Best Painting Poems
Painting with Words
If I were an artist instead of a poet
I’d paint what I knew as others would know it.
I’d be a Renoir and never a Klee
I’d paint what I saw as others would see.
If I were a painting instead of a poem
I’d use vivid colors on flowers or crone.
It’s the texture that matters , the curl of the line
Not the meter or syntax or even the rhyme.
I’d paint up a heaven, bright stars in the sky.
My colors would dazzle and make people cry.
I’d paint with abandon but nothing too styled.
I’d paint a dog barking, the cry of a child.
The blush of the morning, awash with the dew,
The eyes of a lover I’d capture for you.
But I’m just a poem, a small little rhyme
So I’ll paint with my words while you paint with your mind.
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.
How many images can I paint more
than I’ve already done? Like nights moon-lit
or meadow-dancing? You - whom I adore -
in every love scene - you’re the star of it.
The many colors! Oh, each brilliant hue.
I splashed them giddily when we shared bliss.
I’ve given sunsets, snow and spring to you -
Sweet passion’s words for you, Dear, and a kiss
I’ve always left down on the corner of
each canvas in our life, for there’s no me
without you, and there’s nothing but our love
to get us through, and sometimes tragedy
I’ve painted too – deep ocean’s blue – yet still,
I’ll paint you always lovely with my quill.
Painting is a placid lake upon which poetry is reflected in silence
while
Poetry is a tumultuous sea that makes painting roar!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
10 August 2020
Absolutely enchanting I thought ~
As I drew the curtains wider, to allow in a bit more light....
Returning unto the canvas and dipping my brush
Into a slightly brighter shade of beige
Thinking perhaps just a touch more violet, a dab of red, and, a stroke of amber
Until, I heard the door bell ring, breaking, this mesmerized trance....
Sitting my palette down, and lying my brush aside, atop a colored cloth
I turned to see who it was, that was there?
"Hold on dear, I shall be right back," I whispered
As she smiled amid a radiance, that stopped me within my steps
How rarely seldom does one get a chance like this I thought?
If it is truly important and I know them
Then they shall kindly call, or possibly even leave myself a note
Besides, what an unpleasant reflection it would be, to even but for an instant
Interrupt this dream....
For no greater beauty have I ever beheld, nor have I ever found, then this
Perfection within everyway I believe, is whom she is ~
"What's wrong," she asked, "are you not going to see who it is?"
Glistening eyes, as I fixated upon her own, mirrors, of an endless hue
"No, not right now dear," as I then, poured her a drink
Smiling as she gracefully arose, proposing a toast I said
"To this moment, this day, to you and I, this time, and, amore"....
As I slowly reached forth my hand, to tenderly caress her rosen cheek
And to glide my fingers gently, through her shining auburn hair
"Here dear," leading her loveliness softly, "here, sit right there
That the sunlight may embrace your boundless beauty
This magnificence of your splendor, these wonders, from whom you truly are" ~
Glowingly she smiled once more, as with a passion, I then kissed her perfect lips
"I love you," she uttered
While as the mornings dew lit rays, reflected upon her enchantedness
As a glittering arose about my own heart, and a warming, within my now raptured soul
"So do I my love, I love you more," I returned
Retrieving my brush, my palette and my cloth
Exchanging glances amid knowing thoughts, these souls, so intertwined ~
"Excellent, do not move dear"
As always was captured forever, within, this moment right here....
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~Painting, Mona Lisa~
From night to night
I searched in a distant sky
To catch a falling star
To collect its silver dust
which fell ever so slow
upon the life-lines of my hand-palm.
From night to night
I searched with these ardent eyes
for ways to paint you a dream
made from diamond shards
of a glistening beam.
But from night to night
the moon in it's grandeur would show
filtering its opalescent glow
through the bedroom blinds
reflecting its amorous lights
Outwashing every short-lived star
I ever yearned to seek
Obscuring other sparkles
with its lucent shine.
Blinding me in hundred ways
Holding me captive in his embrace.
But tonight,is a different night
Tonight its lunar limbs are cloaked
with a mourning veil.
Tonight I dance without its shadows
and in its darkness I exhale .
Tonight I paint with stardust
I sprinkle kisses from coppered-flames
Forgetting all about the moonrise
while I think only about your face.
Confusing thoughts in Fall, me ceased to stalk
worries into the heart, floated and stepped aside
wonders from afar spreading their smiles in a flock
along with October breeze, pleased to go for a hike.
Worries into the heart, floated and stepped aside
Autumn, enthroned in the soul empire, would set its fire
along with October breeze, pleased to go for a hike
walking paths trodden by shades of foliage, nothing dire.
Autumn, enthroned in the soul empire, would set its fire
a painting of no formal learning, that's Nature the Artist!
walking paths trodden by shades of foliage, nothing dire
a soothing harmony awakening the muse of a harpist.
A painting of no formal learning, that's Nature the Artist!
wonders from afar spreading their smiles in a flock
a soothing harmony awakening the muse of a harpist
confusing thoughts in Fall, me ceased to stalk.
A great pleasure to write this poem after reading Vijay Pandit "Autumnal Flame"..
Caustic memories dissolve on my tongue
Lingering tastes of battery acid and nicotine
Cause me to choke on putrid saliva.
Staring at melting walls, clocks tick in unison.
Distorted birdsong hums outside of jagged windows
Under the warped sun, an unrepentant landscape blurs.
Freshly budding peonies liquefy;
Veils thin, evaporating the delusion of reality.
Why must I mould to the edges at your bidding,
Contort to the point of my own dysfunction?
For such fleeting worship, this devastation lingers -
Devours and disconnects my inner workings.
I lie highlighted in shadow, a beacon of quiet distress;
A dislodged scapula desperate to be labelled angelic.
Grounded, wingless, and forever out of time -
Wearing the last face you cared for as a comforter.
Neon venom warming twisted arteries,
Sinister patches stitched upon a breaking back.
A narcissist's crown digging into my head
Like rusted nails plunged into worm-infested wood—
Permanent disconnection, frayed cerebral cortex.
Blurred vision obscures insidious figures hiding in hushed corners,
Whispering in Babylonian tongue. Hallucinatory illusions haunt
What was a once-pristine sanctuary,
Now morphing into a surrealistic asylum.
Revelation exists above shadow in temporal machination,
I'm consciousness not yet swept up with sand;
Closed eyes cleanse my corneas - I rest in a balm of clarity.
Your power superficial, a cankerous cataract peeled clean off.
It is you who is bereft, washed up with the shell you created.
All the walls of your empty room fallen flat,
As I unfurl in the mirror beyond the shoreline,
I realise - it was never me you couldn't stomach.
an asylum's garden~irises full of life without tragedy
I could not refrain from asking what it was that made her sigh
When each picture that she started she took down. I wondered why.
The young lady was forthcoming; said her thoughts were fresh and bright
Every time she started painting nothing seemed to turn out right.
Then she glanced at my own painting and declared that it was great
She remarked I found it easy to imagine and create.
Well, I smiled and softly told her that it was my special brush
That afforded all the wonders; careful handling with no rush.
So I told her she could use it, to be gentle for a start
Till they reached synchronization so that both could play their part.
What about the other brushes? Do not fret or give a hoot
Mine will be the instigator, all the rest will follow suit!
I went off to have a breather while she went to work anew
Gave her time to get on with it then returned exact on cue.
I could see her face was radiant and her work intense yet cool
She expressed appreciation at my most fantastic tool.
I will let you on a secret; I have played a hidden card
For my brush is only normal. You were trying just too hard!
You can paint, you have it in you. To your talent be not blind.
As you see there is no magic; it was only in the mind.
So good luck with your endeavours. Some advice, precise and brief
You can make the perfect painting; all you need is self belief.
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Note: This poem was written to pass on a message to all those who
suffer from low esteem. Self-belief is the way forward.
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Author: Paul Callus
Contest (Favourite Poem...) sponsored by Carol Eastman
Placed: 1st
October brings us panoramic scenes
Picassoesque impressionistic style
From reds to browns and earth tones in between
When nature paints those landscapes that beguile
The helpful sun provides hot yellow paint
Which bleeds and blends from mountains to the seas
There are no signs that nature shows restraint
As hues are scattered by the autumn breeze
Yet with her madness comes a masterpiece
The reason for spring's jealousy of green
Before her creativity has ceased
Her orange and black spills on Halloween
October means peace, love, and harmony
Get with your friends, enjoy fall's scenery
By Daniel Turner October 3 2016
land of lost shadows
and unweathered skies
five urban colours
through unflinching eyes
tall distant chimneys
and schoolyards at play
smoke drifting sideways
in stillness each day
sketches on packets
of stained cigarettes
strange brooding faces
and marionettes
people bent walking
with heads looking down
- if lowry was living
he'd have painted my town.
He ran the palm of his hand across the canvas,
Felt its soft, smooth surface, excellent fabric.
It was well primed with gesso, and he was sure
The end result would be an immortal masterpiece
The quintessential fragrance of daffodils,
a carpet of yellows in secluded woodlands,
new-born lambs on wobbly legs bleating for milk,
bees irresistibly drawn to luscious nectar.
male cotton less cottonwood trees flourish
as do the blooming peach trees erupting in fruit.
And birds flying here and there, chirping delightfully.
On one side a cottage, beautifully thatched,
with a rivulet wending its way from the water mill,
on the other, a bench beneath an alder leaf birch.
There sat a young maiden fair to behold,
on his knees was a young shepherd hand outstretched,
barely touching, proposing, as she smiles happily.
The painter looked satisfied. It had taken days
But finish it he did. The Museum would be satisfied.
After all weren’t all his vast landscapes immortal?
I like to paint the mountains with the backdrop of sky
Touch them with white snow, detailed to the eye
When one looks, there may be a feeling of being there
Observing from a distance, to escape somewhere
Maybe, it carries a memory of visits pleasantly fun
Something to remember, in a scene for everyone
I like to paint the mountains and see how far I can go
Climbing into the painting, that takes me with its flow
Heidi Sands
7/13/19
Spring soothes with a gentle rain
With blushing blooms we once knew
Fragrant flowers will then reign
and everything becomes new
Summer bakes with sizzling days
Many enjoy time at the beach
But heat waves can put us in a daze
As birds flit on branches of the beech
Autumn chills with cooler climes
and adorns the leaves with colorful flair
A gnarly vine on the wall now climbs
As the forest blazes a crimson flare
Winter's brushstrokes paint a snowy scene
As snowflakes land on firs
Christmas decorations can be seen
People are bundled up in furs
10-12-2022
Homophone Rhyme Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Hat Bueckert