Long Artist Poems
Long Artist Poems. Below are the most popular long Artist by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Artist poems by poem length and keyword.
In the pantomime of pretend prose,
the moon dances on lonely nights.
Before the lights go out at twilight,
unforgiven ice cold hearts,
remain abandoned, hoping this is the end.
Her eyes like Eve were deceived,
by manipulative sea green serpents.
Stranded on shores where time has no name,
the artistry of dread, breathed in poetic chills,
inhaling life, exhaling pain like dolent daisies.
Concealing metaphors of dying embers,
behind an avalanche of emotions,
she anticipated the rebirth of an artist,
by an art nearing the opposite side of yearnings,
because in the deepest chasm of poetic love,
an alliteration of antithesis attracts affection.
I was not as naive as Adam,
searching for heartbeats from heaven,
knowing that is how you ruin a poet.
An empathic spirit ignites pens full of fire,
burning the strings of poetic puppets -
the greatest gift of entrancement.
Rumi taught me the universe is infinite,
and so am I, so I knew I would meet my muse,
like stars greet the moon in a meadow of miracles.
As roaming romance conjured my dream's horizon.
Her name always echoed in the silence of quiet nights.
An empress without an emperor in a crumbling palace,
yearning to blossom in an epodic flower field.
Her seldom smile was as radiant as the golden orb.
Despite ghosts hiding in the shadow of sunlight,
mystical silver spirits were summoning me to her abode.
Her misspelt phrases accidentally fell on my page.
I found her burying her frozen quill under six feet of snow,
with a withered heart reliving a winter wonder nightmare,
constantly bleeding pearls in a silage of tears,
cursing her tormented tongue.
Her winter kisses were as tender as butterfly snowflakes,
but at first, her rage slashed at my wrists,
drowning me in her obsidian grieving seas,
but my soul is like a seasoned samurai full of scars.
I always believed small steps lead to great places,
and I would kiss her sorrows goodbye.
Upon realisation there's no blood in my veins, only poetry,
together we portrayed pastel coloured sunsets,
illuminating a celestial canopy of light,
sowing trees of forgiveness,
surrounded by colourful petals,
leaving behind the dark long road home.
In our internal garden of Eden,
there is no darkness,
there is no forbidden fruit nor sinning,
only an aura of love personified.
In 1967, fresh out of high school at seventeen, I boarded a northbound bus to the metropolis of the mid-west. After arriving in Chicago, while waiting to be picked up by a family member, I met my first con-artist who ripped me off for ten dollars. That's the way I was welcomed to Chicago. Chicago provided my first full-time job with a metal plating company. In 1969 I experienced my first airplane flight from Chicago to Memphis, Tn., and in the Spring of 1968, I witnessed a riot in Chicago. It was the most confusing, the darkest, and the longest night of my life. After turning twenty-one, I cast my first ballot in Chicago. Attended a Chicago City-College a year before enrolling in a four-year college from which I graduated in 1972. Fresh out of college at twenty-two, got married in Evanston, a Chicago suburb. In 1973, fourteen months after getting married, just shy of my twenty-fourth birthday, had my first child in southern Wisconsin, 100 miles north of Chicago. In 1974 at the age of twenty-four, I bought my first car in Zion, a Chicago suburb. Chicago was where I rented my first apartment and shortly thereafter, I experienced my first burglary at this apartment. Sometime later, while all alone on a dark city street, I was strong-armed robbed for the first and only time in Chicago. Where I grew up there were lots of alcoholics, but I met my first heroin addict in Chicago. I attended my first Major League Baseball game at Wrigley Field in Chicago. I did not realize until this week that there were so many firsts in Chicago, and I suspect if I kept at this there would be a lot more. May it suffice to end this journey with three more firsts in Chicago: First bike, first kiss, first accident(my fault)........
051520PS
Probably...
Rumor was there that he is an addicted soul
A real problem through ongoing struggles,
Was to understand
The real person
Behind
A vague shadow
I do not know him, at all, in real life.
Now...
Do I need to know, actually, an artist?
Art has its own definition of beauty.
With
Some payments in life,
I believe.
Flower of creativity blooms
Slowly...
In a drained, fatigued out life
In reality.
Or could be something else? Do not know.
I do not know him, at all, in real life.
I felt....
This rather neutral observation of mine
Is dropping
And
Bouncing on its own...
Rather than creating bubbles...
Learning to hide
Own woes
Rapidly growing hissing
Of
Sounds of demons
mostly mine, off course.
Should I abstain from further assumption?
I am not sure. I do not know.
I do not know him, at all, in real life.
Out there...
From my window, I see a green, lavish tree
Those green leaves, swirling, shifting,
Tossing and turning
In wind, rain, and sunlight.
I thought...
Should I draw a problematic moment, now?
Of a slain mind with a destined agony
Of a conviction of wasting time, in vain?
I am not sure. I do not know.
I do not know him, at all, in real life.
The Girl In The Window
How could anyone ever forget?
Such beautiful paintings
Each hung carefully
Lit with just the right light
People walk by day after day
They look but they are not looking
They see such a memorable picture
A city at its glory
Berlin in the beginning of the Third Reich
A thousand red flags with black broken crosses
People wearing colorful clothes
Each with a smile on their faces
A paradise on planet Earth
They look but they are not looking
They do not see right in front of them
Hiding in a window is a young girl
A girl of no more than nine years old
Such pain and torture can be seen as she reaches for help
There is a tiny six pointed yellow star on her chest
Even sixty five years later no one sees her
No one sees the secret the artist put in his world
Could people be so blind to someone in need?
Did that little girl live?
Was she tortured and killed alone in a prison camp
Her story was never told
But she did more that even the toughest soldier
Her innocent face
The tears flowing down her cheeks
She cried for help for six million people
It was all there to see
If only anyone had taken the time to look
A butterfly flapping gossamer wings,
she is unaware of the breeze she brings.
She's a natural beauty, sought by kings,
but being no puppet, she cut her strings.
And like a babbling brook, her laughter sings,
the kind of girl men buy engagement rings.
A cuddly pussycat, she purrs in bed,
playing games till inhibitions are shed.
An artist, she's skilled with needle and thread
and a fashionista, she won't be led,
not tethered to the past, she zooms ahead.
Like an orchid, she exudes a sweet scent
and speaks to me in a sexy accent.
And always gives me one hundred percent,
my guardian angel, she's heaven-sent.
Armed with a smile, she thinks that I'm funny,
Queen of the hive, She's as sweet as honey,
a gourmet chef that likes her eggs runny.
She's a provocateur, oft capricious,
and yet, her kisses are so delicious.
She's a Goddess, and yet, she is my wife.
My confidant, she knows hearts aren't playthings
she's a passionate soul, happily wed.
She stretches hope to its fullest extent,
wise as an owl and cute as a bunny.
And the first time we met was auspicious,
for that's when she chose me to share her life.
(Minuanetta)
7/24/2018
I know you are sensitive,
not sentimental,
but it has been four years,
that's one thousand
four hundred and sixty one days,
since enlightened tides kissed
those island shores.
My soul was wrapped in worn ribbons,
mourning my misplaced muse
and you were a whispering rose,
wilting at the slightest touch.
Bleeding 3am vents,
with conflicting vowels and consonants,
the sirens of your ink screamed
for a silent troubadour to
compose cathartic bloodstreams -
but life is not as pretty as petals and poetry.
A mistress to moonlight,
I found you crying at an apathetic moon,
so I cracked open your volcanic cocoon,
to open your eyes to cinnamon
and persimmon horizons -
now you float like an empyrean butterfly.
I hope you soar forever and know
I could have written for you,
as many verses as you have seen stars,
but we cannot cultivate in fields of unfairness,
where only dead blooms now decompose,
as you keep ignoring Cupid's cries.
Despite contradicting crossroads,
my heart is deep rooted
in wayfarer's wisdom,
knowing when there are no more beats -
you will honour me with a
requiem for an artist.
Simple Musings
In case you’re an artist, beware of wisdom
Experience brings reassurance
That you have developed yourself into system
Through years of work and endurance
But don’t fool yourself with a pretty deceit
You can’t do it right, though you try
Experience tells you to do what you did
But anyway, it’s a far cry
From works of the past, that achieved a success
Now you want to generalize
But the more you come up with better be less
The wisdom you gained isn’t wise
Cause its dull as a hell, and was meant to be this
Who told you that art should be limited?
Your sycophants laugh, cause they know what is missed
You can’t afford one more naiviety.
Standing on a busy street corner
When a limo pulls up next to me
Out pops the head of Johnny Depp
(Not the body mind you, just the head)
And asks where's the nearest Dairy Queen
Not one to miss an opportunity
I blurted out I'll show you the way
So that's how the head of "The Depp" and I
Spent time together that day
In his limo he had his makeup artist
Which seemed a bit odd to me
Everywhere the head of Johnny went
It had to dress up for the scene
Since Johnny was drooling a Dilly
First stop Dairy Queen
With Johnny's head as the Mad Hatter under my arm
It was a very strange scene indeed
With me holding onto the Dilly's
And Johnny's head on the counter up front
Mr. Depp was the King at the Queen that day
Though his ice cream licking habit did turn some peoples lunch
Later on passing a Piggly Wiggly
Johnny's head said what's up with that
Told him it's nothing more than a grocery store
His reply was let's give it a crack
So undergoing more of his makeup
And in the blink of an eye
I have the head of Jack Sparrow
In the grocery cart with a bag of Funions by his side
Yes, Johnny Depp's head loves Funions
Which to me really ranks the breath
But who am I to tell a Big Time Movie Star that
I'm not the keeper of his head
He even dressed as Edward Scissorhands
Which didn't turn out quite right
Since Johnny's head has no hands
To hold the famous Scissorhand knives
That day we went to so many places
With every stop a new disguise
I guess for entertainment you do what you can
When all that's left is your head and some of your mind
Whelp, that's about it on this days adventures
Not a whole lot more to be said
As I stood on the street corner waving bye, bye
To the limo pulling off into the sunset, along with the head of Johnny Depp
There's a contest I will enter
Who's topic is to center
About the artists I like best
I'll put my poem skills to the test
Rascal Flatts is one group
In the country music loop
With hit songs that top the charts
Sad or funny touch my heart
Videos that go so well
With lyrical stories they tell
Luke Bryan is cowboy hot
He is always looking smart
With his sexy jeans and looks
Just one glance and I am hooked
His voice is sweet and so mellow
It turns this girl fan to jello
Blake Shelton's another guy
Who is not exactly shy
At being sexily cool
Making this "old" woman drool
His music is perfection
He is my daily obsession
There are other country artists
Who might not have made my top list
But also get my attention
There are too many to mention
I have to get my country fix
With different artists in the mix
Not one day will pass me by
That I don't laugh or sometimes cry
With these great artists I've written
Who will always have me smitten
For Favorite Artist Contest
3/24/2014
I have joy in my heart daily now
Living on a farm, that could house a cow
A cow has not wandered by, but I have three dogs
There is room for sheep, and a couple of pot belly hogs
My husband knows that in order to keep me around
He has to let me have pets; their presence keeps me sound
I also bring home flowers, bushes, vegetables and trees.
It is a joy to plant them in the summer breeze.
I am an artist, and must paint every day to stay up.
Lying on all three sides of my chair is a sleeping pup.
I paint cartoons that are fun in every way to me.
Nothing keeps me as fresh as a new fantasy
I cartoon dragons, castles, faeries, and pirate queens of the sea.
There are fifteen hundred canvases, painted by only me.
I also love to write, and toss down ten poems onto a page every day.
These things are what keep me enthusiastic in a cheerful way!