An Artiste paints his pictures
With every stroke of his brush
Takes his time to see it through
He’s never in a rush
When his masterpiece is finished
He stands back to admire his work
Satisfied he has done his best
A bottle of wine he will uncork
He may have drawn his picture
Painted out his scene
Thinks that it’s so special
The best he’s ever seen
No luxury like that for me
I can only use a word
Describing what is in my mind
And things that I have heard
Paint a picture with my soul
Using only my imagination
Drawing a vision in my mind
And delivering it as a creation
The finished piece must always have
A beginning and an end
Like rhyming slang it has to say
What you did intend
Imagination is the key
To the words that come into my mind
Creating a masterpiece it would seem
Is a task so hard to find
An Artist has his colors at his disposal
I only have words to use
If he paints a classic picture
It’s always in the news
Bus a Poet’s work is more refined
Rarely in the public eye
No masterpiece created here
However I wonder why
Tonight, I won’t write anything at all…
I’m throwing in my quill,—who am I fooling?—
I’m throwing in my keyboard, overruling
my instinct for seriousness,—o how small
and earnestly banal…/I mean!, the gall
of an Artiste not sat at home drooling
on their craft and crafting another grueling
chef-d’œuvre,—Bah!—leave that to the alcohol!—
—@-tack your ’s-periment__’n’|defend|
mine own: for the[object]of this{subject}
is Anihilating your nothingness.
Yea! all this—and (, verily,) nothingless.
Avoid a void?,your void—I“[-VOID-]”| perfect
disdain,—no mask upon it to append.
O, how my sensitive soul writhes
as I struggle to tithe
the coppers of this starving artist's anxiety
who so wants to change society
Who paints and paints to no good end
and pines away for home or friend
Braves the icy winter and blazing summer
while his prospects look ever-glummer
Ahoy! You there! In the handsome fur
Have you a kopek for le artiste, sir?...
Ach! What’s the use? I’ve soured on this gig
Changing the world’s not worth a fig!
If I have awareness of an artiste,
Perceptive heart per chance of a poet,
A mind that loves harmony all amidst,
Freshness of dewdrops and wings of a jet,
Which can on imagination soar wild
On a capricious tour on quirk of whim,
A spur-of-spot wonder, candour of child,
Fantasy to dwell in the world of dream…
If so, let me post life's first private page
‘Pon stepping into life’s second childhood
That leads me to my dream—mellow old age,
That I hope, helps soften my solitude….
‘If I', ah what a wonderful wish bird,
Yet, can there be any such bird in world?
_____________________________________
Sonnets | 02.07.2009, revised July 2024 | wish, bird
Pierre -Auguste Renoir - artiste
whose art ones eyes can always feast
Especially 'CUP of CHOCLATE'
one which all can easily relate
“The window gives the eyes a view of where the door leads.”
Quote_ by Poet
Out the window, beauty pervades,
Inside my chamber, night invades,
Out the window, I see colours,
Inside my chamber is a pathway that contours.
Out the window is a vast unknown,
Inside my chamber, I bear the seeds sown,
Out the window is a change of seasons,
Inside my chamber is the permuting of reasons.
Out the window, nature whispers,
Behind those walls, the artiste searches for what inspires,
Out the window, I'm embraced by nature,
It doesn’t consider my stature.
Out the window, are the places I desire to see,
The sages say the will dwells in me,
Out the window, I see a meadow,
A reminder of an old man's shadow.
Ze French, they are haughty
Kremlinites, vulgar, crude
Le artiste charcoal sketches
in the unvarnished nude
Brits keep a stiff upper lip
Pointy-shoed Italians think they are hip
Ukrainians fight like the dickens
their stockpiles reduced to slim pickens
Well
Organised
Madam
Artiste of the
Nations.
The artist's palette featured
every nuance and shade of color
known to impressarios
and assorted other patron saints
Asked to comment, le artiste himself reflected
~ 'A bucket of paint, it ain't'
She slipped into the ballroom
Shimmied across the floor
Bobbed a graceful curtsy
Slid quickly through the door
Leaving some mixed reactions
From all those gathered there
First time they’d seen a tango
With the artiste totally bare
And it’s not the sort of thing
One ever ever expects to be seen
At an Official Civic Reception
For Her Majesty the Queen
And certainly not in Bolton
Not even as a merry jest
Especially when entertaining
Hordes of other Royal Guests
Though some few unkind people
Thought the Duke wanted more
Insisting they heard that personage
Murmuring encore encore encore
The palace issued a strong denial
An apology came from Tony Blair
Seen as rather ridiculous
As he wasn’t even there
The Heir was rather annoyed
Because he hadn’t been invited
On that special day that the
Mysterious woman was sighted
Somewhere up near Wigan
The dancer read her press
Already preparing for her
Next appearance sans any dress
The universe won't be upset by your singing.
It doesn't matter if a piece is played on a string.
The ache in our throats hasn't disappeared.
You've lived well if you've never suffered.
My pen sparked passions within its curtilage.
My pulse rushed as I uttered a single knowledge.
The note pages are host to a mythical beast.
Only you can have my pen a talented artiste.
The books author has made the google-verse.
Become a poet to avail illuminate the universe.
I'm meditating on some blistering poems.
What are you if you aren't, soul diadems
In the light of love, the cosmos is our home.
Glory to Him who has lovers on metronome.
Who hunts his lengthy lovers truths at twilight?
Is it founded on the promises of a sleight?
Nectar and days are linked in my mind.
With a rock in my throat, I gritted my grind.
Written: September 8, 2021
Lips lustered with Venus-enchantment flirt as
Imagineer steers your swoon to the Moon on a love song..
Beyond oneness with another, the lover and artiste
Relishes color in counterpoise to white rising light, and so flows
Abstracts across a sunrise canvas to laud a treaty ‘tween night and day
Susan Ashley
April 8, 2021
*aesthete: a person who has a special appreciation of art and beauty.
*imagineer: a person who is skilled in implementing creative
ideas into practical form. A Blend of imagine and engineer.
Poet’s note: not for a contest but inspired by the “Star Sign Acrostics” poetry contest sponsored by Charlotte Puddifoot.. Thank you, Charlotte, for the wonderful inspiration. I’m sorry I missed out on entering your contest.
He spoke to the sun
Brought the light to glowing
Revealing all the earth
With its many splendors showing
Mysteries beyond belief
He whispered the trees
Into expectant existence
The birds, butterflies and the bees
The joy, faith and promise
Even their fantasies
He breathed life into man
Gave woman her energy
Handed them nature and wildlife
With the promise of a seed
Who would be the child of their dreams
He gave the life to the ground
With assurance that pleasure would be found
Amid the roses, rich and vibrant
Through the hues of delighted sighs
From dewdrop herbs – sage and thyme
He blew out the light
At night when the moon rose
Revealed the lunar legends
Shining down through the heavens
Reaching our wishful reflections
He delighted in His creation
Allowed us to share
His wonders and warmth
With all His heart
He loved and blessed us fully
The artiste, our God
He knew all our wants and needs
Gave us His very best
With a kind and gentle caress
Then, He rested
Lingering laughter brings out loving lines
Within writings which echo warm, wild words
Music - melodies moisten melted minds
Feelings of hearts who flow furiously
Soothing silence, semblance - with sensations
Praises, prayers, poems who penetrate
Attracting aloneness of the artiste
March 24, 2021
There are as many ways to tell a lie as there are reasons to tell them;
And once you've begun to scheme and lie there's often no way to dispel them;
For one lie will never remain alone long, once told they beget one more,
And then the stone begins to roll, and soon you have run up a score.
The irony is that they're often told to save face or avoid persecution.
To think to do something like that with a lie is nothing more than delusion.
The impression you give by what's said or not said, is what gives one's thoughts direction;
And a true artiste can learn to direct those thoughts with practiced perfection.
Remember when you tell a lie you've too much to remember.
What was said to whom and when there's just too much engendered.
It can follow you forever, it never goes away,
Until at last the truth comes out and then you have to pay,
For all of your dishonesty, your secrets and your lies.
It's better just to tell the truth and never compromise,
Your trust and reputation, you've just too much to lose.
It all will blow up in your face just like a worn out fuse.
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