Best Painter Poems
The Old Painter
sublime my paintings, memory be
lost in time, I now must see
where once the gale winds trembled chill
wrapped in blankets, remember still
a touch, a kiss, the summer sun
from deep within, must now be spun
I frolic to and fro in time
my brush, alas..... can only mime
I still can hear cicadas' whine
but yearn for yellow celandine
tho memories fade, my spirit thrives
aflush! my paintings will survive!
Paint me blue like the sky
rainbow's smile; thunder's cry
clouded curtains rife with rain
till shroud is lanced and bluebirds fly again
Wistful moods in mahogany frames
melancholy painters with undiscovered names
rearrange reveries in pastel hues
decorating lonely walls with brooding blues
Paint me emerald like the sea
feeling caged; rolling free
stormy rage; morning calm
who knows where swelling waves come from?
Which shades best record a personality?
Which side of the coin is preserved for history?
Shall I smile or appear dignified?
Do I show my true self, or try to hide?
Paint me tawny like a lark
as the sky dissolves to dark
flying free but not for long
a gloomy gloaming swallows up its song
What do you see as I hold this pose?
Will you reveal or conceal my imperfect nose?
Will you paint scars and wrinkles or leave no trace?
Will your biography in oils show lines on my face?
Paint me crystalline like a wine glass
for you somehow see right through
the paintbrush captures the epidermis
but the painter overlays the spirit
Superimposing your style, passions, heartbreaks, joie de vivre
onto my facets, form, features, and flaws
with love, you labor on
transforming my brief life into a lasting work of art
Paint me gold like a sunrise
as it marks the dark's demise
background wash of faith, hope, love;
the colors life's palette is made of.
When bones are one with graveyard soils
these memories preserved in oils
are saved for those who later come
that they may know where they've come from
written 1 Sep 2022
...with gratitude for all the inspired artists who
carry forward the grand tradition of portraiture.
There is a part of me missing
There is a part of me that shall never be
Inside of this dark sad brooding mind
Is the painter who will never see
So I take my pen, and vaso of wine
I contemplate
I get lost in the drunkenness of time
Stooped over my own memories on a sour palette
I had the brushes staring at the naked breast
My paints were frozen, at such beauties unrest
Erect and tall, at her feet I did fall
The blind painter, who lost it all
So now you see I am a poet of some seedy sort
Painting Braille, is poetry of my last resort
I write down words with the flourish of my pen
The Braille poet, cause painting I could not fend
I take words and wish them bountiful explosive colors
If only I had talent, a painter and not a story teller
So for me, in pain and clad in the cloth of sadness
I write words, for this painter has only Braille
I have no painting brushes
I possess no smile, wandering along on wistful miles
Of blindness, blowing in the winds of the frail
No map for the future, and yet I set sail
Hoping my words one day will be seen
By an artist who paints the soul and the serene
She takes my blindness and paints boldly my dreams
Taking my words, from Braille to bright pastel creams
In the know
With Van Gogh
You all think you know him
But who channels him?
Who swims in color?
Who has paint on their hands in a perpetual way?
You all think you know him
I live him.
.
I found it between freshly cut buttercups
and a cerulean sea
Splashed upon a canvas
of a painter' s fantasy .
I am colour blind , yet since I was a child
I could feel, I could taste, I could hear
I could smell ,all that I couldn't see .
And its green. It is so green to me.
I smell it through the brewing pot
and pouring of a morning Indian tea
I taste its sugar from the maple leaf
And its green , it is so green to me.
I feel its velvets on my neck's nape
from the early buds of Spring
I hear it through the sheep bells
grazing on the hills.
I see it 'neath the harvest moon
when they drink white wine and sing.
I am colour blind , yet since I was a child
I could feel , I could taste, , I could hear
I could smell ,all that I couldn't see,
And its green. It is so green to me.
This colour of serenity
Makes me one with who I am
It is in tales and genesis
of Eve and every man .
This nature where I roam through
Far from envy, wild and free
Far from the climbing ivy
that chokes society.
Between freshly cut buttercups
and a cerulean sea.
Its Splashed upon a canvas
of a painter's fantasy.
Beyond those blues and yellows
Is it green that I can see ?
Its verdant fields I sleep on
wherever I may be
P.S - Inspired by Silent One 's Green (Colours United Contest )
bur not for the contest.
Though I'm not colour blind, this was inspired by
someone close to me who is colourblind to green and brown.
Not
loved by
the critics,
artist Kinkade
adds a special glow
to his pastoral art.
A number of plates graced with
his cozy scenes adorn my home.
Kinkade understands a woman's heart.
Written Dec. 7, 2015
For the Famous Painter Poetry Contest of Nayda Ivette Negron
Green on my fingers,
pink and purple too.
Acrylic paint lingers,
Ah! There is red and blue.
When I paint I’m such a mess,
Ruin my clothes every time.
Outer beauty must confess.
Truly hidden under grime.
Magical canvas,
Interrupts in ups and downs.
Makes me so happy,
In yellows, blues and browns.
Light and lively,
My fingers and my knees
Paint is everywhere,
Because I am being me.
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
I have walked past the mirror so many times,
God, I cannot believe what I see.
I once was a painter of great songs and rhymes,
Brushing rainbows and drinking muse tea.
I sang to the hearts of the rich and the poor.
"He's a genius, a prophet," they said.
I walked upon water and danced with pride's whore.
Now, the poet and song man are dead.
It no longer rains and the sun does not shine.
The great spectrum of colors is gone.
All my brushes are silent, the bristles resign,
To a world with no sunset or dawn.
The people no longer pay heed to a man,
Who is just one more face in the crowd.
I wonder if this was God's ultimate plan,
So that I would no longer be proud.
Painter
My life was painted
Long before I arrived
I follow the paint brush
Alone, left to surmise
If I belong in a painting
Or on a road to nowhere at all
Life is so black and white
Colors have faded away from eye sight
Along the promenades of loneliness
Were no able painter would stay
I follow my destiny, as I
Gracefully fade away
"I am sending you a gift of poetry, dear heart." This one really reached out to me in its simple
and uncluttered use of a sunrise to show God's handiwork. I thought that since your work was
in Haiku, I would try to do a free verse version relating the thought of God painting His
morning canvas. I hope you are okay with this.
Inspired by the poem: "Heavenly Sunrise" by Constance~A Rambling Poet~
For: "I Am Sending You A Gift Of Poetry, Dear Heart" Contest
Free Verse Poem Written by: Dan Cwiak
The Master takes his brush to palette~
Effortlessly is the day's canvas dotted with color.
Golden Horizon swished from the brush~
Darkened only by the earth tones of morning.
An Orange Ball creeps o'er the distance~
Shades of red and yellow stir the burnt umber awake.
Fine lines drawn for this morning~
No mistaking the Hand of God at work!
Mind paints canvas of life as amateur
Some hues taken from palette of events
Some contributed by human nature
oozing from emotive urge at moments.
Heart gallery frames happy happenings
Those turn weepy are mercilessly torn
Ugly chapters showing spastic paintings
Some to erase and some get forgotten.
Brush browses on multiple episodes,
Patches of pigments collide in collage
kaleidoscope of memory decodes
Some pictures go hazy, some to enlarge.
Throughout life did ‘Mind’ the painter paint well?
Canvas of life with overlapped hues can't tell.
Piano Player of Jesus Music -Painter of Jesus Portrait-
If I could paint, I would paint Jesus face;
Upon the canvas, it would be wonderful;
It would be so great—
To see those many colors awesome and bold;
To tell in print a portrait never been sold;
I would add colors brilliant and bright;
Florissant ever so bright to be seen at night;
Painter of Jesus Portrait;
If I could play the piano;
This string instrument I would gather;
All the notes to strum to pick to touch the keys;
I would patiently compose a theme of the beauty of you Lord;
Melodies, vocal harmonies I would finger strike each and every key;
Merrily I play, I sing, Alleluia;
Just for you Lord, only for you to hear Jesus
Piano player of Jesus music
I would paint your face;
Brush in hand paint you in amazing grace;
I am, I can I will--
Upon the canvas, it would be wonderful
It would be so great—
To see those many colors awesome and bold;
To tell in print a portrait never been sold;
I would add colors brilliant and bright;
Florissant ever so bright to be seen at night;
If I could paint, I would paint Jesus face;
Piano Player of Jesus Music -Painter of Jesus Portrait-
I am a Piano Player of Jesus Music and I also is a Painter of Jesus Portrait-
I am a Piano Player of Jesus Music and I also is a Painter of Jesus Portrait-
A Piano Player of Jesus Music and a Painter of Jesus Portrait-
4/17/19
Written by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019 ©
Do you have any idea how much material your entire being holds?
I'm not talking about the materialistic (of the world) things many have their fingers tightly gripped on second by second... Moreso....
You are one glorious stretch of canvas, rolled out into different sections.
Your mind; a base for all magical flow you could possibly salvage from one place in thought, which lead to the creation station- Your Hands; these then work with the constant attention from your visual display palace- Your Eyes; allowing all things to collide and combine in a beautiful mash of the initial magic that the mind created....
and Your Feet; your mobile assistants that carry you to all the points you need to travel to.
Moment by moment, we are in constant soul rebirth, with this our material is constantly renewed and made clean. Creating a whole new vast space for you to splash your burst of colour and divine spirals of reality upon.
We are all artirsts in some way. In some expression.
The canvas has always been here.... choose to create a master piece!
Cooler than Arctic ice
Yet, you warm the palette of my life
With your nearly bluebell shades
Layers of sifted sky
Diluted into the tender grey clouds
That slowly dance
Towards tears of rain
How my heart longs to know you
As my life brushes past
Your pure selfless pouring out
Unaware, you resonate clarity;
Enlighten with sobriety
The lilting, vacant canvas
Of my existence