kokopelle: Black Cat (Cat - Black)
I’ve been posted to various internet social media platforms since about 2007. Prior to that I ran a BBS in the pre-internet world. I’ve been writing and posting a poem a day since September of 2014 across multiple poetry oriented sites (six at this point!). Uncounted other content sharings have been put forward for public review. All of this has amounted to material tossed out to the judgment and consumption of the world. These outcomes vary tremendously. This begs the question: why? The poem “To Live Beyond” hints at the answer.


To Live Beyond

The pebble falls into the pool
from how far up I'll not guess
the height will tell cause impact
not known before stone is tossed
the land may drown in the wave
submerged by the resulting crest
or ripples will disturb the peace
hidden by a calm breeze.

A balloon flies to the waiting sky
another message sent to soar
asking those far below
to gaze above at the sight
what may happen will depend
on who stands looking up
it could be a swarming throng
or silence of deserted field.

Against these fickle turns of fate
the author seeks a surer thing
and artist bends media to mind
before presenting to the world
artifacts made by hand
God's expression none can deny
if there were a few kind souls
to witness dawn of Genesis.

These pleading cries are self-exclaimed
wanting ears to hear the noise
imploring eyes to turn their way
with guarantees worth no more than dust
blood and tears poured to create
asking others to behold
toil embraced to create
hoping some will witness this.

Recognition is the food
for the soul seeking more
than isolation in its art
emotion's void without love
when the pebble seeks the pool
and a balloon flies above
asking all to honor these
the artist's bid to live beyond.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170913.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (Frank-n-Furter)
A friend posted a meme that stated, “it’s funny how artistic we become when our hearts are broken”. This is true. The muse comes in many forms, and if a broken heart is the cause, well, scribble on!


Also Scribbling

Why do I write?
it's better asked
why do I breathe?
when I could submit
to life's travails
the thousand slights

doubting words
inside my head
while the reprieves
are too brief
spanning gaps
between the pain
or should say
existing's game
I'm asked to play
pass the time
moving the pieces
across the board

a daily pursuit
paused to consider
thoughts put to page
hoping they are seen
by the travelers
of like design
also scribbling
in their own blood.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 2017030.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (Frank-n-Furter)
“Scribe’s Accomplishment came together as a response to the prompt “What is your personal vision of a successful life” and a friend blogging “I think a lot of art is trying to make someone love you’. I suspect much of my poetry is seen by few, but I take solace that a small amount is seen by a few, and those few see something in me with the effort.


Scribe's Accomplishment

Success rang in with the dawn
another chance to make the art
reveal myself in quest for love
so I may feel the same within
my waking dream began with words
spun from thoughts I’d like to share
the good and bad, the in-between
the outcome spans my world.

From activism to joy's refrain
offered for the reader’s view
spun together in facsimile
of the success I'd like to see
the achievement would manifest
if a set of eyes considers there
the offerings from a soul desiring
connection beyond their mortal coil.

I spoke of love in the first refrain
to this subject I'll return again
through this art I catch a glimpse
the mirrors reflected in readers' gaze
at the alter of my poems
response will vary by reference there
still I'll take in the passion sent
back to the writer, scribe's accomplishment.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170509.
kokopelle: Horse Totem (Default)
The poem “Where I’ll Fly” is based on the quote, “I am learning everyday to allow the space between where I am, and where I want to be, to inspire me and not to terrify me”.


Where I’ll Fly

In the space between myself
where I’d like to sometime be
is the greatest fear I’d find
or the power to rise above

consider terror to be the same
as the unknown put upon
a traveler meant to walk beyond
the far horizon not yet crossed

through forest of bizarre plants
ferns with faces, pines with hats
flowers with a thousand shades
longing faces turned the sun

the animals are even worse
maybe men before they turned
could the pilgrim become same
if will is weak at journey’s end?

a chasm waits at road’s end
with one way to cross beyond
look for the bridge kept within
turn fright aside to fight the dread

aspiration is the fuel
to fire desires, to bridge a fall
inspiration provides the planks
to see the land where I’ll fly.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170421.
kokopelle: (BRA - Dangerous)
A friend said that everything I do is art. This is a relative truth when my public face is observed. However, this made me realize how much art I'm not creating, and how much art I may not create in the unknown future. Perhaps some artists are completely satisfied with what they do. The poem "Edge of Tragedy" is written with the voice of an artist who isn't satisfied with what they’re creating.


Edge of Tragedy

It's art on the edge of tragedy
fueled by life's inconsistencies
waiting for the end of times
by my hand some craft becomes
with the rest to be undone
the treasures gained past to ash.

Bright colors berate of consequence
the thread's consumed by dust's mantle
not be be woven to tapestries
instead the brilliance is obscured
unraveling without creation’s urge
to collect where none shall see.

What should have been is lost
whispers suspended ahead the speech
memories forgotten before they're had
lost to echoes turned inside
resounding vulgar inside a mind
wishing for silence ringing loud.

The madness asks for nothing else
it gives on whim of the good days
while keeping rest with selfishness
there the art exists in thought
twisted round the screw of mind
longing for the end of times.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170418.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (frank_n_furter)
The poem “Artist Defined” is a bit of word play about the artist's identity.


Artist Defined

Patent pending
paperwork filed
personal invention
public notified.

Copyright symbol
owner stated
it is not be needed
when there is no mold.

DRM discarded
I cannot be stolen
no locks are required
access my domain.

This is who I am
legalities redundant
presented for all
the artist defined.

© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160404.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (frank_n_furter)
A person I follow on Tumblr posted a farcical health bulletin that portrayed Donald Trump as a disease. It reminded me that artists, no matter their stripe, have the very special ability to speak out against the rigid fears of life. I've done a bit of this, and I appreciate those artists who are brave enough to make statements against the relative evils of the world.


Fall This Day
Poem for Day 255 – 20150913

Watch them poke at the giant,
with only art held in their hands.
Armed with the muses' gifts,
the mighty will fall this day.
Foolish mortals of lax morals,
deviants seeking to speak their mind,
what hope do you have my friends
when you turn the world on it's head?

The battle is guile against laughs,
dogma of man versus humor.
The former provides the ammo,
while the latter tosses it back.
Your enemies fall on their own petards,
explosions felt across the web,
slipped on their own banana,
hit by the pie they made themselves.

The giant is taken down a notch,
made shorter by Satan's jest.
God's true name is spoken
by the profane to save us all.
Don't feel sorry for The Man,
struck by your pens and paints.
They provided the means for
the mighty to fall this day.

© 2015, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.
kokopelle: Black Cat (cat black)
People come to art at all ages. I am tickled pink when I see young(er) people embracing and sharing art. Others, like myself, come to it at a later year. I have my own reasons, and these are contemplated in my poem “Old Man Young Artist”. The poem holds true for people of many ages. The regret of not starting something sooner is not the domain of the old(er). Be kind to yourself, there is a time for artistic creation.


Old Man Young Artist
Poem for Day 240 – 20150829

Why couldn't I produce the art
that flows from my hands and eye
in years more youthful than now?
I've lost the years I could have had
to build my brand and fan my fame
so the world could know who I am.

Another path I had chosen,
left brain slanted for good cause,
not the artistic by and large.
To turn round to the right side,
the domain of artistic types,
came much latter in this mortal life.

Time flowed under the bridge,
revealing the world to my heart
so I may know humanity.
Spilled ink without this magic
is so many words that cannot speak
to others in a voice showing truth.

The public artist is a fool,
the spectacle for the world to see,
exposing themselves in imagery.
I was not so in younger years,
no so brash or ready to say
the words meant for a world to hear.

In the artist the flame must burn
quenched by creation's sharing
even as they are inspired by the same.
This was absent in the years past,
the talent may have been present
but the desire was submerged.

Now I produce to my heart's delight
words and pictures dribble out
bounty harvested from the years.
I am happy to be in this place,
older yet wiser would be the phrase,
and the world now knows who I am.

© 2015, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.
kokopelle: Black Cat (Cat - Black)
The poem "Lives Combined" explores the revelation of the artist's output, what it says about them, and how it speaks to a shared experience.


Lives Combined
Poem for Day 236 – 20150824

I

So many things to mark with prose,
cast of thousands have passed
intersecting my life contrary.
Unknowing companions of my walk,
do they know the masques that contrive
to hide my true self from their sight?

Times, places, friends, enemies,
testimony to the continued journey
of these fifty and more years.
Joys, sorrows, wins, defeats,
more have passed than I can count,
molding me all these many years.

Ink the pen and smooth the page,
it is time to put to prose
the truth of the one you think you know.
Ink of blood, sweat, and too many tears,
parchment from the joy and toil of many days,
these are the tools I will take to hand.

II

How do I share myself in words
sufficient to illustrate me
to a curious world at large?
I'll be the honest man for the audience,
more than I can be for myself,
share the truths of life almost lived.

Take down the masques and turn them round,
name each with their own history
labels of my flawed humanity.
So many ways life was lived,
imperfectly met in the moment,
spiraling to this very day.

Retrieve the skeletons from the closet,
each one a sin of the past or present,
with sin being the easiest way.
Perhaps I could have been better,
should have said or did the other,
but life seemed to get in the way.

III

I've said my piece in so many words,
scattered behind me through the days,
a madman's ravings they will say.
This may be but there is more.
the words portray more than a single soul
in this shared illusion, life's biggest joke.

Turn the mirror and see yourself
reflected back by my words silvered
on the glass of my spilled ink.
Listen to my voice through stuttered words,
you'll hear your own if you try,
echoes of lives shared in humanity.

So many things to mark with prose,
I'll speak them now for you and I,
so we may know of life shared.
I welcome you found companion,
my masques are yours and yours are mine,
voiced in words of lives combined.

© 2015, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (frank_n_furter)
There are those who say the artist is brave in their willingness to share their view of life. I believe those who follow the artists are braver because they are inviting the artist into their lives. Too much exposure to a vision will shift the viewer's world.


Sight to See
Poem for Day 228 – 20150816

The whole world open up to view
available to all those with sight to see.
The bizarre and mundane are equal
in the sight of the artist's mind.
This will be my service to you,
the conveyor of art's gifts.
We'll explore the world together
in all the shades God made it be.

Excited by manifest beauty,
forms most attractive to the eye,
dulcet sounds in music and voice,
all of this is mine to express.
Inspired by the blatant horror
of man's treatment of fellow kin.
Words spill from my pen in pursuit
of understanding the violence they do.

You'll know the art when you see it,
photos in color and black and white,
sensuality for the soul,
food meant for the spirit starved.
You'll sense truth in the words,
even though they may be ugly.
This comes with the good and the bad,
the sum of what you long to hear.

I'll line them up for your inspection,
hold nothing back for the reader,
knowing you'd expect nothing less
as I spill the ink to the public page.
Photos published to tease the eye,
another look at the dark side of life.
The whole world open to view
available to all those with sight to see.

© 2015, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (frank_n_furter)
My poetic theme of the day is “drive”. This worked out well because I had been thinking about WHY I do art stuff. My lovely wife says I'm terribly brave. I say that I'm old enough to get away with speaking my mind. Any which way, I am driven.


Driven
Poem for Day 173 – 20150622

Once I wanted what I could hold,
possessions of glittery function,
to spend my time, to spin the wheels,
once I was happy with these things.

Now I want to spin gossamer threads,
creative expressions of my passions,
philosophical nudgings from the left,
and naughtiness of dance and delight.

Good, bad, and ugly are the source
of words aligned with my creations.
Pointed words to shock and to awe,
with photographs to show the way.

Boredom begone from this lyricist,
I'll spin another song to pass the time.
Stanzas reflecting a life both held
and one that I'd really like to have.

Audience is of their own choosing,
reviewers of both pain and strife,
my struggle with the world comes free
to those who take their time to read.

Others are drawn to the ripe romance,
dance expressed in the objective,
innuendo hiding in the subjective,
with a wink and nudge say no more.

You may ask why I'm driven so,
to produce poems and songs for you.
I'll tell the truth be told,
I do it for both you and me.

There are thing's I like to share,
reveal a part of myself to you.
There are things I must share,
driven to hold onto sanity.

© 2015, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.
kokopelle: Black Cat (cat black)
The impact of an artist (writer, poet, lyricist, painter, potter) can transcend the smallness of the artist. Embracing an artist gives them a larger life. It also enriches our lives in a way that transcends the nuts and bolts of the artist's output. This was wonderfully communicated Elton John's song “Goodbye Norma Jeane”. I love the stanzas “And I would have like to have known you But I was just a kid”. I have to truthfully say that I keep going because I've connected to somebody out there in the big world. I may never know who they are, but through this I'll never fully leave when I've stepped away. My poem / lyrics “I've Stepped Away” explores the relationship between an artist and those who explore their art.


I've Stepped Away
Poem for Day 170 – 20150619

Can't you see I've stepped away,
distance between the you and me?
Would you wonder where I went
if you never saw me again?
I'll give you an important clue:
transparent letters on world's glass.
I'm the one who had left
before you really knew who I was.

Shades of impressions left behind,
stick figures of a twisted mind,
drawn in blood and other fluids
for your beloved amusement.
Find the artist, seek the poet,
slurred reciting of life portrayed.
Drunken scribblings do betray
thoughts better left concealed.

Stepped away, imaginings,
laughter in the hallway,
shadows linger left behind.

Please smile when I do the same,
look away when I express the pain.
This bargain is the devil's trick,
ensuring that I slip away.
Scratch the surface so you'll see
the smile a mask hurting more,
as he laughs at the inside joke
of a smile that never was.

Can't you see I've stepped away,
vanished from the sight of you?
Shame the devil, he's the fool,
thinking this could ever be.
I'll give you an important clue:
letters written on our souls.
I never left when you embraced
the reciting of my life portrayed.

Stepped away, imaginings,
laughter in the hallway,
shadows linger left behind.
Stepped away, yet still here.


© 2015, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (frank_n_furter)
I am blessed to know artists of all types: painters, potters, dancers, DJs, cosplayers, poets, writers, performers, singers, photographers, bloggers, and dreamers. The last, the dreamers, I hold in most sincere regard because of the potential not yet realized. The poem “The Muse’s Call” is about the relation between the artist and that larger force driving us to create.


The Muse's Call
Poem for Day 155 – 20150604

I'd like to dance like Fred Astaire
and write lyrics like the Yes.
I'd like to strut my stuff with you
and know that my work's been viewed.
To this end I am not unique,
merely a struggling artist incomplete.
I have my desires to excel,
to leave something of myself behind.

These are this artist's fantasies,
extensions of who I've come to be.
I've become more than myself
with you a witness of my renaissance.
We are all life's participants
in this game till the very end.
The geist of artistry is our guide,
lady of creation cradling the child.

I will not ignore her calling,
the request to speak for the muse.
She holds my hand as I walk,
putting forth my artist's spark.
My words now come to an end,
with Fred Astaire and the Yes in tow.
I'll take my leave from your time,
and know that I have served her well.

© 2015. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved
kokopelle: (Professor Chaos - Evil)
My introverted extrovert self enjoys doing a bit of artistic creation, be it photos, poems, or a bit of expressive dance. Sometimes I shine. If I do it is only because I’ve been walking that path for a while. The really neat thing about sticking to an artistic effort is the intuitive creative side that manifests after the nitty-gritty technical stuff is (mostly) settled. All of this is the focus of my poem “Overnight Success”.


Overnight Success
Poem for Day 143 – 20150523

Masterful practitioner,
an overnight success,
what is your secret way
to creation's masterpiece?
So asks the uninformed,
enjoying the fruits of years,
gleefully given, well received,
but hard earned by the likes of me.

I have no secret, no sauce to share,
I've made mistakes, more than most,
and in due time, so many years,
I've found myself in this place.
Be it rhythm, rhyme, or meter,
composition’s helpful hand,
the outcome of my meager works
flows from time and effort spent.

Skills earned, tools collected,
these are part, but something more,
not conveyed in lesson or book,
an innate knowing so mysterious.
A hunch of what works and not,
intuit flows of picture and verse,
I am amazed, delightfully so,
of the things put forth to you.

Practice in the art's shadows,
finding a place all your own,
built on giant's past shoulders,
the personal made intimate to you.
A master practitioner you'll be,
an overnight success indeed,
glory in fruits of long past
and look forward to greater things.

© 2015. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved
kokopelle: Horse Totem (Default)
As an accidental artist, I am amazed at the frank honesty of other artists. The brave creators bare their souls while they reveal their art. The truly amazing thing is that most people do not recognize these heroic acts. Why? Are the viewers incapable of discerning the messages, unable to see the artist standing naked in front of them? I think not. Instead, I suspect, the audience of the artist chooses to see only the surface, and not be burdened by the raw admittance of the one on the stage.


Human Underneath
Poem for Day 108 – 20150418

See the artist, creative jester therein.
Face up cards on life's table.
Can you really see brave soul
who removes a mask all have placed?
Do you wish to delve down,
explore the well fathoms deep?
A passage beckons beyond,
cold honesty wrapped in art's delights.

Their art stands as testament
to the sum of who they am.
Layers of concealment stripped
in a single creative act.
When put together, all their works,
a picture of the black is viewed,
words of muted madness heard,
the within revealed without.

If you really knew them,
what would you think?
If the veil was removed,
what would be the result?
The choice is made,
look not to the one behind the mask.
Best to see only the glamor,
and not the human underneath.

© 2015. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved
kokopelle: (Comment - Vampire Like You)
Artistic creation is a terribly personal affair. Sometimes it is private. Other times it is shared with the larger world. I go with the latter, and in these efforts, I am tickled to no end when my work is acknowledged by other poets. Are they more special than other readers? No, of course not. Instead they are peers of a sort, and because of this, their recognition is a buoy to my daily pursuit of poetry. The poem “Touched” is dedicated to all creative types that lift the spirits of their comrades in art.

Touched
Poem for Day 075 – 20150316

Joy and darkness,
dance and death,
these are my themes
which I must express.
Seen and acknowledged,
showing interest by act,
visitors are welcome
to my expression of life.

Your interests amaze me,
diverse as they are,
to be counted amongst them
is a treat to my heart.
Our styles may differ,
brevity or verbose contrasted,
classic construction or freehand,
this matters not as paths collide.

Across the digital divide,
another soul of similar mind,
reaching out to confirm my art
as striking a similar cord.
Your attention honors me,
but something is more important,
that I’ve reached beyond myself
and touched another one.

© 2015. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved
kokopelle: Horse Totem (Default)
“Overnight Success”... not the typical artist's experience. This misconception hides the artist's secret, now revealed.


Rejection Therapy
Poem for Day 046 – 20150216

It is the artist's holy gift,
bequest upon those who create,
It's called rejection therapy,
all the great artists doing it!

Are they an overnight success?
No no, there is more to the tale!
So many years of hard practice,
in the shadow of anonymity.

For whom do they make their art?
Is it for adoring masses?
So many creations unseen,
self therapy is their creed.

Accolades heaped at their feet?
Ashes exchanged for their efforts,
pennies per an hour given.
No worry, they get just dessert.

Overcome the fear of public shame,
pain of rejection be banished.
Compliment of the gift package:
artist's rejection therapy.

© 2015. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (frank_n_furter)
Two things most everyone thinks about at some point: "what am I supposed to do?" and "how will I be remembered?". The poem "Artist's Eulogy" speaks to both of these questions.


Artist's Eulogy
Bonus Poem for Day 017 - 20150117

Can you tell if I’ve been here?
What proof remains of my existence?
Tell me please what I can do
to be here for you after I am through?

I dropped bread on the path,
traced chalk arrows on passage wall,
these mark the way I came before,
proof of a life’s fading footsteps in the hall.

Look to the crumbs I’ve left behind,
witness the mark on the rampart,
Bear witness to my passed life
where I walked this way before.

Follow the trail, cold as my grave,
leading to my remainders of yesterday.
Fading remnants of a life misspent,
rushed to find my peace without.

If I could stand before you,
an artist specter of ill repute,
I would say as a command,
serve your art and not the man.

© 2015. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (frank_n_furter)
Art, in its many forms, has the power to break through the illusions and fear of the mind. A rebirth occurs, and the old must fall away to make room for the artist's beckoned creations. The world is seen anew, refreshed by the artist's vision.


Edge of Sanity
Poem for Day 014 - 20150114

Here I am on the edge of sanity,
realm of those lost of soul,
where the threads of humanity
tremble at what lays beyond.

Butterfly, flying free above,
allow me to crawl inside
your empty cocoon, shelter within,
so I can be birthed again.

There I command the arts
to name my soul in terms
of mankind's highest dreams
made real by the artist's goal.

Stroke the painter's brush,
trace the poet's pen,
snap the photographer's pic,
mold the potter's pot.

Take solace in the art,
wrapped around, enveloped so,
borne to god's gentle touch
as reality is bravely resewn.

Embrace sanity within the fantasy,
find the soul on the silk of words,
combine the threads on potter's wheel
to weld a vision of what lays beyond.

One again I am on the edge of sanity,
chrysalis of art's vast domain,
ready to look over the edge
to see the universe look back at me.

© 2015. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (frank_n_furter)
I wrote most of "Art as a Ledge" in 2014. It sat waiting for completion. I completed it, and I feel this is milestone of sorts. The artist is celebrated, but my reaction is "I'm just showing you the thing already there". What extra magic is in that? The magic was always there, and I just present what you know already. This "already known" is the knowledge you already have.


Art as a Ledge
Poem for Day 007 – 20150107

Let me take your pic
so I can see your world.
Let me create a vase
so I know there a lovely shapes.
My art is a ledge
across which I walk.
At the edge I peer
through the telescope at you.

Photos are the mug shots
of crimes I do not commit.
Another person's vacation album
from lands I do not visit.
The vase reminds me
of a beauty remotely glimpsed.
The painting is a rendition,
recognized only by other eyes.

I do this thing,
this artistic effort,
in order to view the world
through an imperfect lens.
I strive to create
the thing that is there,
but my work is for naught,
a mere copy of an original.

Can I step through the pic?
Can I feel the breadth of the vase?
Can I breathe the painting?
Wise muse, gifting muse,
move me past creating.
Allow me join the world imparted
by my creative urgings.
Take my hand, walk to the edge,
and leap into the your chasm.

© 2015. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.

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