One day there was a bright glowing canvas, a pure sparkling white
It was beautiful, but not complete
Then someone came along and drew lines on it to form flowers and mountains and streams, it was more beautiful and it made the natural white look more distinct
Then one day someone else added color and the canvas radiated and became more and more complete, it seemed whole and functional
Suddenly, one day someone came along and slew the canvas, destroying its color till it showed black, and an ugly black
The canvas seems so drab so empty without its color, so lifeless
People refused to help the canvas, refused to anything about the canvas slayer refused to listen to the canvas’ plea
Instead the canvas slayer’s free to roam free to hurt and damage other canvas
Who will restore the canvas?
Who will bring justice?
Why is the canvas slayer free to roam while the canvas feels imprisoned, crushed, victimized?
Why is the canvas treated like a criminal?
When will the canvas feel free, joyful and peaceful?

What a beautiful thing it is !
A Canvas that speaks a lot
Wow ! an artist’s soul
That try to speak a lot
From the window of canvas
To the doors of sky
Till the depth of ocean
In the romancing moonlight
And spreading its vastness
As the fragrance
Of night blooms
Until the sunrise
Again from morning dews
To chirping birds
Snowy mountains
To windy breeze
A moving cloud
And even from rain to rainbow
All is possible
With the tip of a brush
Is a marvellous thing
That depicts an artist’s heart

An art is a creation
Of an artist
Which is made
In different colours
With different paints
And in different shades
But all in one canvas
Makes an effective painting
Which can never die
As an artist’s soul
That is lightning forever
As a magical lantern

Some paintings speaks a lot
Like stories to us
When it starts speaking
The whole image depicts
It’s originality
As an original photo
Of some place
And that really can lost us
Somewhere as in the canvas

Even eyes of a portrait
Speaks a lot
When we stare in that eyes
It seems as the person is gazing
As a living person is standing in front of us
Which feels like a real photo
And it really makes
An unbelievable painting
Which is like giving life
To the non living thing
Within the canvas
By an artist
Or like a flower bloomed
In the hands of an artist

Canvas that speaks a lot
Really shows true heart
Of an artist’s creation
A beautiful creation
By ones own hands
Mesmerise all of us
With no time
Like an original picture
Taken with a camera
Of high resolution
Is something to adore
With the hearts of love

Canvas that speaks a lot
Is a graceful creation
That makes us wonder
Which is a miracle
In hands of an artist
That remains its effect
For life time
And that make
An artist
Different from others

Canvas that speaks a lot
Is a creation of art
When an artist starts
To move his hand on canvas
It starts to speak a lot
From the sincerity of love
To the beauty of a nature
Sparkling eyes of a human
And the depth of a sea
All that beautiful creation
Of Godly things
Is once more painted
With the help of an artist’s brush
Is something that speaks
For a lifetime
With thousands of words
In one image
Is an exemplary
Creation of humane
In a canvas

Canvas that speaks a lot
With voice of heart
Beats in every hearts
And in all eras

An artist is like a lantern
That lightens other lights
And a canvas is a mirror
Of an artist’s soul
That reflects the lights  
For lifetime
Which was once lit
By an artist
With a great deal
Who was owned
By an eloquent soul.

The Canvas
(c)08-25-2012

A canvas sets on the edge of greatness and beauty, blank, waiting for the touch of the master’s hand. She takes charge of what is to be. Gentle strokes, broad strokes, strokes that caress the canvas… leaving the marks of imagination, transforming nothing into beauty. The image emerges revealing the thoughts and desires and power of the canvas. It is breath-taking to the beholder. She understands the difference between OK and great. Nothing will do but great. It must emulate the original. It must be the original! So it is with our canvas of life.

We start life as a blank canvas. Brush strokes are made by those around us as we begin to grow. Made by mom, dad, friend and strangers alike. All try to add their image to our canvas. An image of who they think we are. As we grow into the artist we strive to be, we accept or reject the strokes of others and create a portrait we strive to become.

Some strokes by others can leave an off color, covering who we really strive to be. A brush stroke that is not us can be covered by our touch, our color, our imagination of who we are, adding integrity to the texture and hue. Revealing an inner beauty as the artist of our life takes control, guiding our hand, adding the touches that transform the canvas from OK to great.

The Artist chooses the colors, the brushes from which she wants to define her life. The decisions are hers to make as she selects the shades of color, or even black and white, that will define her life. She paints a portrait of peace and joy, of self-less love for family and friends.. All else is unimportant. The things of past are covered. Today and tomorrow are forming a painting that will be great.

Letting the Master’s Hand guide our hand, we find freedom flowing freely onto and into our canvas. In doing His will in our life, we are set free. A freedom indescribable at times as we are lost to the distractions of the past. Caught up in the hope and love of today.

The Master guides our hand, willingly or even unwillingly at times in our artistic endeavor. As we learn to relax and give Him control of our hands, He reveals the beauty that is within us. It is great.

I have heard being an artist and painting described as being easy but living life as being difficult and unsure. Life can be described as a series of brush strokes, choices. Some can destroy the beauty intended for our canvas. Some strokes can create breath-taking beauty which radiates outward, inspiring the ones observing our portrait.

This was inspired by a young friend of mine, she left a few brush strokes on my life. They will not be painted over. They will be treasured, remembered for a long time to come.

When I look into a mirror, I want to see Jesus, the Creator of my portrait.

My body was once a blank canvas

But that hardly lasted very long

People came and they went, each leaving a distinct mark

Some of those marks are still highly present, while others have since faded

The marks that are most visible are the ones you left

They’re on my skin and on my bones

They have penetrated every aspect of my being and it is impossible to scrub myself clean of them

I can only hope that by adding to my canvas that you will eventually fade

I can only hope that someone comes along who leaves writing and art and a beautiful masterpiece on what was once blank

I can only hope that what I add to my canvas covers what you left

I can only hope that my canvas remains intact from all those who have left their mark

There is so much I want to add to my canvas

There are experiences and art and people that I have yet to know

I want to never be blank again

I want vibrant masterpieces painted on my body, on my bones, in my soul

I want people and experiences to come and leave their mark

I want to shine bright and happy to that those I reveal my canvas to

I want all that see my true colors to know how unique I am and that I am not like everyone else

The canvas of my body may have once been blank, but those days are long gone

The canvas of my body has been painted, torn, repaired, cleaned, and painted again

The canvas of my body is something that is uniquely mine and if I reveal myself to you, you better feel **** special


-m.j.

There was a canvas lying on the floor,
his canvas was lying on the floor.

There was a canvas lying on the floor,
his canvas was covered in red,
painted by his blades.

There was a canvas lying on the floor,
his canvas was covered in blue,
painted by his fists.

There was a canvas lying on the floor,
his canvas was ruined, and overused.

He needed to get a new one,
since he loved painting so much.

He always had a smile on while painting his canvases.

The sea is the beginning of a poem. It’s color is baby-blue.

It is and certain points has a dark shade tint to it.

The forest behind
  is green, forest-green and at not light not at all light:

Baby blue: I accept happiness and color

Is not: It’s not, it is not three O clock in the afternoon evening afternoon maybe like light and day but or eleven PM shady night I am smart that is not shade. I also think love exists outside of you with so many people to meet. Instances are where for keeping you warm and safe is what I am asking for, but I will and I did thinking of blueberries before you seem to have the problem it makes me smile that the color purple you are not only very pretty, cool, good, Okay, I love you not like but Okay I love you

Hey Mr. Comma you must mean too that are you mean too much to ignore I am soo satisfied with my amounts and experiences because they’re enough

People: Me, too, baby, someday, me, too, baby. Probably no lawsuits.

Between as well, the lighted shade of green-light is not, maybe pink, blue as well our the is the day is incredible and there is the a for the ceiling.

The top: Bottom towards the top is the top of one and so among many more are money pays for this, “Woah, wait, I’m actually at  I’m at Harvard Business School? What’s equity again?” Right, today other times I’m at the University of Sydney where I actually have to do stuff because it’s not Harvard University and what I mean is you should go to Harvard University and I won’t go to Harvard University I only keep saying and writing and actually I already ‘right, today other times’

Podcast: Apply hope you continuously tree where your words continuously are continuously sometimes safe to be to me to me to me

The words were to meet and that happened years like more than eight years ago but parts to me sometimes of the portion of the a pretty, pretty portrait.

I will complete before you also because you are working on next sentences completing next sentences and finishing your third next sentences book is only a small portion or part of the whole the the whole completed product, you pretty product, productively

Please be careful and safe, queen of the definitions that you came up with and answered. I want to be careful.

Hmm, what am I thinking about that is more like fantasy maybe an E topic wait that’s a power chord for a song you will enjoy, okay it is also a song and sure a subject or a topic but certainly a subject, you too should see.

I see that wasn’t too hard.

Hi Joan Mitchell, I like very much your art.

The act of painting: 1 color canvas added on the canvas and not to the canvas there is a difference

2 colors canvas added on the canvas,

3 colors canvas added on the canvas,

4 colors canvas added on the canvas,

Where’s the finished and presented product? I bet I can show that TO someone and that wouldn’t go well ON the person I am showing the finished and presented product to inside at their place and location that should be effortfully coordinated and agreed upon and decided. What’s your favorite verb?

And: lastly guy, fifth color canvas to the canvas. You’re gonna be beautiful tomorrow too.

Here comes the counseling the the. How do I get through?

Woah, maybe where what no more like I, too, am happy, gorgeous.

I, too, can afford a life and my life, I agree it’s color being used here and there there is here and it is a difference among cities and she also did it on her own like that color was chosen in a pair and not alone.

Social anxiety ***** and does feeling like you have depression. I don’t want depression. I don’t want social anxiety.

Boy: Way unique I am I am I am enough for you enough too and you will need more than you and I both can think ahead or plan

And: You should go first, no please, the view is great anyways.

And so are you. Please do not forget about you or your brother who would like to afford more than he needs, maybe five times more than he needs, and will think better of it. What’s permanent?

My head: that bag isn’t large and it also is not big. Nor should the bag be a no so you are a no, not like it used to be like I used to be here and there and there and here and here and here but like that and was supposed to happen and you didn’t be therefore wrong wrong therefore too. I’m in my office and I might have took a good day once at home for you too.

The best thing to do is better safe and be better safe.

That: You are a safe mother and you will continue with your family as well.

You: no more gazing near inky Monet gazette mail into vacuum today and felt badly needed a friend of course more friends but never the most friends

Oh: And so I called him and not her mother as I or because I looked at the trees while I spoke to him because I am not the only one that looks into the trees that are not really there for example, not present, there are no trees present. The forest, behind her terrace also is my terrace because that is something we, she and I, agreed on together like the signed apartment contract that is stored someplace safe and locatable is going well we both received well-being and good formal humor maybe some bad manners and some sort of stuff like I said to you like I said to you that I hope you a good day as well or too I clean the house the for you so you don’t have to clean it yourself.

Yourself: once no more than twice you are perfect and I hope you paint and have a good time at least while you paint.

I’m like that I’m so sorry, I can provide, I can support, I can offer you just never told me when, what or how yet I still did not turn out bad and you too did turn out bad. Wait you’re not bad, pretty pretty pretty pretty. I love you hope sometimes. Other times I am a single sales associate that does not and that think he or she does not earn enough money and does not want to shop from the store they (he/she) works at. It’s okay, it’s time to go to bed. I will get better. I hope it gets better. Before I go, is there anything else I could do? Apple is having a Black Friday sale and I bet the phone looks pretty and comes with a adjustable phone case.

The old man sits and waits, staring at an empty canvas. A canvas that awaits his thoughts, his fears, his pain and his love.

The old man drifts from thought to thought. At first he sees his cold mother and distant father, he sees the train station being leveled by the bombs of a madman.

He sees himself running through the fields where bodies have fallen. The ground wet by the tears of those who survived. He sees himself taken away by those in black with white collars, he remembers the sting of their violations.

He tries to escape but the scars remain, spreading through his body like a plague, it denies him speech and it fills him with hate. When the madman's bombs cease to fall he is allowed to leave but part of him remains in that building of shame.

He is not the same when he sees family again, for the scars remain as well as the shame. The old man stares at the empty canvas, remembering everything stolen from him, his love, his beauty, his voice.

He falls down.

Until love reaches out and extends her hand to him, she helps him find his voice, his beauty and his love. She helps to stand and for a time the canvas is filled with love and beauty. But the scars remain.

Love is not strong enough, she soon becomes overwhelmed. His pain, his shame forces her to flee. He is alone once again, his canvas is empty again.

His voice starts to die, he starts to cry. He falls. He cannot heal for he knows not how, years go by and his canvas remains dry. The scars remain. Until one day...

There is a knock at the door, it is the old mans son with scars of his own. The son tells his father that he forgives him, that he may have scars but they do not define him.

The father begins to cry, for no one had ever told him that forgiveness was allowed. The shame had taught him that. The son tells him that he can heal once he begins to forgive himself.

How says the old man

Speak! Says his son, speak until the scars have no power. He begins to speak, and colors begin to appear on the canvas, soon fields of green meadows and blue sky’s explode across the canvas.

All the while the man is speaking, he talks about the mad man and his bombs. The men in black with white collars and the soldiers weeping for their lost friends. About the love that tried to rescue him.

Soon the canvas fills the room with images of beauty and color, the beauty that was trapped in his soul, the beauty that is now free.

Old man begins to cry and his son asks why? These are not tears of pain says the father but of disappointment. I’m an old man he says, I’ve been a prisoner for so long. But today you are not says the son, today you are free.

The father smiles, what is it asks his son. I need another canvas for tomorrow he says for there is more to say.