Best Creativity Poems
My art delights me, covers my walls.
Smiling, dancing, laughing magical beings.
Reminding me how much I love to choose colors.
Appreciated by no one as much as myself.
Proud neon colors saturate my house,
My artwork is in nearly every room,
Each room a challenge. Which one is the best?
Which one would I choose for painting of the week?
I am obsessed with the pure joy and excitement
I receive as I choose my colors, plowing through my paints.
I know exactly what color each bottle and squeeze tube makes.
Happily painting my whimsical creatures, I am choosy about it.
Almost every painting includes a woman, and I start with her eyes.
Every single time, drawing the two orbs first, or one if I want her
To appear to be looking sideways. Every single time. No exceptions.
I have never begun a painting that did not start with the eyes.
Pirates, dragons, unicorns, faeires, elves, and mushroom houses
Laugh at me from my covered walls. Seventy’s peace sign and hippies.
In hip-hugging bell bottoms, are burning their bras in my living room.
They make me happy, and they make me laugh. They are whimsical.
Ladybugs, peacocks, tulips, flower gardens, lily of the valley, horses too.
My art delights me, brings my mood from minus twelve to one hundred and sixty.
In a few minutes, I can take an empty canvas and turn it into an original piece
Distinctly mine, I doubt I have to sign them. They all call my name, and loudly.
Anitha
Wife of Jayasankar, mother of Ashwin
I love creativity, to feel the soul of nature, my muse, and music
I admire every little thing in nature
I keep myself happy by doing things I love to do
To friends, I am loyal
I try to give them my love and support
When I happen to breathe in the polluted air of deception and hypocrisy
and am stressed,
I relax, breathe out and sing a soulful song to de-stress myself
The warmth of the smile of cute babies
and their innocent babbles
soothes me at once, when perturbed
I am in awe of God's marvellous creations,
and the universal appeal that babies of all species hold
I am kind, tender and a romantic at heart
I am cheerful, happy and feel others' pain
I fear lizards, interacting with sly, duplicitous people, dreadful diseases, and a world when all green gone
I would like to fly high in my dreams, uninterrupted, to a perfect paradise and bask in its beauty and peace
I would like to dream more, write more and my voice be heard
I would like to seek the soul of Ultimate Universal Truth.
A resident of Maharashtra, India
Jayasankar
Date: 07/11/2021
Inspired by 'This Is Who I am' Poetry Contest sponsored by Milton Hankins
A Burst Of Orange
By Lauren Hardman
For me,
Orange
Bright and new
Symbolizes warmth
Acceptance
And strength.
Orange blends well
With fuchsia pink.
The two colors
Match up nicely
To construct
Alluring sunsets
Along with sunrises.
Orange has
An intermediate tone
That isn’t black or white.
It allows for great contrasts
With numerous colors.
That’s a facet of orange
That I appreciate.
It’s kind of like life.
People need to be different
To be united.
The brilliant color
Makes me feel elated!
It uplifts my mood,
Molds my personality,
Puts my mind at ease.
It unfolds a creative
Sweet side of me.
That lets me be
Who I am.
I realized who I am
By doing things I love.
Singing,
Playing piano,
Drawing designs,
Examining various colors,
Crafting poems like this one.
I believe that
All colors tap into
The depths of your imagination
And provide
Great insight
Into who you are.
Poetic lines
plucked out of the universe of creativity
a structure perhaps in place.
The poet's mind
a receptor
like a television receiving radio waves.
A message and a form emerges and a pattern appears
then to be arranged and carefully designed
like a quilter creating a quilt.
Further guided to play with words and structure
so as to fine tune
like a musician fine tuning a musical instrument.
The poet beckoned
by the universe of creativity
summoned to create the poem.
N/A - Brian Strand - All Yours (Apr 14) Poetry Contest
"Poetry is important to the writer but I feel it is all about the reader."
By Poet
Today as I open up my computer what will I see,
a contest looking back at me?
As I read the rules I must decide is this one for me,
or will it haunt me if I turn it away?
No mask needed to read the many rules,
I am only writing when the words flood my creativity.
My ego must sit upon a shelf watching,
but not a word to be whispered or said.
Win or lose I have tried my very best,
not knowing what the judge is looking for.
My purpose is to first write for my readers,
only when they love my writings do I feel I am a winner.
I keep returning to the contest page over and over,
in hopes to learn how to become a better writer.
Poetry is the language of a human poet’s heart,
mind and soul writing away.
Orange is my utmost best color, my best friend, my girl.
She laughs from the rooftop, and she makes me mouth curl.
She glitters and she shines, her happy feelings for me.
Today I may take out my paints and paint an orange tree.
Most of my women cartoon paintings are ginger heads.
They come into my mind before I get out of bed.
I look around the bedroom and I laugh and I sing.
My many red-haired paintings, it makes my mind truly zing.
I have a paisley orange shirt and an orange evening gown.
Some people want my autograph, and mob me in town.
I do not dare wear either of them on my shiniest day.
I would be so manic, the mental police would cart me away.
Cosmic colors dance and prance
Swirling in and out of black holes
Doe-see-do’ing through the void.
God paints in pigment of a billion shades;
Each color in his Crayola box begets a
vibrant note of ecstasy in my soul.
I resonate with the universe;
pour myself through timeless seas of
onyx and obsidian hoops.
I am liquid joy as my soul melts into each hue.
Without the morbid physical plane,
I am one more painting
Living eternal.
Imagination is the reality. What would creativity be without imagination?
What would the reality be without creativity?
One relays on another.
What you imagine is what should be created.
Everything on this earth was once a
Piece of someone’s mind.
As nothing can form by itself it can be an idea of....
A Little child or an idea of an old adult all qualified evenly
Who is there to judge an idea?
Only the person who thought of it can decide
What they will do with what they came up with.
It takes courage to change a imagined idea into a
Piece of beauty only ones that
Dedicate themselves into what they think they
Can influence people's minds with
Can really be proud of their self-will.
How Does the Soul Enter Heaven?
no gates, walls, fences
by holy light’s measures transformed
home again
creativity itself
gives, receives all
borne home again
emphryeal serenade
draws longing souls
home again where God reigns
contest How Does the Soul Enter Heaven?
sponsor Mysrptic Rose Rose
I held the calligraphy brush and
Practiced the movement for hours and hours
Somewhere betwixt art and dance
It was meant to look as effortless as a breath
Simplicity at its core
At first glance you recognize
A tall wispy tree on a little island
Surrounded by a flowing current
That’s when I tell you that my avatar
Is the calligraphy symbol for ‘play’
Not only do I love the fact
That it is crisp black on white
But the symbolism is multi-faceted
Several correlations come to mind
Play and nature are preeminent and dynamic
Unpretentious is the notion of freedom and grace
Creativity’s natural interaction with the universe
Welcome to my avatar its play that I embrace
AP: 3rd place 2020, 3rd place 2021
*** Awaiting Inspiration ***
(written for my brother and sister poets)
Reaching for dreams in the black of my closed eyes, but sleepless,
I go on in music, out past radiant lights —
Bright and brighter — spreading beams that hold back off every
Fright plotted by the cornered, infernal shadows threatening
To overwhelm as they amass over meadows bordering
The forested wilds’ protection of those — hidden therein.
Those, who, in their God-graced innocence, their divinely destined lives,
From infant cries to elder wise; and who will survive
Keeping in the depth of their beings a spirit of truth with
A visible valiance — seen upon a look deep into their eyes;
While —- in this place — in this secrecy thick with trees — I alone
Am ready with pen in hand...to be their mirror…
For I am a documentarian of the hopes held
In humanity’s array of feeling hearts:
Whose stories I note
In the bounce of continuous city din; in tales recounted by farm folk
Walking between their grain-growing rows; and told in chanted
Prayers rising for the ill, the poor, the despairing…needed and answered.
Thus, holding visions and voices, I persistently proceed with my work,
First, with a necessary pulling at these pliant walls
Of the creative cocoon — its soft, loose weave deceptively
Can seem easily penetrable. Possibly God will respond to these
Cries for his collaboration. Meanwhile, alone, awaiting inspiration, I stay
With crayons in hand, watching the approach of a very rare snowfall in May.
*****. ******. ******. *******. ******. *****
Inspired by Milton & Dante, may be Part i of a longer work.
Thanks be to God…
Also for Charlie and Jim with thanks.
11/21-28 (c)S. Young Eslinger
Color flows from the void and
hands swing, sway across a canvas;
to the music of the life;
erecting a universe.
The pulse of existence
beats out its rhythm and soul awakes
into being.
if its not written from the heart or soul then chances are it's a i
I wander in the wonderland of words
where sounds can rhapsodize an inner flight
and seek to sing like skylark midst the birds.
To feel a lyric line is ringing right
that rose unknowingly from secret source
can send my senses soaring with delight.
What guides the reasoned rhyme’s creative course?
the urging of an enigmatic muse?
or might it be a fundamental force?
The words may dance or promenade in twos,
at times leap forth as in a lightning flash,
or shower phrases in prismatic hues…
When glimmers come but embers turn to ash,
there are no syllables with tongues of flame
nor tones that thunder like a cymbals’ clash.
Then I despair and falter in my aim
of catching rainbows in a verse’s net
and cry I should forsake the poet’s game.
Still oft before the dying sun has set
arises hint of inspiration’s spark
albeit faintest flickering, and yet
from out of what had seemed a moonless dark
is heard the distant music of a lark…
~ Harley White
Inspired Thinking
Inspired, I’m thinking
I haven’t an inkling
From where it comes
And where it’s going.
Crawling from a rock
Laid down atop
Fossilized dream silts
Beneath the rivers of
My mind?
Inspired, I’m thinking
Somewhere a clock is ticking
Keeping time to the echoes of
My mind.
Drifting weightless into sleep or
Waking as if popping into a dream
Inspired thinking leaves its tell-tale
Aroma,
An elusive waft upon the
Breath of my rising and falling
Consciousness.
Just a hint of cinnamon sugar
Epiphany, or
Bitter-sweet smoke of
The long dark spark of genius
Striking metal.
The memory of a taste on my tongue.
Giant leaps of intuitive solution,
Cures for mankind’s deepest ills,
Kisses of “Paradise Lost” whose tickle
Quickly fades from my lips.
Maybe there is an “other side.”
Have I in moments of
Inspired thinking drifted too
Closely to the invisible thread?
Have our most brilliant minds
Simply found the way, a state of
Deep mindfulness where they’ve
Learned to hold on to the thread,
The “high-tension” line, of consciousness
Beyond the veil that separates us from
Truth with the illusion of reality?