I FORGOT HAIKU MONDAY:(

I have writers block.

So that’s why this is bad.

I don’t have ideas.

Dear Piano

Sorry I haven't posted in so long. I think its been about a week. Here is a poem:

Dear Piano,

I Wonder if you understand

What the music is.

To you it must seem

like the daily beating,

And we say that practice is torture.

But what about you piano?

For the pain you feel must be real

and not imaginary.

I wish that you could hear the music I play.

For then you would hear what music is.

I hope that someday you will know what music is.

And finally be at peace.

Yours truly,

The Player

Haiku Monday

Hiding obvious.

Silhouettes scattered and faint.

From behind the mist.

Mockingjay

I made this in Photoshop:

It is sort of a promotion of the Hunger Games.

Please comment!

Happy St. Patties everybody!

I made this in Photoshop:

New Story!

This is a new story I started. Collage coming tomorrow or Saturday.

The air was crisp and cold. Summer had rolled a gutter ball this year and the temperature hadn’t gone above sixty degrees in all of March and April showed no sign of changing this. A light crust of snow covered the grass. Tufts of green sprouted out of the white snow.

I tapped my pencil against my hand and thought. April break was finally here and already I was bored out of my mind. All of my friends had flocked like migrating birds south to the warmth of the Bahamas or Florida. I had been left in complete solitude to wallow in misery and boredom.

My mom- who had been sick of my complaining about having nothing to do- had given me a list of ideas of things to do over break. I had chosen writing simply because it was the activity that involved the least room cleaning and community service.

I’m not a good writer mind you; actually I’m quite bad. My book report on Tom Sawyer had come straight off the back cover. As a matter of fact I hated writing.

So, here I was, sitting at a desk, with a clean sharpened pencil in my hand, and a blank notebook that leered at me from the desk. I leaned my chin on my hands and stared at the wall in front of me. I had nothing, nada. Everybody always says that the best way to be good at writing is just to write, but how can you write if you don’t have any ideas to begin with.

I needed something, a spark, inspiration. I stood up and walked out of my room.

Haiku Monday

Sorry I haven't posted in a while, I think it has been about five days. Here is a haiku I wrote:

Greedy eyes, darting.

Houses, money on our minds.

Its Monopoly

Tomorrow or maybe Wednesday I will be posting a collage.

Cheers

NBS

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I opened the 320 million dollar door and entered a lobby area where an old woman sat behind a desk. She looked up and squinted at me from behind horn-rimmed glasses.

She spoke in a gravely voice, “Are you here for the betting match?” she asked softly.

I nodded and then said, “Yes, I am.” I reached into my jacket pocket and took out a green chrysanthemum. The flower’s bright hue contrasted brilliantly with the black of my dinner jacket.

I handed the delicate flower to the old woman and waited while she examined it and turned it over in her hands. Finally after about three minutes of examining, she brought the chrysanthemum to her nose and sniffed deeply. She nodded and handed the flower back to me.

“Everything seems to be in order. It’s the 12^th floor and don’t even try going to any other floors,” she said looking at me from over her glasses which dangled precariously off her long pointed nose. “If you do, you will be escorted off the premises immediately.

I took back the chrysanthemum and walked towards the elevator. I pushed the up button and immediately the doors of the elevator opened with a cheery “ding”

Haiku Monday- To Those in Darkness

To those with no voice

To those who linger and hide.

To those in darkness.

To those without tears.

To those with no will or soul.

To anonymous.

Artist Trading Cards

So over the break I'vs discovered a new type of artistic inspiration. Artist Trading Cards. Artist trading cards are miniature works of art about the same size as a baseball card. You can make these out of any material but I prefer collage.

Here's my favorite of the ones I've made:

The Undertaker Convention

This is a story I started in writing group today:

It was four o'clock in the morning and the sky was the color of the inside of a grapefruit. Jack rested his head on his hands and looked around at the people who sat near him in the large auditorium. On his right sat a large man with red hair. He wore a green and white striped polo shirt that said Apple Blossom Country Club in red letters. He was reading a book called "Arnold Palmer's Secrets to Golfing" On Jack's left sat a woman with straight black hair. She was currently yelling into her iphone, "What do you mean you broke the heating Ralph? You know what I've had enough of you!" She hung up.

Jack sighed and turned his gaze back to the auditorium stage. Jack and all the other people in the room had come for the undertaker's convention. A daylong event where the newest and best coffin technology would be unveiled. Around him Jack heard nothing unusual, mostly jokes about death. He heard from behind him, "Wow, run over by a steam roller, that's pretty impressive. But I have better, I had a client who was eaten by a rhinoceros." This was greeted by many oos and ahs. Finally the ceremonial coffin was rolled in and out of it popped the host of the event. He happily proclaimed, "Welcome to the annual undertaker's convention!"

The host's name was William A. Huffer but the undertakers thought that was too formal and called him "Huff 'n Puff Huffer" Mr. Huffer continued, "It’s a great honor to be here for this joyous event. Now for the moment you’ve all been waiting for.” Mr. Huffer took an envelope out of his jacket pocket and opened it. “The winner of the award for best coffin goes to…” He paused dramatically, “The Wooden Reaper, Embalm Studios,” shouted Mr. Huffer.

The man who had been bragging about his unlucky clients eccentric death jumped up and pumped his fist. As he walked down the aisle toward the stage a voice came over the loudspeakers, “This is the first Mortis Award for Embalming Studios coffin. They have been nominated three times.” The crowd clapped and cheered as the man climbed up the stairs to the stage. The man mounted the stage and was handed his Mortis award, which was a golden trophy in the shape of a coffin.

Flying

How the grim reaper travels...

Yes I know the balloons are too small but hey... its my first water color so yay!

PLEASE COMMENT!

Haiku Monday

I will be posting something a little more awesome later this evening but for now here's another haiku monday:

Glass waters glisten.

Mirror-like patterns on its face.

Spinning whirls of light.

(I don't know why I though mirrorlike was a word.)

Collection of Haiku about the senses

Sorry I haven't posted in a while. I've been very busy over break. Some actual art coming soon. All I can say is that it involves the grim reaper and balloons. Enjoy, follow and comment.

Does Silence echo?

Can you hear it? To find out

I yell silently.

In the quiet, see

the big bright moon reflecting

our worst fears and hopes.

Crying without tears.

I heard your voice but did not

turn or acknowledge.

In the middle of

the scent, twisting tendrils of

glowing aromas.

Rivers of tastes flood

the silence. The rapids run

wild never stopping.

Shredders rip and tear.

Through the silence like bell tolls.

The still is disturbed.

You might be able

to hear, taste, or see silence.

But can you hear it?

The Tale Of Sir Breakenridge

I am a very classy man. I’ve been told this many times and have grown to believe it myself. I think it’s the bowler hat. It really makes or breaks you. I walked down the street strutting my custom strut that I had perfected after hours of practice. It was about nine o’clock and I was strolling leisurely toward my friend Sir Charles Whaler’s London penthouse. My 5,000 dollar suit flapped behind me in the wind. The sun shone high above the boring grey buildings bathing the sprawling city in light. As I reached the crest of the hill I saw the house, or more honestly the top of it. Atop the tall penthouse was a sprawling rooftop garden that was home to many rare and exotic planets. Surrounding the garden was a wide dome of clear glass. It been erected to protect the vegetation from pollution that rose from the many smoke stacks that scattered London.

As I walked down the hill and saw the entire house I was disgusted. It was obvious that my mutual friend Sir Charles was filthy rich. I was dirty rich, but he was filthy rich. In short that is like the difference between millions and billions. A sign above the door said proudly in gold letters The Estate of Sir Charles Whaler. I knocked on the door and listened to the echo with my ear to the door. To confirm my discovery I sniffed the door and was surprised. Agarwood, one of the rarest woods in the world. The door I estimated weighed about twenty pounds. The wood cost one million dollars per ounce. In twenty pounds there are 320 ounces. My mouth dropped. Sir Charles had spent 320 million dollars on his front door. I couldn't imagine what the inside would look like.

The Golden Chord

I found a perfect cord today.
The perfect mixture of black and white keys.

The air shattered and time caught its breath.

Conducted by an angel.

My fingers skittered along the keys again and again.

The Perfect Chord.

The Golden Chord.

Mine at last.

It held love and sadness, anger and fear.

Longing and lust. Envy and happiness.

The great game of hide and seek was finally over and the world seemed to shiver.

But gone again the notes flew away.

The golden chord like the golden snitch.

Elusive as always.