New paintings and regular art updates.
I think I might do some poems about colours…..
Yellow
Banana,
Gold,
Lemon,
Custard,
Nice things are made of this….
But..
Pus
Bile
Lava
Can be nasty too!
Yellowish green, orangey yellow, pale, dark, umber, sand….
Sunshine, egg yolk, khaki, cadmium, sulphur, icecream
And vanilla…
Yellow lights up our life, heat in the desert, fire in dream.
Never shadowed
Adorned, arisen , shone.
Playing with apps, dreaming in naps, I see your eyes… ,, what a surprise!
I see your lips like pomegranate pips……..
I see your nose ,, the beauty it shows!
I see a face, hidden in lace historical place, ,, wonderful Grace.
Just playing with rhyme, enjoying this time .
Leaves unfurl and block the view, the sky is shaded out, green and orange, and yellow too, they cast their shade about.
Atop a hill, those huge trees grew, their roots spread wide no doubt, and round their branches… true delight I see the fields sprout.
Now came old autumn, when leaves flew, they were madly strewn about, the world is seen as if anew, and “slumber trees!” I shout.
I’m not good at rhyming. I prefer blank verse, but I thought I would have a go at making a more traditional poem.
“View” and “Out” are such simple words…you can probably think of far more rhymes for them than I can. The poem is based on a visit to the Dorothy Clive Garden today. The leaves are starting to fill in the gaps between the branches and twigs, and some views will disappear until the leaves fall again in October or November, when the world beyond them will be revealed again. I think you can see three counties, Staffordshire, Cheshire and Shropshire can be seen from the top of the quarry garden there.
It’s a beautiful place if you feel like visiting it.
Spring has finally sprung. Tulips are rising out of the earth following the refreshment of rain. Drinking in the water, their heads swelling and bursting into bright petals. Shimmering in the cold sunshine of early May.
The season’s are running behind the time here. Another cold and wet snap today, but hopefully better by the weekend.
I use the word hope a lot, I know, but thats how I feel. The colours of the tulips have raised my spirits. They photograph well and I have tried to create kaleidoscopic patterns from them.
Bright red juicy lips of deep red from a double tulip hold me enthralled. Playing with the image to make it more contrasted, deeper, more shape to it.
I love spring, the fresh green leaves not totally burst from their buds even now we are in May. I hope it does warm up. I need energy to do more art!
you know sometimes how two words of similar spelling can sound amazing together…..
Apostrophe to Catastrophe does that to me.. bang and hiss, a comma of bliss…
In the wron’g place, confuses the populace? Make’s me s,mile. ..for a wh’Ile!
Each, word, divided, it can’t be hi’ded.. this poem’s lops’ided,
Like hiccups in the mi,st…… I’m really must de,sis,t!
Beware the comma, apostrophe…. it may create a catastrophe!
G’night cat my coffee’s getting cold,
I’m ready for bed,
And I’m feeling rather old….
G’night cat I must do as I’m told
Get your beauty sleep,
Drift off upon a cloud……
G’night cat but your purrs are getting loud
Well 10 minutes more
Til my dreams of you unfold……
Ask me if I’m a poet and I will say no. It’s not something I do very often. I wrote some on Facebook a few years ago and then lost track of them. I suppose now I have more time that I’m trying to fill I can try to write…..
But it’s not Art! I hear gasps of fear, There is no paint, no sculpting hammer.
No blow to chip the detail from the infinite ages. Where is your paintbrush, do you care? To mold faces from thin air?
How do I draw a Dragon, head and tail…with words or crayon, clay or ink? I do not know, I cannot think.
But I will try to soar in flame, give sight to thought, or begin again.
It’s a dry subject is pottery,
The clay, once wetted and shaped, is dryed to leather hard,
Then punished in heat, it burns to biscuit ware.
So called because it takes on the dry biscuit colour,
and Matt, flat, creamy white shaded non-sheen.
Waiting on a shelf, waiting to be gently dipped in liquid,
The glaze or slip is slurped up with thirst.
Then fired again in gas till shiny new and almost molten,
It is released from the volcanic kiln.
How is it not broken with the immolation of its body
No, just shrunken, the moisture burned away.
Ready to be decorated in variously gorgeous ways……
Drawing is of a jug, I think by Clarice Cliff. I drew it years ago on sketchfu…
The heat has been here for only two or three days and already the forecast is for thunderstorms and then a drop of about 10 degrees Celsius.
Back to normal for April. Cooler, hopefully not too cold…
Looking at http://blitzortung.org you can track the lightening, an hour ago it was heading in this direction. Now it has tracked slightly east. The weather over the Channel looks bad, with lots if storms in north France.
I want to write a poem about waiting for the storm….
Here I am, on Earth I stand, waiting for power to flow, from sky, to ground, down ribbons of charge zagged into flash and sound.
I watch the signs, the sighs of air, deep rumbled groans of noise. There are now ways to see the moves of clouds and wind that pound.
But though I wait in stifling heat, no moisture hits the ground, the sky stays dark, not lit, not sharp. The storm has turned around.
No excitation of the land, no rivulets of rain, no exultation of the skies, no lightening strikes abound …….
Well, I think that explains how I feel. I have sat and watched lightening on many occasions, it is one of the things I love. To sit safe while the maelstrom whirls around the house. But like the photo of the clear sky above, nothing seems to be happening tonight.
Oh well there is a small meteor shower due this weekend so I might see something…..
the confusion of words, such as The two Ronnies sketch: four candles or fork handles…..a poem.
Can you hear the difference?
Fork….or Four…Candles…or handles….
See the word, unheard, the difference.
Imagine a fork shaped candle?
Or four spade handles…
Words change, morph, but stay the same.
Homophones, it sounds like, confusion, illusion.
Playing games to gain our trust, learn the difference, yes we must.
So four is not fork and candle is not handle but together they mangle talk (not tourque).
Mallaband-Brown