An Impression That I Get

I flew in formation.

As far as, I could.

But my depth of perception is not particularly, good.

It is only impressionism that comes alive.

A place in which conformity cannot hide.


Year, upon lonely year, hiding from pride.

A violence sighted by my benign plight.

Again and again, the sway of far off visions.

Blurred by cat scratches so unkind.

But my moving consequences…a broken lens for the blind.

Whereabouts childhood impressions are meant to distort and bind.

a 1 way conversation with Mr. van Gogh




‘Often, it is the beauty with in us…that the conformist wishes to tarnish the most!’


willows at sunset

Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and gray
Look out on a summer’s day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul

Shadows on the hills
Sketch the trees and the daffodils
Catch the breeze and the winter chills
In colors on the snowy linen land

Now, I understand, what you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free
They would not listen, they did not know how
Perhaps they’ll listen now

Starry, starry night
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze
Swirling clouds in violet haze
Reflect in Vincent’s eyes of china blue

Colors changing hue
Morning fields of amber grain
Weathered faces lined in pain
Are soothed beneath the artist’s loving hand

Now, I understand, what you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free
They would not listen, they did not know how
Perhaps they’ll listen now

For they could not love you
But still your love was true
And when no hope was left inside
On that starry, starry night

You took your life as lovers often do
But I could have told you, Vincent
This world was never meant for one
As beautiful as you


Starry, starry night
Portraits hung in empty halls
Frame less heads on nameless walls
With eyes that watch the world and can’t forget

Like the strangers that you’ve met
The ragged men in ragged clothes
The silver thorn of bloody rose
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow

Now, I think I know what you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free
They would not listen, they’re not listening still
Perhaps they never will

But to get past the, van Gogh,is to get past the caricature of all who feel tortured and misunderstood…to the art that lives in all of us.vincent 1


Use your Art

RandomwordbyRuth... Rental Approved
Rental Approved

What does it mean to you?

‘Oh, I don’t know…maybe it’s about a woman who lost her mother in a house fire or…a young teen confused over their sexual identity…’

What does it mean to you?

‘It could be anything. It could be a good day at the beach. It could have been the way I felt when my partner attempted to take her life…guess I’m not sure. It means a lot to me…though. I know that with certainty! I suppose it has too many meanings to me! That’s why I can’t stop looking. Stop wondering and imagining…how things could have been.’

What does it mean to you?

‘It means anything you want it to. It means that I feel free. It means I feel hot….like how one feels lying on a dry desert like beach. Watching the gray waves over take the world. At least, the world that surrounds the beholder. I suppose it feels like that…and when I think of having to live somewhere like…Montana!’

What does it say? At least…to you?

‘My partner told me the poem is about Mother Nature. I think the poet had been thinking about growing up poor. How a set of stairs in one house may seem like they are built of diamonds…but where the writer lived…the stairs were more akin to fraying shag carpeting. The kind of rug you find in apartment buildings that were built-in the 1960’s. To me the poem speaks to the way it felt to be one my own. And, that very first apartment I lived in. It smelled of cat piss and there had been wall to wall shag carpeting in the bathroom. The bathroom with the kind of shower stall you find in campground restrooms. So, I guess, it takes me back to a time where there had been a feeling of being vulnerable it a good scary way…’

What of art? Where has it taken us? What has it done for us? And, more importantly, where does it take us from here?

Diane Arbus…the patriot

To me, quite simply…it takes me back to a memory. I had seen my very first Diane Arbus photo. There had been an exhibit at the Met or Boston Museum or some little movie or something like that. Immediately…I felt I had found home. I had come face to face with what I had been meant to do. Which of course…had been writing.

Diane Arbus hadn’t been a poet or novelist. She took photos of Freaks. For she felt a bit of freak herself. Sitting behind the shadow of her husband’s art. She found comfort with those who society had brushed under the rug. Her pictures were so heart-felt. So telling. Telling of someone’s struggles and rebirth. Their heartaches and scars. A large group of individuals whose story had been told by a housewife. Therefore, by proxy, Diane had been distracting-ly abnormal herself.

It was then that I found meaning to art and to artists themselves. They are the forever searchers of things, thoughts, feelings that can be painted or put into a sentence…but come out the other side with no meaning what so ever…Other than what it means to the audience.

art 2
RandomwordbyRuth…Room 4 4

Night falls us all

nothing but collective souls

at a broken bar…

nothing but pure wickedness

dashed about like a shoe-less car.

Since the dark ages we’ve been coming here.

Only one solution ever…

it is art…I fear.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.