Long Acrylic Poems
Long Acrylic Poems. Below are the most popular long Acrylic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Acrylic poems by poem length and keyword.
("Three Lives", 2011, original acrylic and oil)
A.I.
I’m smart, or kind of compared to other humans,
But not at all compared to artificial intelligence.
Yet I have no doubt I am superior to computers
In being alive
And so having access to basic common sense.
Humanity after all has not only its own intelligence
But also more importantly
Its own emotions and creativity,
And most importantly humor.
A.I. as wonderful as it promises to be
Will never be genius
Since genius requires a unique and rare mix
Of intelligence, creativity and a willingness
To offend and upset others
In the service
Of benefiting others.
I’m not genius either
But I’m smart enough with my natural intelligence
To recognize the limits
Of the artificial.
(6/12/25)
Enlightenment
What is this consciousness that feels so sublime?
They told me that I am conscious of my time.
It is all gloomy and dark with lots of pain.
If I'm conscious, is it virtue or a crime?
Do I see you, or are you there in my mind?
I do wonder what if this life makes us blind.
Maybe it's all a game we're just here to play,
The things that you have lost, you will never find.
There is something within us that never dies.
Never get old within us, and never cries.
He is just there and lives like a little child.
When you are old enough, he leaves and then flies.
I am so wondering where my today went.
Yesterday, I was young; I was so content.
Was I conscious then, or conscious I am now?
They gave me consciousness without my consent.
Haloo
2/5/2021
Note: This poem is in the form of "Rubaiyat", it is the plural form of Rubai. Rubai is a quatrain with the rhyming of AABA. Each Rubai is a book by itself, it starts and ends within the quatrain, but when it's in a form of Rubaiyat, it follows the single theme with the same meter throughout. Poetrysoup has a good explanation of this format.
The painting is called " Enlightenment". It is acrylic on plywood.
She was a Goddess
Who
Tippytoed across his eyelids
Appearing in a lucid
Dream
She danced between
The strumming of his acoustic heartbeat
Her exquisiteness would keep him playing that song indefinitely.
If only
they could seek refuge in his temporary daydream
Love hit him like a temperate
Tsunami
And he had no
Restraint or desire to fight it
A moth attracted to flame
In the blink of an eye
She transforms
Into a bellydancer, bending and swaying
raising her butterfly wing
cloth above her head
winding her hips hypnotically
.....
..
then
A painter.....
her usage of colour
acrylic brilliance
and
you are now speechless...
The ballerina
with her hands above her head
The spotlight resting
and
she is stunning..
The epitomy
Of
the female Artist.
She wraps her
Her satin belt
Over his eyes
And he rises effortlessly like the sun chasing
The
......
.
.
moon
She dips and sways
And he rests his hand
On
Her hip
Nervously in anticipation he
Begins to shake
no longer he can wait
so
he
Removes his
Blindfold
as she rests against the window sill
and her golden hair shines like an earthbound Diety
She is the closest thing the world will ever come to a real life Van Gogh painting
Her laughter,
Filled his chest
Like the wind
Through a sail
Giving him direction,
Her Name was
Elegance
And
She
Was
An artist.
Broken Heart…
I am enslaved to my heart for love until when?
My heart always demands and seeks to love until when?
Once if I find a knife, I will cut him in pieces.
Hope to find strength and live without the love until when?
I rather live and not have any love in my heart.
All of this pain is there, but nobody shares its part.
Regret that life is passing everybody way too fast.
If I don’t have my love, I do not know where to start.
What is this heart that has four different chambers in?
One is for love, the rest pain, it’s always has been.
If I was born again, I want to have no more heart,
I do not mind muscle, bones and live in my skin.
The love that hurts, is not love, it's a painful burn.
If you survive the pain, you definitely will learn.
Let me have pain again I want to burn one more time,
What a nice pain it is, I positively return.
The love is light, delight if you have it awesome flight.
No kiss or touch you need, all that you need is your sight.
When you look, all the look will be the kiss and your touch.
All tomorrow will be your everlasting tonight.
Haloo
2/4/22
Note:
This form of Poetry is called Rubaiyat. It is a quatrain with a special rhyme scheme. Poetrysoup has a good definition and example.
The painting is called Anomaly... it is acrylic on canvas.
With oil through veins and acrylic faces,
Gender neutrals lathe metallic domains,
Acquired specimen a challenge cases,
A depleted prior to what remains.
Well, so be it, he makes the claim, to be,
One of many quickens to martyrdom,
Legions fall prey, prays echoed, heard their plea,
Heartbeats to ironed chambers, undead realm.
Conquer beyond mind, vanquish beyond soul,
Embolden ones might and crush what insight,
Not beings of the threshold, but Sheol,
Unsheath thy sword let thine blade field its strike.
Let us walk the streets of San Francisco,
Gladiator restores all that is G.O.E.
2019 September 23
howmanysyllables
14 lines x 10 syllables = 140 syllables total
("Simple Mind", 2011, original acrylic)
For Bill
A day spent with you actively dying
Or rather in this case rapidly fading away
Almost ten decades weighing heavy
On all our hearts
Only to have you rally
Just as I’m leaving for home
To lonely dogs and my own bed
So we part on a lucid note
And Carol decides to stay
Something in your rattling breath
Saying it might be your last together
Out in the hall a fellow resident
You know, the one who wears all his hats
Stacked on his head
Wheels his chair around
Perennial coffee cup in hand
Eager to visit while everyone else
Remains firmly in their nests
A night owl fearful of sleeping
For fear of missing something
Not sure if or how he knows
We are here for you
And your lingering last day
He volunteers these words of consolation;
“He’ll get there eventually”
As if it’s the obvious destination
Of us all.
And I head home alone
Unsure what tomorrow will bring
But sure today will never be again
To dogs eager to come inside
Reluctant to sleep
And possibly miss something important
In the human world
To a wee dram of whisky
And a spin of George Harrison’s
Achingly beautiful classic
All Things Must Pass
“Forgetting to give back
Isn’t it a pity…”
So Bill
To your good health
In the moments that remain
And to your safe passage
Beyond all that remains
When the cup is drained
What once was full
Slainte Mhath!
(10/12/23)
Almost all of my besties were off-putting at first.
They came in loud and proud, annoying or worse,
Luckily, I am not one to hold you to a first impression.
Being totally wrong many times is my honest confession.
Joann was one of the first friends I had as an adult.
She was outrageous and disturbing, not really her fault.
I was in a bad mood, but stayed one night after school.
Discovered then by herself, she was downright dazzling cool!
I have since learned more things about strangers all over.
Finding them in staircases, and parks filled with allergy clover.
I seek strangers each day, for they have much to teach me.
Opening horizons that by myself I could never see.
Nora taught me knitting, not that I was any good.
Elise showed me how to paint acrylic flowers on wood.
Susan is the one who teaches me to appreciate every day.
My congregate of new friends make me okay.
H e a r t ~
a museum of mosaic mysteries
of handwritten manuscripts
tattooed with crimson needles
from acrylic sunsets,
when dusk cradles
the obsidian chambers of celestial havens,
homing soul-kept secrets
that ricochet with romanticized sins,
as my beloved moon,
you’ve long been my part-time lover
in darkness and cursed corners
where the sparkling jewels
and the nocturnal nightingales
heed the unsung chorus of
our clandestine rendezvous.
For we are forbidden roses,
like Psyche in star-kissed silence,
t r a c i n g Eros with
wounded wings of feathered fate ~
an unwritten myth of undying sorcery,
magic merged with vehement tears,
chasing love against the snake sun…
So when the sky unfurls,
morning streaks of cinnamon and gold,
write to me discreet letters~
enveloped with paper promises,
sealed with enigmatic echoes,
carved with infatuated ink.
Let the wind carry your wisteria words;
here I’ll wait for the ardent touch
of your feverish perfume….
O familiar stranger,
tangled in the violet vortex of swooning flowers,
we feel the heat of trembling twilight~
a mirage of this devotion.
You and me, part-time lovers,
a midnight escapade
the universe can never illuminate,
a lyrical liaison
the sun can never illustrate,
for we are unrhymed metaphors
lost in the murky meadows
of green-eyed reverie,
where love wears the color of raven tears,
yet heartbeats sigh,
tied in lavender and lilac
to the
amaranthine arms
of hyacinth halcyon…
Muted colours,sienna and dark rose
Lovely mauve and lilac please my eye
Linen,silk or wool,I love my clothes
I like to complement,I don’t oppose
The colour wheel rotates as I go by
Wearing colours,sienna and dark rose
I like colour,all my neighbours know
The “take” on natural fibres makes me high
Linen,silk or wool,I love their glow
If people gossip, this is not their show
If I seem conceited, don’t make war
Wearing colours,sienna and dark rose
Now I’m in acrylic, what a blow
Wool is hard to find, the sheep cry Baaaa
I love, fabric, I love coloured clothes
It matters not if I have burned a bra
Seems a little mad, but there we are
Muted colours,umber and dark rose
Linen,silk or wool, the art of clothes
Painting cartoons with neon acrylic paints keeps me entertained.
It delights me, incites me, and keeps me excited, enthusiastic, and energetic.
I have never had a hobby that keeps me this enthralled and enraptured
For a multitude of hours – days and days and days at a time.
Sure, raising children was fun, gardening was nice, and I like to play with words.
But if you were to ask my passion, I would have to say painting
Because it gives me a sense of peace, and puts me in touch with my soul
like nothing else ever has.
Painting keeps me young and reminds me to be grateful for my talents.
I thank God for orange, red, yellow, pink, green, blue, silver and gold daily.
I cannot imagine living a life without painting; or even a week without it.
Written 5-18-2022
Contest: Your Passion
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh