Art Heart

There is no art,
Without heart,
No heart,
Without art.

When spiraling into madness,
Name-and-all, forms into some storm of a vast ocean of sadness, crackling with explosive light that glistens.

Oh but when the heart listens,
The whirlpool of emotions motion anew; languid like a feather dancing in autumn wind.

A feather you, still in the waters-that are the sky-now knows the cooing of crashing waves against mind's shore. Sure, we are feeling the whole body of the cosmos.

The body rest in heaven, and hell is a place where angels laugh gaily; once paralyzing thee! However, now seeing everything: A beautiful comedy, a masterfully dramatic tragedy.

This play's stage rests in eternity, entreating us all to cry, to laugh, to laugh, to cry.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Mark,
I like this so much...but i actually see two different poems here.
I find the first four lines stand alone in perfect symmetry.
But i see the rest of the lines forming another poem...of madness is created from art or art from the madness...and how the artists themselves vacillate between crying and laughing...as muse comes and goes and bargains with our minds...as we try to maintain our integrity with art and not sell out.

j.

[Mark Mendoza]

Thanks for the read j. I do appreciate it very much. The artist's mind certainly runs a muck when trying to pigeon hole the works of the world, so I feel it necessary to fly like the wind, as the many great cool cats in the jazz scene. Here today, gone tommorow, leaving impressions of ever expanding creation.