Rainbow With A Black Pen

To all my darlings, and the ones I'll never know.

By @themararosa on twitter

Acrylic paintings by Jason Limon on Instagram

Dreams to have while walking home from the library

I read of mangroves, coastal forest far away protection against monsoons, a gnarled seawall –  nature standing up against its watery cousin who would sometimes threaten death when cousin cried and overflowed with tears.

But mangroves are far away, small black and white image printed on trees so far from arboreal, trunks whittled down and forced into a single, bleached dimension to serve such a purpose now as to show a photo of a mangrove.

Just as flat and white, but the moon seemed closer that night. Closer than mangroves and monsoons. Back down to this autumn scene, now the maples stand burning all crimson Maroon leaves.

Monsoon trees. There is life here and now, then there is life in pictures and words. Our minds catch both in one fell swoop and they dance together in their captive company, lightly stepping but sometimes intersecting in their closeness – the impossible twirling of stony boughs become a nest for the granite moon, immobile limbs graced with the agility of dreams. Fancy flying one thought to the other, closing the distance and realizing two worlds mingling in an elegant, chaotic embrace. Mangroves holding the harvest moon, from both the truth and I so far, but so beautiful.

listen, the silhouette of a person is more human than AI will ever be. can you hear me? you are a body, the soul is nothing without the body, there is no consciousness without time and space, and in the computer exists neither. is this thing on?

I Can See the Wind by rococobean

Amateur

Once upon a recent time, there was a poet who hated rhyme. For each and every rhyming verse, he’d gnash his online teeth and curse, with all pretension he could muster that “coupled rhymes are so lackluster.”

And on he’d type, re: rhyming schemes, and freeform style’s “depths of themes". And that’s all fine and well and good: I just don’t think the critics should concern themselves re: all the fun that I’ve had ( i.e. writing this one).

My words don’t care for gnashed teeth, or high art skill, or market reach. So he can sit and seethe and gnash. But me? I’ll sit, relax and laugh, cobble rhymes both bad and worse, and sprightly spring ‘tween every verse.

-- rococobean

Gently I tuck another idea to rest in the mausoleum - an archived document, dead.

Melodramatic, I loudly intone that I had the best intentions to finish the work, and yet…

Damnit, it happened again.

- Vincent Van Gogh