Long Painter Poems
Long Painter Poems. Below are the most popular long Painter by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Painter poems by poem length and keyword.
Vincent Van Gogh`s Potato Eaters (1885)
a lamp emits a pale light
in a room of deep shadows
spreads its humble glow
displaying four figures
with faces etched by earth
and the sweat of honest toil
potatoes, modest roots
the earth’s humble gift
lie steaming on the wooden table
a lasting meal for strength
a testament to labour
a prayer of sustenance
their hands, calloused and stained
reach for their forks
their movements slow, deliberate
with each bite marking a conquest
a small victory
against gnawing hunger
the light catches the wrinkles
the tired lines around their eyes
telling stories written in skin
with scratches from thorns
not in a gilded way
but carved with truth
that afflicts pains
one woman’s gaze
a distant longing
lost in the steam
rising from her plate
another one chews
with quiet purpose
a stoic acceptance
of the day’s hard end
the rough spun clothes
the faded hues
of browns and greens
blend with the earth they till
with no artifice here
no pretence
just raw, unvarnished life
the painter glanced at them
from the depth of his soul
the quiet dignity
in their worn forms
the shine of light
even in the dimmest corners
the rough texture of the paint
with each stroke a heartbeat
a desperate plea to be seen
captures the essence
the weight of their existence
the love for simplicity
the humble potato eaters
the painter has made them sacred
a raw, unyielding spirit
a testament to resilience
to the silent songs of those
who till the land
the feeders, the backbone of the world.
I’m just a painter, dressed in white
In your office, painting all night
Never to see me, gone before light
Been told by your boss, you don’t like the smell
Here to please you, said what the hell
As long as they pay, all will be swell
Now during the night, while moving your desk
Rolled out from under, something grotesque
Left over I’m sure, Christmas burlesque
Next time my dear, watch out for your stock
Guy beside you, he left a sock
Not from Christmas, now I’m in shock
All have nice families, seen in the photos
Girl in the corner, lots of mementos
Guy with the sock though, he drives two Pintos
Painting near done, seen all your shows
Don’t feel so bad, that’s how it goes
Next time good people, don’t leave the clothes
The boss left beside you, a flat folding box
Place all your stuff in, including the clocks
It wasn’t just put there, to throw out pet rocks
Well now that I’m done, hope you enjoy
Color you look at, have to be coy
Couldn’t tell you, colorblind boy
Written: December 11, 2024, for contest Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
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When dusk strikes, the magic swirls,
In the grasp of dawn, a wispy heart twirls.
The shades waltz as a painter brush whirls,
In a vacuum night, dream faintly furls.
We whimsey we'd catch the rainbow past,
Ride the wind whispers in a peaceful blast.
Sail aboard ships of wonder over skies so vast,
Still, life's intricate yarn holds shadows cast.
With each glitter and moonbeam embrace,
Warm mutters soothe, eradicating the trace.
A crystalline elixir, hope unending grace,
In a chaotic world, I'll waltz amid the space.
So hear the moon croon, as the world feels right,
Through lilac and lavender, our hopes bear flight.
In the bittersweet dance of our love’s pure light,
We embrace the shades, and in time, we unite.
From periwinkle skies, where stars softly bite,
To obsidian hoops, in the gloom of the night.
The elixir of life offers sweet, gentle height,
And while sunrise glows, we dream in spite.
The crimson and green, in dawn’s golden light,
As hope drips from vials, crystalline and bright.
With each ebbing moment, pain feels contrite,
Yet dreams linger on, with a soft, tender bite.
So bless me, as the dawn’s light breaks,
With glimmers of hope that the dawn makes.
In every hue, from crimson to blue ice flakes,
A kaleidoscope of dreams, pure and slake.
From blue skies to lavender pillows,
I shall find my path home by shadows.
In this upholstery of wonderful bliss,
So bless me, bless me, with dawn kiss.
Before we left this morning on the next leg of our journey
there was one more place in Spokane I felt we had to see.
It’s called the Indian Painted Rocks Trail…so before we left for Idaho
we drove to see these rocks…painted over 250 years ago.
Since Deborah is a rock painter…
(she loves to paint messages on those little spheres)
we wanted to see how the art of rock painting has changed in all these years.
It was amazing to see the reds and yellows painted over 2 centuries ago.
What they depict have been lost with time…as no one seems to know.
The artists are no longer with us…having long ago expired…
but sometimes art doesn’t need to be explained…only to be admired
Because there remains an inherent beauty
in how these colors still bright and strong
absorbed into rocks so many years ago…have survived so long.
Next to these ancient paintings we noticed a trail…
It’s path shining in the sun
so before we left for Idaho…we thought a short hike would be fun.
To our amazement this little path…before we even had time to think
guided us through a rainbow of flowers,
purples, yellows, greens, blues, whites and pinks.
Walking through these colors brought us joy and pure elation
and it made me wonder if these same colors…
didn’t give those Spokane artists inspiration.
And if this wasn’t enough to leave the two of us without words
as we walked we were serenaded by a multitude of birds.
Which also made me wonder the more we walked along
if this was where the Spokane people got the inspiration for their songs.
We made it into beautiful Sandpoint Idaho…still talking about our walk…
where…at this wonderful little cabin we spent the night…
Deborah left a painted rock.
A mural painter? Why not? I asked myself.
My husband was inside, glued to a Lazy-Boy recliner
watching five TVs simultaneously.
He would not have a fit about something he did not see, right?
How often does he come to the porch anyway?
I began to plot out my legacy, something to leave the family.
To reassure them that their assessment of me is sound.
I am crazier than a mouse running into a cat’s mouth.
I was grinning as wide as I have ever grinned, as I plotted.
Drawing my ideas out in full scale, with pencil.
What to plan? Faeries, dragons, witches, gypsies, unicorns too.
All of my canvases are done in cartoon form; I am a natural at this.
I wanted more colors though, at least twenty of them.
I took inventory of my mural paints – red, black, gold, green, pink, blue.
Ordered sixteen more colors; this is going to be gloriously gaudy.
My sister came over when I was drawing the idea out in pencil.
It was going to be large; fifty feet long; covering the entire back of the house.
“I wouldn’t paint siding if I were you,” she said prissily.
Good thing she isn’t me, isn’t it?
And good thing she did not know my husband was home.
She is a tattle-tale in addition to being brazenly bossy.
Caren was a poet, an artist, a painter, a player.
She played mostly with children
For they delighted her
All the days of her life
Her own children grew up, so she taught school
So she could play with other children
She played them chess, board games, word games.
She loved brain quest games especially.
Caren was a gamer.
She played about four hours a day.
Scrabble and Words with Friends.
She had many real friends too.
Most of them know she wants
Puff the Magic Dragon played at her funeral.
She loved the 70’s, being a hippie, and
Helen Reddy. Especially “I am Woman.”
She was fun, funny, and fantastic.
I know because I am her muse, Trixie.
Yes, she named me.
That is how she was.
I walked unhurriendly on a desolate beach
where the crystalline sand was ash white,
and barefoot I avoided broken seashells;
the April breeze wasn't tiepid but cool.
I looked much farther than I could see,
but the broken clouds of gray and purple
didn't hide the grin of the melancholic moon
that dispised the dulliness of the horizon.
Calmness was felt inside and out,
weary seagulls decided to take a rest,
the novice painter left the promontory;
solitude immersed hearts into sadness.
The darker it got, the duller thoughts became;
stunning images surrendered to the bleak dusk,
I picked up my fishing cane and left with hesitation,
and returning tomorrow, wouldn't I have felt the same?
While going back I spotted someone writing on the bench,
his thoughts were fixed on the crepuscular shadows
that swiftly transformed the lively images I saw before,
and I sensed he was writing a poem I had imagined.
I was frustrated at work about seven years ago.
A painter, cartoonist, and scrabble player, where next would I go?
I needed something new to do.
Not sure where to start.
Suddenly feeling bored with my own art.
We were required to stay until seven that night.
Parent Teacher Conferences, but I stayed out of sight.
Being the counselor, seeing me makes them blue.
That is something I did not want to do.
Suddenly the word poetry came into my head.
I used to write short stories, now they lay dead.
I had not written anything since I was twenty-nine.
I found a poetry site and began typing poems online.
One poem, two poem, three poems, four.
I liked doing this, but I wanted to know a lot more.
I zoomed around the site and found types of poems and tips.
I have no more story; this is simply it….
The canvas- propped blank on the tripod
The artist- flicked tunes on his iPod
The acrylics- were blended
The paint brush- apprehended
The self-portrait- was nearly finished
The man- in the piece real distinguished
The signature- bold
The piece- to be sold
The neighbours- came first for the viewing
The locals- arrived and yahooing
The press- much reported
The world-prints imported
The painter-had flaunted
The muscles-Supported
The apprentice- flexed at his teacher, laughing at his procedure
Tennis balls- hit the ground, peas were then found also along with a reefer.
Rossetti, master painter - poet.
His works inspired by the Bible
and classic literature.
Oils of jewel tones
suffuse his canvas.
Italian name.
London born.
Artist.
Skilled.
Dante Rossetti (born May 12, 1828, London, England—died April 9, 1882, Birchington-on-Sea, Kent), English painter and poet who helped found the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, a group of painters treating religious, moral, and medieval subjects in a nonacademic manner. Dante Gabriel was the most celebrated member of the Rossetti family.
November 23, 2015
Favorite Poet Contest
Sponsor: Nayda