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On Writing And Words Art Poems | On Writing And Words Poems About Art

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Details | Rhyme | |

Seductive Disarray

I didn't crumble or drift off into a fade...
I shrugged off goodbyes faster then they were made...
Watched as they were dipped and soaked in my poetic rage...
As I threw a fist full of words against a framed blank page...
I sat and watched my emotions scatter artistically...
Like candles on a wall it poured in colors so intensely...
A portrait of a misguided soul that has lost its way...
To a poet who paints with a pen in seductive disarray...


Details | I do not know? | |

Raindrops

Raindrops
are like my thoughts
falling down into my mind
sending goose bumps down
my spine

Their cool aftermath
cleanses me of my thoughts
of fear and uncertainty 
about what tomorrows
pain may bring

They make me feel,
wet with creativity
drenched in my optimistic
illumination. glistening
raindrops, my thoughts
leave paths of pleasurable
distress, and hope of success
which road, less traveled
may be the best

Forget an umbrella
when these raindrops
arrive, I walk outside
arms open wide

Ready to Receive
whatever
the mind storm may bring
because raindrops are
as my thoughts, falling
down into my mind
sending shivers down
my spine

My brain, yearns
for the rain, to wash away
the pain, tomorrows worry
does bring
One special drop
could speed up life's clock
to the time
I can handle my own
and not dwell inside my controllers
home

For raindrops are,
like my thoughts
falling down into my mind
sending goose bumps
down my spine


Details | Rhyme | |

Frail Paper Etched With Words

Whether poets, showmen or philosophers,
Or mere cowboys who follow herds—
They all want to leave behind a lasting mark—
More than frail paper etched with words.

But the cold, hard truth still lies in the doing
And all but a blessed few will fail—
But on we go like bison over the cliff—
Hoping our wings sprout and we sail.

And like restless sleepwalkers we do wander
From one thing and then to the next—
Till we find what it is that will then save us
To put life in proper context.

So on we scribble and strive for the right phrase—
Catch meaning and life in birds—
Put emotions and feelings we briefly hold
On this frail paper etched with words. 


Details | Dramatic Verse | |

Attention: WORD NERDS--------- The Eight Parts of Speech

---------------------- "Word Nerds" (like me)...
************Please Have Fun & Read VERY Closely:)***********


now and again
a word 
sneakily obscure
approaches the fog in me
screams its name 
suddenly 
apropos adverbs appear
clearly 
startling 
perplexing 
precarious adjectives
slick little nouns
caught hiding 
beyond babbling brooks
sent to exile
defiling crooks
"pro"fessional nouns
jailed
beneath eight parts of speech
preposition'ed 
pre'fixed subjects
elusive predicates
slithering suffix'ation
turn-ing key
delicately 
through holes
freeing vocabulary
trapped 
within prison walls
synonyms 
pen bars 
filled in the past 
participles
plagued 
like Job's tedious job 
of siphoning
deciphering 
homographs from heteronyms 

words never mind...
 
they wind the mind
gliding 
in the wind...





Details | Free verse | |

A seed of poetry

Like water that flows in a river
Time will not stop and wait
It comes and then it goes
And now will soon be late
The sun will not rise
And forget to set
Today will not stay here forever

Time was born and passed away
While I was chasing dreams
I never dreamt of
Dreaming of things that were 
Not for me to dream about

I didn’t know at first 
That in my inside
There is a seed germinating
Deep in the roots of my heart 
Where veins and arteries
Carry blood in and out

The eyes of my eyes
Could not see
The ears of my ears
Could not hear
The tongue of my tongue
Could not taste
The nose of my nose 
Could not smell
The mind of my mind 
Was uncounscious
As this seed
Was patiently growing

It was watered by tears
That couldn’t fall off my eyes
When I cried
It was fertilized by my deep thoughts
That denied me time to rest
The pain I felt within
Was manure to it

And now it has grown
It has grown into a tree
it has grown into a green looking tree
A tree that sprouts colorful flowers
And I am hopeful
Hopeful to reap tasty fruits
Of this seed of poetry
Sown in me by God


Details | Blank verse | |

All I See Is Beauty

All I see is beauty in the burning of her words,
The flickering of flames,
Constructs of fires licking at the night
From snow white sheets of dreaming.

The senses of her bleeding, ink and roses,
Sensual vibrancy,
Gliding rails streaming to the stars,
The links between the earth and heaven’s tide.

All I see is beauty in the visions of her art,
The tenderness of angels,
Architects of chapels wrought of lace,
An arbitrary grace of love.

The impressions of her breathing, saffron breath,
Exhaling of her soul,
Bestow of sleeping kisses to the lips,
Priestess of the mind and loin.


Details | Quatrain | |

The Lonely Poet

Paste on your passion smile
Crisp all your words
as you settle yourself 
to be self-consumed, heard
Whisper sweet nothings
which only you know
Don't stop the banter,
the words or the flow
You've reached the summit
of the loneliest point
You're king of the vacancy
best in the joint
Write all your poems
on the back of your hand
and read them at supper
of cream pie and sand
Your siblings will stand up
and whisper applause
You've felt all emotion
and ridden all stars
They bid you good-bye
for you're out of their league
and to think you just wanted
to be heard, succeed...


Details | Free verse | |

Poetry Won't Hold Her Tongue

Poetry won't hold her tongue
When desperate times
And the little men they breed
Would counsel silence.

     She bursts instead Athenalike
     From out the wearied brain
     Or grows painfully from every vein
     Like ivy's tiny tendrils
     Pulling monuments to ground
     Inch by inch
     To let in the light and rain
     From which newer monuments may grow.

She cares not at all 
For their inconvenience.

     She shows herself so many ways:
     
     As the boldly topless Priestess,
     Snakes coiled about her outstreatched arms

     As the nun in golden sunlight
     Falling through cathedral stone

 This lady is a child
 All innocence of face
 And Ageless eyes
 She knows all that remains of purity,
 And every excess she also calls her own.

She woos the soul with its own music;
Her skin of sunsets draws her devotees
Towards her embrace
Her sweetcool breath like snowind calling
She comes again unbidden
Whispering her sweet nothings,
Bearing words to work

     Creation     Destruction     Change

Upon her restless,
                                   Gifted
                                               Tongue.


Details | Blank verse | |

Inspiration

Always fleeting,
you tempt me with beautiful words from nowhere,
convincing me they are my own.
In the corner of my eye, a Muse
& suddenly anything is possible.
You haunt me;
sending visions of dark ink 
flowing from poised finger tips.
Finally, i give in,
relenting under high expectations
& promises of genius.
Reluctantly, i put pen to paper
& find that you've moved on.


Details | Free verse | |

My Sudoku Life

And I walk
across numerical figments
speaking hyperbole dialect to their imaginations.

Numb, blocky gaps
whisper invitation to secret club.

Enticing my stature
to belong
to become exponent’s side-kick.

So they can welcome me with open arms.

Coating my digits with inoperable tumors
double-knotted in hot pink laced bow
and baby-breath scent.

They even left a Walmart Rollback smiley face sticker
with crack residue on right cheek
and a comic-style bubble caption, “welcome home puppet”.

Yes!

This is exactly how Mother 1 told me it would be.

Kinda like marriage,
but less detail-oriented.

But, I could never fit in.

For I am neither positive
nor negative
about their (cult) ural ways.

Timing would always be off.

An arm from the clock that suffered a stroke at Midnight…

They’d never understand,
how they’d alter this unevenly, odd numerical figment.

For they’ll just calculate,
deduce,
my sum with rusty protractor.

This Zero, into a fraction...

© Drake J. Eszes


Details | Dramatic Verse | |

Inspiration

I never knew I'd be in heaven
In the autumn of my years,
Or that I'd be immerged
In the brilliant art of words,
Or float above operatic notes,
Or view ballet through
My elated tears.

I never thought I'd meet
Inspiration face to face,
Or feel it rise within me
With a poet's surrendering grace.
I just know that I'm contented
As profound love keeps flowing
From my impassioned heart.
This is the gift that artists
Of this world yearn to impart.

© Connie Marcum Wong


Details | Fibonacci | |

Raul, Haiku Painter

His
Words
Flow with
Elegance
To create paintings
On a canvas filled with white light,
Bursting with everlasting imagery of nature



Copyright © 2009   Lena “Lolita” Townsend

*inspired by Raul’s wonderful Haiku “Sunset” 
*for Brian’s Contest


Details | Diamante | |

A Poet Never Faultiers

I drank my words from the cup of evil lately not holy water
Like many I sit in my dungeon of doom on earth trying not to my addictions faultier
I'm sitting knee deep in the shitted down reservation sewer street water 
Im looking for wisdom daily with sinners with calls that I shouldn't be trying to call her
I know I be looking for a life filled with silver and gold when I know Im living in copper
I know I got a crazy  coming my way so I best get on trying to stop her
I remember the first time I was in love with lust when I first saw her
I know without the water in my life I would scream silent as I would quietly holler 
I know I been like a bunny moving around in life that sometimes people call me a hopper
I know I been kicking it in the field so much that people tell me I should start playing soccer
I should be more of an actor of actions and less more of a talkitive talker
I know I got what I got so I will be a poet that will never ever faulteir


Details | Concrete | |

The Nose

 
                                                           
                                                            Though 
                                                          My 
                                                       Nose,
                                                    Small
                                                And
                                              Not
                                          Well 
                                        Formed,
                                     Still
                                  I like it
                               For I 
                           Can
                        Smell
                     You,
                  Very 
               Lovely
            Scent-
            Your
             Poetry, 
                 Perfume
                      For my soul!


Details | Free verse | |

Tension Waiting

The swordsman who draws his blade
Heart racing at the keening of steel on scabbard 
Tension coiled, poised for the unleashing
Held back by muscles tight with glee.

I am as the soldier, held in stance,
The lioness crouched beneath the concealing grass
As it sways back and forth, as insects sing along the day
Her every breath is halted, her veins do not pulse,
And just as the swordsman stands
They are statues in this moment,
Statues of derision,
Mocking, with their stillness, the very charged tension within.

And I am as the lioness frozen before her pounce
Coiled with motivation and purpose,
And I am as the tongue held with words clinging off its’ edge
Ready to lash out and strike with direction
But I am as the frozen purpose, held tight
Waiting, for a warrior to stand before me
For a reason to uncoil, to lash out with words and pounce.

But I am now as the pen halting before the purest of paper
White and supple, in askance for the lightest touch
A slash of the tip, drawing lines in ink
Lines like a hunter’s bowstring, taut with intent,

As the pen lies frozen above its prey, the falcon petrified aloft still winds
I am the need coiled tight like a wound jack in the box
But alas, there is no victim to frighten,
No pray to pounce upon, no sword or bared neck to slash against
And I am here, with pen frozen, ink ready to be drawn taut
And I have nothing to draw in the ink, no prey or purpose to evoke
I am coiled tight with energy, but it is release that so eludes me,
I am coiled tight with purpose, but it is direction that so denies me.

And here I am, pouncing at ground before me, 
Slicing away at the air around me
Scratching away with a dry pen, on paper still white in askance
I write about…
I write about the coil within, and the lack without
And alone I wonder,
Is it enough, is it enough to go on, a wound up box
Waiting for the slightest touch, the weakest parry, to live.


Details | Free verse | |

Flinging Poems Into Wind

We seine them up
like dust
in pollen-stained hands,
briefly weight them,
balancing them in minds,
determining worth,
profundity. 

And like those before,
we toss them absently
into wind—
winnowing maple seeds—
whirling them from us—
as we shape lives,
change destinies.

Now, 
they seem to flit
to nothingness,
like us—
pale night insects
pestering
opal moons,
infestations of night
thickly settling
on the liquid glass
of our tongues.



Details | Verse | |

A Coffee Bar with Orange Paint

A coffee bar with orange paint --
   Brown tables on a tiled, grey floor --
Soft light within blown glass above --
   A neon sign hangs by the door.

I come here sometimes just to write.
   A coffee bar with orange paint
To some would be apalling; but
   I do not see it as a taint.

Tonight an artist's work is hung
   Upon those walls in bold display;
A coffee bar with orange paint
   Allows her dreams to have their say.

I like the color in these walls --
   A brazen hue, not pale or quaint;
And in this place I weave my words --
   A coffee bar with orange paint.


Details | Rhyme | |

My Friends in Poetry

Dear Alliteration, 
First friend, foremost;
Forgetting not,
Shy Allegory, 
Dressed in Allusion; 
Sweet Anaphora, 
How I need thee! 
How I need thee!
 
And Assonance; 
Never deep asleep, 
Nor rest Refrained, 
By Caesura; 
Clever Chiasmus; 
Who has pause to write, 
And write to pause; 
Cheeky Consonance, 
Agreeing;
Time needs its tick-tock, 
Rocked at chimes; 
How Didactic, 
An Ictus, 
Ellipsis, 
Is that?
 
Clink — tinkle; 
Cubes in a glass; 
Bourbon mist; 
Hello; 
Onomatopoeia is back, 
From visiting, 
Palindrome, 
At Lake Oxoboxo, 
Madam Eve, 
Our favorite, 
Paradox, 
Not pair a ducks, 
Nor Parataxis, 
She quacked not; 
She waddled not; 
She flew not; 
End stopped; 
Did not, 
Run into Enjambment, 
Iambic, 
Pentameter, 
On foot nearby; 
Rhyme Royal chanting;
Prose babbling, 
Out of line, 
Screaming;
Vers libre!
Vers libre!

Pathos, 
Pity me; 
Scan not,
My prosody;
Bravo!
The coins are tossed;
O my dear friends, 
In poetry, 
Therein lay, 
Our Eulogy, 
Paradise Lost.


Details | Haiku | |

It is now

Ain't a word, you said.
but it takes a daring gust 
for things start to be.


Details | Verse | |

Enigma's Calling

Extraordinary, I am 
Craving for unusual thoughts
Endless exploration without boundary
Understanding  the gift I shouldn't fought
 
Invisible drawings in my mind
Playing with the words in my head
My passion
The food of my soul
 
I feel so lucky
The random thoughts
A lifetime companion
A self esteem builder
A goal planner
Be my forever life saver
 
I write more
I talk less
I want to please
I chose to bore
 
What tickles me the most
Is to know what I'm for
Thinking is my love
When  my mind goes empty
That's when I hate
 
My day dreaming lust
Organizing things in my mind
Playing roles of simulation
Where images of art is my vision
And words of attitude is my heart


Details | Ballad | |

Poetry Soup

Since joining just yesterday,
I have not had much to say,
As I sit here idle,
Waiting for a title,
I watch as you pass my way,

I am honored to be here,
While a select few may jeer,
Mostly I can see hope,
From the end of my rope,
Bringing about a joyous tear,

For all poets who have been called,
Disenchanted or enthralled,
Our mission always true,
We inform and move you,
To make you act or make you halt,

To rise above and expound the truth,
Or to lose ourselves in a groove,
Whether blatent or far out,
We live to learn - live to shout,
About love, laughter or the blues,

For although I may be new,
To this small poetic group,
I see what you've built,
With talent and skill,
Namely this Poetry Soup,


Details | Couplet | |

Words Not Heard

When words can't be seen and smiles aren't felt,
we fall onto paper and drip and melt...

We spread colors of blue and grey to highlight
an early morning sigh, and splash and orange tint
on a late afternoon high...

Late at night I will paint my sky a dark black, and
with just my fingertips sprinkle stars that stay intact...

When words finally return and a Poem is read, the background
is my painting of colors from a dreamer not dead....


Details | Quatrain | |

Tried & Tested - into the sunset

I am so far out of my element
It almost seems unreal
When in truth, which I always seek to find
Pretence is all that I feel
In this, my second language
I aim to express the glistening skin
That hides the shallow graves of conscience
Trapped so deep within
The pottery I shape in craft
Though pedistilled and on display
A camouflage that’s merely drafted
words of wisdom most portray
And in the spirit of fairness
As a virtue which we all possess
Accept my resignation
For this sport has had its best 
I’m off to party hard and waste
My life as best as I know how
The animal within this chest
Needs freedom to survive for now
The playing game of words
is but a winding road that’s filled with stone
I’m parched in parts unheeded
As my cluttered soul heads home


Details | List | |

Poetry is... Art

Poetry is... Art
       by Amy Swanson



Poetry comes in all

shapes
sizes
colors
surprises
varieties
lengths
flavors
styles


About all kinds of

feelings
thoughts
emotions
moods
people
foods
societies
animals
nature


It can be

long
short
rhyme
prose
haiku
quatrain
free verse
narrative
sonnet
footle
senryu
tanka
epulaeryu
.... and so many more-!


Poetry's authors are

from everywhere
all ethnicities
women
men
girls
boys
young
old
adults
kids
tall
short
thin
heavy
average
brunette
redhead
blonde
raven-haired
white-haired
gray-haired
or even no-haired


Poetry is 


abstract
                     or

concrete


playful
                     or

serious


light-hearted

                     or

strongly stated.



It is about

               anything

                             everything

                                               nothing

and in-between.



It is

          word art

                           from the heart.



It can make you

happy
sad
thoughtful
mad
excited
or even goo-goo eyed!


Poetry ... just is.


There is only one thing
              
        Poetry is not ...


                                                          cookie-cutter
                                      same-old-all-the-time-heard-it-all-before
                                                          cookie-cutter.


Each verse as unique
        as the heart that wrote it

Each line as unique
        as the soul that felt it.


And so
simply said:


Poetry is... art.


Details | Free verse | |

This Poem Stinks So Badly it Doesn't Deserve a Name

This poem stinks.

It doesn't rhyme 
It doesn't do anything 
It has a little alliteration

well...

it will have some

because that's the easiest poetic element to incorporate 
and if it didn't have any poetic elements 
it would not be a poem 
but would be prose with 
randomly 
inserted 
carriage returns...

(are carriage returns extinct?)

and that would be dishonest. 

This is not a lying poem. 
That would be oxymoronic. 
It's a stinky poem.

And when I finish writing it 
I'm gonna print it out 
and tear it up 
into little bitty 
teensy weensy pieces 
(if I have enough patience to get that small) 
and flush it down the commode 
so it can join all the other 
excrementally effluential essences

(note the alliteration)

of all the other stuff that stinks 
almost as badly as 
this poem.


Details | Cinquain | |

FLIGHTS OF FANCY

In touch
with nature,
artistic libido
releases chimera,onto 
the wing


Details | Free verse | |

Poetry is Poetry is Poetry

A lot of people seem to love fabrication
I won’t judge
That’s just not me
A true poet is to each his own
It’s still poetry
Mine is MY life and MY story
Yours might be full of hopes and dreams that I can’t see 
But if imagination is key
It’s still poetry
I won’t dye or perm my hair
That only masks your essences’ bare reality
Living this way 
Writing that way
To each his own
It’s still poetry
Poetry is poetry is poetry
An artistic expression of ones feelings and ideas
Artistic?
Creative . . .
Creative?
Not your everyday average
Therefore, it can be make believe 
It can be real
Either or, it should appeal to the audience 
To seal a crowd of many zealous listeners or readers
I write for me though
If one can REALate, that is a bonus!


Details | Free verse | |

The Artist's Tower

The Artist’s Tower

In a tower a lonely poet sits
Memories of his past life elude his thoughts
The stifled scent of burnt paraffin clouds his thoughts
There is the light from candles which lit thousands of works
Flickering against paintings stored by unknown artists
The beauty of an eighteenth century meadow
The stark reality of people starving in a depression
All tell a story through an unspoken language
Reams of paper piled against the wall
Stories and poems long forgotten by those who created them
Did anyone ever read even one of them?
The poet sits, thinks and fantasizes in his own prison
Isolation to help him find the right words
The candle fades and grey smoke fills the air
As the light of the North Star filters through a dirty glass window
The poet writes the last word to his newest piece
It too ends up on the piles of discarded work
Because the piece is finished the poet rests
The candle waits for the next artist
There is always another artist who will hide in the tower
There always will be another story, poem or painting
All hidden, unseen in the tower


Details | Free verse | |

Writing Letters is a Dying Art

Dear Sir:
I realize you’ve been busy, so I’m sending a  letter of distress
Postmarked today, addressing my quality of living
Since the last time we told our life stories
Sewed the seams between our broken dreams and 
Seen the world through the eyes of the needle
Tiny and volitional

Since our foggy self-destruction,
Misplaced priorities and miscommunication
On every lonely person’s face, I see my own
Reflected in the spaces between our parallel lines
That should be meeting at Infinity

Please send me a post card when you get there
I want to know what Love looks like

I keep 
Doin’ and doin’ and doin’ my thang
Stacking up that green and 
Piling on the makeup between each scene
Stealing hearts and pulverizing them with each time
I blink
You know…
All those honest ways of making a living

Collapse into bed every night only to close my eyes
And be haunted by dark thoughts of you
Urgently and Daftly my pen 
Spills raven-hued rivers of devotion
Onto this piece of paper
Hoping to soak into you

Dear Sir, 
To get to the heart of my request

Open the ocean to me
The dark sea of your deceit
Drown me deeply in your lies and suffocate me with your
Transparent desperate pleas

Dear Sir, cure me of this loneliness
Charge me of suicide and let me crash into you
Kamikaze Lovers

I understand the risk
I'll take my chances
Openly armed and ready for the world
In those intense brown eyes

Stopping my breath and caving in
To see the world so clearly again

Awaiting your response to my confessions

Sincerely, 
Me


Details | Acrostic | |

Magnum Opus

Man of words, strange creature of fiery intention,
Amplifying pictures with that restless imagination,
Great are the images spurting forth from your pen,
Nothing holds you down, working alone in the den; 
Unto the night you toil, pushed by an alien power,
Mastering some inner demons, taming your fear.

Oh how you search for truths floating up in the air,
Producing tremors with the raging force they stir,
Until at last your labors come to a perfect ending, 
Shaking humanity with the hard lessons they bring.