Best Artwork Poems
Scratching their heads
They look at me
Am I a tree stump
Am I a grotesque face
Inside I am laughing
I know what I am.
Am a freak of nature
Plus the imaginative mind
Of my master
Stand back
see the root of me
My ivy hair
Sightless eyes
Garland of lemons garnish my neck
I am singular
A one off piece of art
I am me ....symbolising winter.
The flash of cameras
Light my wrinkled face
Can feel the warmth of inquisition
Words float by as voices are raised
Conclusion ...no conclusion.
Giuseppe Arcimbodo painting .....Winter 1573
Penned Aug 26 2017
Artwork Contest Judged: 9/6/2017 9:32:00 PM
Botched Artwork Saves Town
Sometime last year, in late August 2015, something unusual went viral..
It was an ancient picture on the wall, vastly unlike its original art..
A piece of botched artwork, unfinished, and yet all over the world it enthralled..
People, the tourist kind, they made a quick bee line, to see for themselves..
Ecce Homo, a seemingly priceless ancient painting in a church , upon one of its wall..
Time has ravaged its brilliant colours , and its paintwork well flaked off the wall..
One artistic old lady of 83, she took it upon herself to try restore its beauty..
Painstakingly she laboured upon days on end, as expertly as she can..
She meant well, it hurts her artistic soul to see the priceless artwork fade..
She tried her best, but the colours, they ran and it was a difficult task..
She had to go away for a short while, she left behind a half restored art...
Someone in church, horrified no doubt, took a picture of it as a matter of fact..
The uploaded picture in the internet, it was shared and quickly it went viral..
Many found it amusing, there was so much scorn, it was soundly ridiculed..
The Ecce *****fresno, or Behold The Man, it now looks like a monkey or a porcupine…
A picture of a mournful Jesus is no more, in its place is an artwork that is one of its kind…
Poor Cecilia, a widow and amateur painter, she never had a chance to finish her effort..
Her failed restoration effort rocketed around the globe and then a miracle of sorts..
People started thronging to this church in Borja, Spain, it was a pilgrimage of some kind...
After the viral picture on the internet, people just had to see and view this new find…..
Now that 150,000 visitors have come and gone, Borja is a town rejuvenated and restored..
In this village of medieval palaces and winding lanes, this botched artwork has the town resurrected…
All the free publicity from a botched artpiece, it has been a breath of life to the local economy..
God works in mysterious ways, it explains the good fortunes that follows from the smudgy renderings..
http://www.nytimes.com/2014/12/15/world/a-town-if-not-a-painting-is-restored.html?_r=0
*** 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…
You feel that painting exists
Still upon the canvas
But it has lost its luster
When it keeps it growing
Inside yourself
Your heart beats faster
As the painting develops
Into a masterpiece
Of dimensions evolved
Into pieces of life
Shown by the colors upon
The white canvas
Showing where dips an sways
Revolve around the world’s
Only repertoire of truth
Thrust upon life’s grace
Where I see the painting
In my mind’s eye still
Such a grueling chore
Where the paint sends beauty
And laying upon the canvas
A picture of abstract
Proportions to random
Acts of nothingness
Still plays its tune upon
My desires to blend the colors
And bleed the picture
Into what art
Surely means to me
Russell Sivey
Painted ponies
across the plains;
splashes of color
against an azure sky;
an equine convention
in the clouds.
Stratospheric
abstracts meet
with colors to produce
ecstatic paintings.
Nature’s canvas
is everywhere and
She paints life
with vigorous
enthusiasm.
there was a girl,
a natural artist.
she painted her artwork everywhere she went.
she painted her lonely walls, she painted her skies.
she painted for everyone, they cherished her artwork,
but no attention was ever paid to the girl.
everyone loved what she did, but nobody truly loved her.
and so, the girl was lonely.
the girl cried and cried, her artwork no longer brought her joy.
she never realized her true worth.
the girl was always unhappy,
one day she decided that she would paint herself.
her artwork soon covered her body,
yet she kept it hidden, afraid of what people would think.
this artwork wasn’t beautiful, not like the other paintings
this one was full of sorrow, hurt and anger
People started asking about the artwork on her body,
they asked her about the sadness in her face,
she new that they didn’t really care,
so she continued painting her artwork.
one day, she met a boy.
this boy was different to the rest,
when she was around this boy,
she finally felt at ease, for this boy had artwork of his very own.
they shared stories of the artwork on their wrists,
creating canvases and painting their emotions,
as her artwork began to fade away, she regained her happiness.
He made her content about her paintings,
and soon, her body was clean of her artwork
until one day, the boy changed.
he left her for another, less broken life.
he pushed her to the curb, and once more, the girl was lonely.
She once again cried and cried, knowing that the one who she had cared most for, no longer cared.
so once again, the girl painted herself.
Her beautiful snow white skin had become splattered and splotched with deep and dark colours
reflecting her thoughts
the girl finally decided that her artwork wasn’t enough agony for her,
so she decided to frame her artwork,
and hang it from her ceiling.
I stand erect with outstretched hand
Representing liberty, for many, a foreign land
My fire dances an incessant jubilant glow
Pungent salts mixed with glassy sand
Linger on my tasting lips whilst serenading patina ed Ears
I Separate tyranny from average men's fears
Some may say I am mute, But I spoke in 1944,
Did you hear my visceral ROAR?
Blink, blink, blink "VICTORY"
I delivered a delightful message highlight
Dripped across the star spangled banner ed twilight
Before you come to visit me, not shoes but
eyes you should polish quite Diligently
"Do you see the iron ore disjointed?"
My right foot is LIFTED and FREE
With 35 expansive eyes inserted upon 7 spiked tiers
I've winked and blinked countless times over the many years
I monitor 7 continents and mighty oceans vast
Proclaiming Enlightened Liberty shall Last for all the bold who pass
Vessel sails chatter resoundingly as they advance in the glorious wind
Crescent waves rock me a lullaby but pierce my eyes, producing cataracts
Stars sprinkle their luminous dust like Epsom salt enveloping weary bones
Mighty storms frigidly wash a dusty old body as lightening shocks my heart
I accept their infinite, whispered gratitude
For I am graciously placed in this longitude and latitude
word count 209
Nature's shadowed rocks
Frame silent star-studded skies
Earth's stunning artwork
contest entry for Gareth James contest
A cash store clerk bent on self
improvement brought a gun to
work today
His final solution to follicles and
dried up tear ducts
He didn’t know where to
conceal, what was really eating
him
A funny slogan brought a slight
grin, but was buried when he
choked on joy
The towns people saw him
shrug and the earth shuddered
They saw him strung up in the
square with a new hue to him
Lucky for them they wouldn’t
be here too long
His head hovers by his
shoulders, his hands hold his
fate
Questions nibble his mind...
Do the young deserve it more
than the ones who’ve seen
what he’s come to see?
Do the elders deserve a bitter
rose bleeding near a grave that
states “He lived a full life”?
Decisions, decisions
This bread can’t hold back the
pains from future regret and
this bottle hasn’t been curing
anything but dream
weaving
Something he doesn’t know
much about anymore
A crooked smile slits its own
throat across his face
Where did this come from?
A guttural reaction to the
thought of death?
Maybe just perfection embodied
from a cold steel grip
Kick up dust with the flick of his
wrist
Everything unsettled ends, this
will be his day of smiling
The towns people saw him
shrug his shoulders and the
earth shuddered
The towns people’s lives flash
The suns eclipsed by screams
The cash store clerk bent on
self improvement brought a
gun to work today
and the towns people helped
him live a little longer....
Grandma's quilt
Hand-stitched memory patches
Not one piece another matches
Artful legacy
Sews family ties together
Crafted by hands now weathered
Captured moments
Prom dresses that ever dance
Within love the flowed from grandma's hands
Unique reminders
Weddings, first dates, recitals
Embrace in grandma's revival
Adorned crib
Quilt that covers a newborn
With memories of ancestors gone
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
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/
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
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
Filters of weak truths
My shades of reality
Bold lies in artwork
Posey Raul Moreno