Zombie love is still love
Deadly like wilting poisonous roses
Zero tolerance for growth
Images entwined embraced
Your fingers around my soul
Shades of gray wrapping
Like umbilical cords
A kiss to die for
Will you paint that please
Can you breathe life into
A dead romance
Black widow
with a webbed dance
Breaking my heart bones
Acidic love is so wrong
Strong
Homegrown
Weary of love jones
Sure to be the last to leave
Perhaps to be linked in eternity
As your famous subject matter
Stroking brush painting unflattered
No need to give us a name
We are broken bones of love’s disdain
As we run from the ash,
will the pyramid of peace,
save our love?
As we gasp for air,
I feel totally loved with,
"Your fingers around my soul."
As you hold me so tightly,
kiss me over and over again then,
"Kiss me when the sun sleeps..."
Here as our time is ending,
"I own your signature,"
for evermore as we close our eyes.
"I'm a vampire rose,"
is this our true death?
I can smell the sweetness of a rose,
as the vampire of life bleeds us dry.
Will we ever be found?
Paint smears and blotches
look below the surface
artworks elegance
I would often wander through the Tate
walking round the galleries and halls
admiring all the portraits
pictures and artwork on the walls
it was almost quite the hobby
then a painting I espied
of a proper Peeler a British Bobby
arresting is not denied
corporal punishment is implied
I admit would you believe and have to say
the stripes on his sleeve were a giveaway
but I was unfamiliar
with the artist responsible
as the vignette was neither a Sargent
and yet no more a Constable
Oh dear, dear Dora, fragmented and bright,
A puzzle of planes in the shifting of light.
Green nails are daggers, sharp points on the page,
A geometric dance during the colorful age.
Your purple eye shadow, a block and smear,
Holds two eyes together, yet one’s never near.
One looks to the future, one stares at the past,
In a Cubist arrangement that’s destined to last.
With lipstick applied in a thick, waxy stroke,
Your mouth is a silence that never quite broke.
A triangle’s curve on a violet-stained lip,
As the lines of your spirit begin a courtship.
Oh, Muse of the angles, of squares and of sighs,
With a kaleidoscope burning in deep gold eyes.
You are broken and rebuilt, a masterpiece grand,
With that emerald flash of a segmented hand.
Written: May 03, 2025, for contest by Brian Strand
Olena Babak's artwork Spring's Easel Explodes Painting Shades
( It is more convenient to read the poem while looking at the artwork.)
*******************
the light shines in the eye of the whirlwind
whipping vanilla meringue through the clouds
swinging, the swamp lawn shoots over the shore
casting an apricot glow from the shrouds
butterscotch hues lace the periwinkle sky
peach, tangerine, and lavender stripes, too
caramel waves ripple across the lakebed
illuminating the lemon in the zircon view
In lush glades on a cypress-lined isle
pink flamingos find shelter by the trees
blue herons weave twig nests in the boughs
swaying in the warm, tropical-scented breeze
as dusk draws the brightness down to the horizon
Mother Earth downpours on the cornflowers
nourishing buttercups, milkweed, and daisies
while people describe the sprinklers as April showers
Bubble balloon buffoon did not need jester hat
His costume designed by merry Cheshire cat
Argyle socks created by cirque du Soleil
Splattered paint on coat has much to say
A walking artwork, enhancing this weird Tuesday.
Beneath the Rubble
Unfinished artwork waits on the shelf,
Hidden between dark pages,
Scribbles on paper long to be free.
As a lover waits, it too waits,
For the breath of life,
Seasons pass without promise.
In the womb’s dark, an embryo craves,
Nourishment, life’s blood,
“Edit me,” it cries, “Color me crimson.”
Forget not,
A story to be told,
A poem promised,
Longing.
The sun’s rays cascade through the leaded windowpane,
You wake to the quiet space,
Between thought and being,
A stirring deep within the heart.
You pause, reach for the notebook,
Blow off the dust,
Gently turn the page,
Hope.
Pen in hand,
Flesh exposed.
Red blood appears,
Life.
A sigh of relief,
The long-lost lover arrives.
Make all pages a cover
When you write like that
It becomes a work of art.
Most of the day,
Alone on this wall we stay;
When the doors open wide
Shy colleagues ,behind curtains hide;
On view for all for free see
Our lives, on show for all to see;
On the seat ,over there,they sit
Often bored,only their kids will admit;
Silence is the rule in our home,
Our photos and bios well catalogued;
Up close into my face they peer
Often my expression can bring a tear;
Yes,admiration we do adore,
Silent hedonism,can be a bore;
At night with the alarm turned on
Some of us burst into song;
We long for freedom,to be alone,
In a family,not on our own
Memories are being snipped like flowers.
Putting together shades that scent like oil.
Melt almost like yolks pleading on towers.
The work depicts the many threads of hours.
The solder between brushstrokes and bowers
Fear behind the helmet till its touch spoil
Memories are being snipped like flowers.
Putting together shades that scent like oil.
Written: February 18, 2023
*** This Painting I Do ***
(A Devotion Poem for Jim)
It is my heart
Painting your portrait
Out over this paper
After I caught your profile,
When you weren’t looking,
Casting your attention
In another direction,
While I blended in
The colors of your chin,
And you hadn’t known that
I’d peeked over
Your well-kept
Walls of mystery, which
Usually…no, always even I
Do not cross…But
Today the artist, I,
Let my sight spy
To set down the contour lines
Of your portrait, which
I promise when completed
To then hide this artwork
From the view of anyone else:
Beneath a cross-hatched weave
Of a thousand tiny strokes
Of glittering beams of gold,
And shining rays of silver,
Stippled stars overall to consume
You — silhouetted by all the light
Of God’s gracing and
My loving heart’s way
Of seeing you.
———————————————————————————————
(C) sally young eslinger 12/10/2022
Thanks be to God…
———————————————————————————————
(C) sally young eslinger 12/10/2022
Thanks be to God…
I am a work in progress, but still and always a work of art. I will blend, and smudge, and add layers and layers of color and shapes influenced by my emotions. Thoughts and feelings piling onto the canvas as days and weeks and months pass. Each addition of paint or experience only make the piece more true. And you can feel it. It radiates expression that even I didn’t know needed to be released… perfectly illustrates the confusion, the search for clarity, the begging for understanding and communication- an idea that seems just out of reach.
Graceful encounters are rare but if you take a step back you will see the rawness of the undeniably genuine dance of life. I am dancing. I am uninterrupted. I move quick and with purpose, there are periods of rest and introspection, reflection. I am inconsistent but the flow is never before seen, it is my personal sway and I love it.
Pencil strokes and midnight tokes
My mind is in a daze and my heart is broke
Pages penned in the wee hours of the morning
Getting lost in art is a form of mourning
My brain shuts off and everything is quiet
Without an outlet these emotions riot
It may not look like much in the moment
But these memories are mine and I own it
Processing comes in many forms
And through the process a passion was born
The desire to create relatable pieces
To pave the way to peace and realization
Words wander onto paper
as the pen sits between my fingers
My mind creates when it feels destroyed
It soothes my senses when i feel annoyed
The art of creation manifests different vibrations
A way to relate to others and share my aspirations
Through pages of poetry and works of art
I’ve worked through some of the hardest emotions and mended my heart
To French cast Frederic Berjot.
You made iconic art statues, venerable.
You had no idea what was impossible.
Your Iris bust's cast centrum inherit
Within the void that is my spirit.
Only raw art may cure soul abyss,
I adored each shattered artifice.
Shape may your lust conjure,
holy ecstasy is codified by a codger
Written: May 05, 2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Sculpture-Iris/652278/1789565/view
https://fredericberjot.com/2016/10/20/body-casting-sculptures/
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