could barely encircle it! And then suddenly, I was aware that it was unfeigned; transforming; massaging the thick paper from top to bottom and in the same rhythm that you had shown me earlier deep inside my mind, and in my most receptive channel.

Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer ~ France -Vincent Van Gogh

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“The heart of man
Is very much like the sea
It has storms, it has tides
And it has depths. “
~ Vincent Van Gogh

June 1888 Vincent Van Gogh took a 30 mile stagecoach trip from Arles to the sea-side fishing village of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer on the coast of the Mediterranean sea. It is a spiritual place, said to be the place where Mary Magdalene journeyed with Joseph of Arimathea with the cup of Christ.

It was a place where Van Gogh was taken to recover from his health problems and to make some seaside paintings and drawings. At that time Saintes-Maries was a small fishing village.

In just a few days he made two paintings of the sea, one of the village and nine drawings. One of the paintings was Van Gogh Museum’s Fishing Boats on the Beach at Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, which he described:

“I made the drawing of the boats when I left very early in the morning, and I am now working on a painting based on it, a size 30 canvas with more sea and sky on the right. It was before the boats hastened out; I had watched them every morning, but as they leave very early I didn’t have time to paint them.”

He capturing the light in the sand, sea and sky.The Sea at Les Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer in which he sought to capture light’s effect on the sea. He wrote:

“The Mediterranean Sea is a mackerel color:
in other words, changeable –
you do not always know whether it is green or purple,
you do not always know if it is blue,
as the next moment the ever-changing sheen
has assumed a pink or a gray tint.”.

The fluid movements of his pen brings energy to the drawings, not intended to be a mimetic copy. Both his choice of the reed pen and the “placement of tiered-patterned strokes”, the dotted sky accentuates the clouds. Whitecaps are evoked by the vertical lines and horizontal lines portray the calmer sea in the distance.

Seascape at Saintes-Maries

“I wish to paint
a seaside painting of sand,
sea and sky.”

References:
Fishing Boats on the Beach at Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, 1888. Permanent Collection. Van Gogh Museum. 2005–2011.
The Sea at Les Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, 1888. Permanent Collection. Van Gogh Museum. 2005–2011.

Writing Esteban

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In the mornings I rise
Writing before dawn about last night
Satisfied when I have seen the fuchsia sun,
Rising from earth to sky to cover me,
To see my purple buds bloom.

So if your having that feeling again
Of these days and and years, needing a lift,
Remember you are rich in love,
And you have nothing left to fear.

I’m all curled up in the scent of you
And the way it hangs in the air
Even long after you’ve gone.

Letters to Esteban

image My Luv, The universe is yours Up on the mountain high, With a refurbished iPhone 5 It’s all yours… if you want it. But here’s the deal; I come with it. If you don’t want it, You don’t have to lie, My offerings remain Come what may, in me, With me and within my heart, I want you on top, My dear, or closer. I’ll give you the stars, the moon and everything you could want, the highest peak Just promise me, you’ll stay with me, make it not your choice…

but let Fate decide… When it’s the end of your time And mine. In the meantime…. Let’s Peak. Muah! Kindest Regards, Sweet Katie Catnip

Savoured Flavoured and Twisted

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The scent of home
Beyond what can be described
Where I returned a years later
The recognition of it
Everything flowing back.

It’s as though I never left
The slow is the beginning
Like making dough, the bread
Painting it golden brown
Baked in hundreds of degrees
Fahrenheit.

Though it might go unnoticed
How can something so simple be…
Yet be so captivated by nearly all,
But oh, but the aroma.
Arousing.

Its captured within my memory;
I Inhale it, and it becomes clear,
The smell modestly aged,
Soft,
Welcoming,
Pleasant;
You.

Your taste is the salt of my life
And yet, oh so cleansing
Salty streams down my face
In them form happy tears;
I taste.

The air i breathe in, when I exhale,
My thoughts keep me adrift ,
With other thoughts of curiosity,
And excitement,
Respect above all else.

This is but a perceived taste
Of the sweetest stillness and warmth
Its what remains.
The whole of us;
More than flavour
We are more than
This product of love.

Oozing of physical sensation
Its just that my mind imagines
We are pretzels,
Entwined all night long
Like last night.

Coming in four turns
A bit twisted,
A bit imperfect,
A bit salty,
Tasting you in that way,
The salty nectar of my life
Savouring,
Cascading,
Spinning,
Oh… Love,
Its flavoured savoured
And twisted.