Long Paint Poems
Long Paint Poems. Below are the most popular long Paint by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Paint poems by poem length and keyword.
THE VIEW
(SADLY)
I can't believe he has to be a poet
To tell you how he feels
Maybe he does not know
When words are written on paper
does not mean your wounds
are going to heal properly
To be or not to be?
That is the question you should ask.
The man should never call himself a poet
Unless he has lived, learn, lost, and gained it back
The man who writes good poetry
In my eyes is a man of art
He can paint you anything without a paintbrush
This man I call a poet, with a colorful heart
Using all his manly skills
He is way ahead of the ordinary man
Leaving the imagination, filling the soul with chills
aroused ------- he calls for me
While (I) the woman swims in tears
She finds herself helpless
Without a man, she thinks she is lost, nowhere to be found
The secret of the female
When she is broken
She begins to feel and thinks life is over
Little does she know her time will come
When the time calls
The lady is stronger than ever
One thing I learned about a lady
You better respect her (me)
Don't destroy (my) her better days
She will crumble you
She will crush you where it hurts
This is my demo to all ya poetry freaks
Keep it real!!
Don't steal my words.
I have feelings too:)
by:PD
Everyone’s ranting about this A.I.
They’re hopping mad but I can’t figure why
It’s just for the best
That things have progressed
I know it’s true… I’m a real modern guy
Tell me what’s wrong with machine written odes
That someone’s phone drafted in binary codes
It really don’t matter
If romantic patter
With no human touch, is just one of loads
I ain’t losing sleep like all of you sheep
Whingeing like somebody killed Miss Bo Peep
Synthetic emotion
Should cause no commotion
I’ve got other hobbies so I won’t weep
I enjoy painting pictures of winter
Take my time; when I paint I’m no sprinter
My techie mate Ricky
Just Samsungs a quickie…
Which will spew from his full colour printer
Went to the races where I placed a bet
Armed with the best tip I’d ever had yet
But my horse was beat
By some sneaky cheat
Who rode not a horse, but a high speed jet
Got a call from my agent and mentor
And she mentioned the novel I’d sent her
“We’ve read lots of those,
The one that we chose,
Is a book written by pressing ENTER.”
I now comprehend what I hadn’t seen
No point in poems writ by a machine
So please don’t mislead
By making me read
Poems, if penned by an iPhone fifteen
‘Amid the jagged shadows of mossy leafless boughs’
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Tim had put on his winter coat and sat on the children’s swing
‘Never too old to play’ he pondered as he neared the clouds
Thoughts dangled from branching memories but he held firm
He leafed through the book of his life and felt moss in his heart
But the dusty pages had always grown rose petals among thorns
His shadows grew shorter towards the pinnacle of meaning
But the wind gently swayed his body and soothed his mind
On the ground a mosaic of nostalgia mixed with the seasons
Painted a monochrome pattern that sharpened his focus
Lines in the sand portrayed spiky reminiscence of shadows
He had been to morass of lowlands and peaks of fulfilment
Felt the bark on his skin and tasted sweet and sour fruition
Grazed his bare knees and cut through barbed branches
Fell on promises’ temptation beyond dreams in delusion
Rooted his wings in a canopy of compassion nevertheless
The twilight of contours and silhouettes reflected some truth
Which one he had not quite captured but a light led the way
The canvass below raised him into meditation and love
As he remembered Picasso who is said to have spoken that
It took him ages to learn how to paint like an untainted child
Just then all the pictures painted in the playground faded
And yet gained momentum when touched by a bare canopy
Into one message of epiphanous clarity tasked with blissful delight
It’s never too late to be the kid in a park I always longed for
Jagged at the outside I can see that youth comes from within
‘When life gives you branches fashion a wreath for your passion’
26th November 2019
Writing Challenge 3, November - Any Form
Sponsor, Dear Heart - Wisshkobi Ode
An Autumn Portrait of Beauty
On this quite beautiful and most radiant Autumn day,
I marvel at Mother Nature’s smile of silent pulchritude,
As I make a loving glance at such luscious scenery today,
In this country scene—a glorious gift of God’s certitude!
The trees and their fallen amber leaves adorn this Earth,
As a shimmering reflection pervades from a green pond,
Of Nature’s wonder with colors arrayed in a sacred rebirth,
Affirming God’s heavenly promise true and His holy bond!
This view of trees, grass, leaves, and a shadow near the pond,
Captures the glory and grace from God’s colored-palette a true,
That affirms His desire of rendering this beauty from beyond,
And I thank Him from my heart with joy and blessings so true!
Yes, God doth paint this world with such love for all to see,
His Autumn portrait here is of unparalleled artistry and grace,
That I interpret as a heavenly-made moment for all of us to be,
As I reaffirm the beauty of Nature’s gift in this wondrous place!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
November 6, 2015 (Rhyme)
Author’s Note: A special tribute to a former classmate.
In the temple of silence where you mourn your absence,
The walls dance in shadows of bitterness,
Chalices of dreams shatter with resistance,
In search of the eternal flame of the altar.
Not even pearls are revived,
They whisper not, nor do the bowed gardens baptize,
Living in the hourglass with intertwined moments,
On stairs made of blue and broken words.
I barely penetrate the curtain of unspoken words,
Glittering longings ignited in the nirvana between us,
In the labyrinth of thought, perfect and imprecise,
I wrap sadness in silk cocoons, wrestling with the cold void.
I dream you nimble among clovers and stars,
Wishing to share the half of melancholy,
So that the heart is no longer a battlefield, but a foundation
And laughter may sprout again under a mastless sky.
The inner temple, eye-hollowed, is a scaffold of silence,
When there don’t smile the soulmate pair,
With whom to paint mornings and centuries in succession,
Each unwritten in the book of life, be it ancient.
Clusters of pain congregate under the veil of the moon,
Touches of fate engraved in cedar peaks,
And beyond celestial chants and pale promises,
In the crypt of the soul, winter lays its throne.
You are the poem of love that I tear with trepidation,
The dawn of day will one day bring the news of my gentle extinguishing,
And you will wander in the unclear, faded maps of love,
Unraveling only with half a soul the thickets of lost dreams.
She cannot be a witch, the children cry.
She is our great-grandmother, we call her Vi.
She comes floating down the stair and gives them the eye.
What are you speaking of? And she asks them why.
Someone called you a witch, the children said.
Oh, yes, she agreed. “Until I am dead.”
You know that a witch can paint her lips a pretty red.
I am a beautiful one, their Grandma Vi said.
But isn’t a witch bad? Asked her grandson, Jack.
She laughed until they thought she’d had a heart attack.
A witch’s motto is “to no one do harm, to be yourself, Jack.”
It’s not like we put children in stocks or on a pulling rack.
But Grimm’s fairy tales said witches are bad.
Because those books were written by a jealous cad.
Who did not understand that women can have power too.
Do not let those silly tales fool either of you.
I awoke this morning to a beautiful autumn day.
It was 7am as I picked up the newspaper from the lawn.
This morning everything seemed more fresh and green than usual.
I live in Victor Harbour, South Australia on the Fleurieu Peninsula.
Our house sits at the top of a hill giving spectacular views from all sides.
Nature abounds, we have a view of the sea which is at the bottom of the
Avenue where we live.
I thank God for these gifts every day and realise how blessed we are.
The early morning sky, showing colours of burnished gold as the sun rose
behind a silhouette of trees complimented by a cornflower blue sky that
was slowly appearing.
When I bent down to pick up the paper a flock of ducks, flying low,
passed by me pursued by a large red fox.
The fox was airborne, he had become the hunter, not the hunted.
Everything happened so quickly.
I was amazed by this living masterpiece I had become part of.
It was a perfect work of art without the use of paint or brush.
I was spellbound.
A song I learned at school came to mind, All Things Bright And Beautiful
(written by Cecil Francis Alexander (c) 1848)
The author of this children's song encaptured in simple words my entire
thoughts and feelings.
I felt elated as I went back into the house to share my experience with my husband.
Treat people well
With what you tell
Save yourself out of hell
Peradventure you fell
Life is strange
It flows off wish
But permanent is change
Cherished may turn devilish
To be rich
Is not all of money
Or being funny
But the treats you bewitch
The least
May turn the most
From the unexpected
Favour most times arises
Congratulations!
People are not always glad
Paint misfortune
Their emotions are awaken
Soaring higher
Things get tougher
Gradually going high
Everyone with you like to identify
Just assume it isn't a falsehood
You may turn a philosopher
Just don't bargain with a bluffer
Take it 'all is good'
Revenge is far off
When embraced
Both make out scoff
Rather get circumstances aced
We are the quiet ones, lost in the hush,
Where the world storms past in a thunderous rush.
The lights are too bright, the voices too loud—
But we dream in the softness behind the cloud.
We did not ask for a battle or war,
A war how foolish that we can't win,
Yet they fashion laws like licence plates.
The kind I use to make for twenty cents an hour,
Will they carve our silence, deny our seed,
And plant their power like choking weeds?
We are not broken, just tuned to the stars,
Our hearts beat different behind your scars.
But they look through us with cold disdain,
As if our joy were cause for pain.
Will they strip our care, our homes, our rights,
And leave us on the streets through endless nights?
The halls are heavy with their suits and ties,
While we paint hope in our own blue skies.
If cruelty wins, will kindness flee?
Or will we rise in our own decree?
For though the world may cast its doubt,
We bloom, soft flames, that won't burn out.
They may forget, but we remain—
Whole in our difference, strong in our pain.
And love will echo, fierce and still—
Autistic, alive, and always will.
Everyone in the United States will under they
Will have too register, because you said, I've
Done nothing wrong what do I have to fear,
Who will save us all from Hitler?
A Dar-Dar delivered, a wonderful creature,
Arriving by yak after talks with a preacher.
Wrapped up in a blanket with little instruction,
Some suction required through keenest deduction.
A Dar-Dar’s a brilliantly small woodland sprite
Instilling both fear and great gasps of delight.
But before you know it, they’ve done fully grown,
Magically producing small sprites of their own.
These Dar-Dars are likely to range far and wide;
Reports say in Utah’s where one can be spied.
October is always a time to acquaint;
They’re oft drawn to ponies all covered in paint.
Wherever you find one, it’s always the best;
The dad of a Dar-Dar is a man truly blessed.