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.
If a dog is stopped from pooping, is he DEterred?
Has your hair all of a sudden DEparted?
Donald Duck's pay cheque was once DEducted
To get a seat at a concert, do you ever use DEceit?
Have you ever seen a tree DEbark?
If you spit out a breath mint, do you DEsert?
Do your trousers ever get DEpressed?
Do skirts sometimes get DEpleted?
If a cop tears up one of two tickets, does he have to DEfine
Can locomotive engineer's mind get DErailed?
Do first nation peoples live by DEcree?
When a painter farts, do they imitate DEgas?
If you try and fail, do you DEcant?
The lowest card in a deck is a two, I DEduce
If a dog gives you a tiny bite, is that called a DEbit?
© Jack Ellison 2013
Form:
~Master Painters~
(American Cinquain Chain)
Paintings
Some beautiful
Masterpieces I love
The Mona Lisa with that smile of hers
Arcane
Arcane
Delightful ones
Paintings that bring much joy
Rembrandt, Vermeer, Van Gogh, Kinkade
Masters
Masters
Of great paintings
God given gifts that glows
Study their work looking at them
Brings joy
Brings joy
Many stand time
Renoir great painter too
J. Waterhouse, just mention some are
All great.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2012
April.20.2016
~Author's Notes:
The American Cinquain Style.
Author's Note: These verses are wrought for a poetess-painter, a fellow poet whose sorrow kindled their first ember; may this little flame, in time, find its way unto her.
—A Quatrain Beneath Eternity—
Upon one leaf, where gravity dreamed slow,
a rain-born orb did tremble under heaven;
her argent quiver made the star-fires flow,
and dawn stood hushed beneath the empyrean;
an ant climbed forth from bark's primeval shrine,
then paused before her—dark against divine.
He drew towards her as the firmament
bent its vast curvature about her sphere;
as though some adamantine gravitation sent
a wandering world where worlds should disappear;
he touched her light—and through his six limbs ran
a shudder older than the breath of man.
He deemed her painter, fashioned out of rain,
with leaf for canvas, sunlight for her dye;
she bore the green world's secret in her vein,
and whole lost heavens trembled in her eye;
their minute orbits crossed beneath the tree—
two infinitudes made briefly one decree.
Then he ascended towards the ancient bough,
she followed that inexorable green descent;
no wound accused the other of the why,
nor did their parting bear resentment;
and time, beyond the jurisdiction of years,
let Earth spend eleven seasons unawares.
He came again. The old light knew his tread;
she had not ceased her pilgrimage through green;
no reckoning rose between the living and dead,
nor any blade of old remembrance keen;
one quill returned above the waiting page—
four living lines outshone an earthly age.
Then came the storm. The leaf became a sea;
the firmament was riven from its throne;
the wind took him beyond all astronomy,
past every star by which the lost are known;
she quaked, and all her little heavens broke—
yet waited for the word he never spoke.
Perhaps he bore one universe to tell;
perhaps her own lay folded in the deep;
perhaps the storm extinguished one farewell
before its syllables had learned to sleep;
she moves still downward through the shaken green—
and somewhere, the fifth line remains unseen.
Rhythmic pose arcs lifting elegant ambience
Graceful dance enshrines artful renascence
Visceral posture invites emotional response
Festive celebration of aesthetic renaissance.
Attired in red and blue of simple elegance
Glorious style augments swirling excellence
Left arm risen high points gracious eminence
Finger tips lift vivid attire in quiet eloquence.
Golden bangles adorn wrists flirting in stare
A lone yellow flower crowns her silky hair
Folded right arm obstructs in a defiant dare
Index finger hides grief, eyes closed in prayer.
Head turned right, arched with sculpted flair
Tense neck muscles manifest muted despair
Open fingers gesture a stealth grievous flare
Air of intellectual grandeur opulently glares.
Ponder why the painter didn't show her eyes
Discover invisible pain vibrant colors disguise
Beneath the splendor lies a hidden surprise
Cultural dance-music echoes her silent cries.
September 22, 2017
Placed 1st:Poems that paint a picture
Painter: Anna Razumovskaya
Sponsor: Silent One
HM: Strand choice U contest by Brian Strand
Nowhere on land to be me- Being the prototype of mankind is hard. Maybe I'll return to the sea. Liken to the chicken nesting in the yard, laying eggs, is her job, some eggs she lay are brown, some she lays are white. Yet, the same on the inside
Because like me she's the prototype, I did my job, created you all Red n Yellow Black and White, Same on the inside are you all...
I was created in the image of him who has made all the world, Yet, man is the only ones - Whom over color wants to fight!... News flash, you all came from one seed. if I cut you open its red blood that you'll bleed - Your liver, heart, and Kidneys all look the same, just as a Chicks a chicken, a baby will become a man.
Some earthlings are not as good, and some are not as smart... but each inside of all of them is a beating heart. Some men are small - Some humans tall, some are plump while others; Have not much meat at all.
If God had wanted carbon copies he would have made you all the same- He did not make you different to cuss, kill, and maim, he only made you different so that each could represent his fame: Each a different piece of his artwork to glorify his name.
The ultimate Painter, the fishers of men, the big creator... the maker of man, the infinite mind, the all-seeing eye. The great I Am, the creator of all men. Liken to the chicken nesting in the yard, laying eggs, I am the prototype, some she lay is brown some are white. Yet, the same on the inside.
Unless you've been rejected a conscious spirit or soul, and you hurt my children. My creations are you still, but there are consequences for your actions. What do you think I made assortments for? So, with turned up noses the only claim to your fame is "you are white"...
So, if you decide you only want girls, or you only want boys, you only want red, because you don't like yellow, remember you don't get to have a choice in what's been decided. So, stop killing out of ignorance, or because of skin... ridiculous when you know damn well ... we are all the same within.
Again, like the chicken nesting in the yard, laying eggs is her job, some eggs she lay are brown, some eggs she lay are white. Yet, all the eggs she lay are all the same on the inside. So simple, nothing to figure out, stop killing for color, that's not what life's about.
Robert Browning and Me (1)
Imagine me in nineteen ninety-two,
in need of something to ignite the flame:
the London Independent – a review!
The painter Gentileschi – striking name!
(American professor’s brand-new book,
describing how the Roman girl was raped,
and how this trauma subsequently shaped
her art) – I didn’t need a second look!
Now, Robert Browning. Never was a man
more like myself (though, naturally, I’m
not fit to shine his shoes). Rodin? Cezanne?
They don’t come close. More sweetly than our rhyme,
his spoke, in smiles, of clods and cognoscenti:
he taunted human frailty lovingly,
embracing our shortcomings. Italy!
We both adored the art, the grace, the “gente”.
What Browning did (so may we all rejoice!)
is take a person (Lippo Lippi, Pippa)
and let him tell it in his own sweet voice,
as if upon the stage – what could be snipper?
The beauty of Dramatic Monologues
(for thus he named them) is, the subject speaks
to put the best face on it, but out leaks,
despite his caution, stuff that’s fit for dogs.
I have always been a dreamer of dreams, a daydreamer-
and I found out at a very early age that I was a storyteller,
yes, I soon became a word painter and I like this poetic dance;
I became a verse maker and a writer of my soul.
I have always shared my innermost feelings and sorrows-
born with the soul of a poet, a writer of poetry my calling,
sometimes I fall into darkness and will take you with me,
into creepy cemeteries and death I often dwell.
Poetry is everything to me, it is my art, my way of creating-
from a bleeding pen, I give you my soul here and there.
_________________________
October 23, 2016
Poetry/Verse/Poetic Rapture
Copyright Protected, ID 16- 841-762-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, What Does Poetry Mean To You?
sponsor, Alexis Y
First Place
Oh’ heart you are such a fragile thing, from you dancers dance and singers sing.
The painter paints their next masterpiece, with you in every stroke of the paintbrush or step, sudden movement in the dance routine.
You spark inspiration to pursue every ridiculous go against the grain aspirations hopes and dreams. Although you are the strongest muscle in the living body you are sensitive to pain, once you are broke how can you heal again? You are the root of all things that represent love and compassion. You are the fuel to where one can find their passion. Your language is a complex one because words are limited to what only emotions can say. You are the one who helps determine the tone of every day. If you are not feeling something than I’m not feeling something and the passion begins to fade. However once a connection is made the spark rekindles the fire deep inside to burn away to blaze a trail and follow whatever you are drawn to. Sometime in the form of I love you other times there may be the desire to do evil and corrupt things depending on the exposure. Once you are restored to your former state only you know the right time for everything and you are never late.
In pitch black night there is no color,
For light is color's revealer.
In daylight, your eyes see an object as white, when all light is reflected,
White is all the colors from a billion rainbows, melded.
White light, dissected by raindrops, prisms and kaleidoscope
reveals the full spectrum of colors within.
Light is the palette array from which objectors choose what to reflect.
You see black, the absence of color, when no light is reflected,
You see grey, when only a wee little light is reflected.
You see red when all other colors from white light
hitting a surface are absorbed, except red, that is.
The objects and being out there, display the color they choose to portray,
by excluding all other colors, sucking them in.
Color is what distinguishes the objects and shapes
we see with our eyes, including white, black and greys.
The scene we see is an orchestration of color painted upon.
In Nature it's the array colors in the blue sky, white clouds,
green trees, black cat, white dog, and brown dirt outside.
Inside it's the brown door, blue painted walls, green drapes and decorations
In art and paintings it's the colors of pigments in paint
the artist chooses to use and mix together, whatever their source and composition.
In poems and writing it's the words chosen to create images
of the colors of nature, people and objects in the minds of readers.
And moreover, it's the moods, feelings and emotions
portrayed with colors, bold, pastel, stark and soft.
Color creates dilemmas and puzzles for users.
To a scientist its wavelength and spectrum.
To a chemist is clays, rocks, extracts, mineral and vegetable dyes.
To a decorator or house painter its charts, sample pots and mixed tins.
To an artist its what can be squeezed from pots and tubes and dabbed on canvas.
To a poet its words to create fleeting images of color, emotions, feelings and impressions
in the minds of readers.
The kaleidoscope of color is the milieu of everything perceived in the light of day,
through vision, thought, feelings and soulful emotions.
Two renaissance artists . . .
Leonardo Da Vinci created enduring works during his lifetime,
too many to list but perhaps the most well known is the Mona Lisa.
Born April 15, 1452 and died May 2, 1519 at only 67 years old.
Considered the greatest painter of all time. Born out of wedlock.
At 14 he apprenticed with a master and soon was more skillful,
and at the age of 20, he was a master himself.
Michelangelo Buonarroti also created amazing works in his life,
one I love is the Pietra, so lifelike it makes me want to weep.
Born, March 6, 1475 and he died February 18, 1584, an old man.
His skill as a sculptor and painter is famous, and always loved.
The Sistine Chapel, his statues, his frescoes are stunning to view.
At 13, he too apprenticed with a master and soon was skillful,
and went on to be a master artist.
There was a public battle Leonardo vs Michelangelo and their art,
David vs Mona Lisa. There was 2 years of public competition.
A huge man who stands with a grimace vs a sitting woman smiling.
Even before this they were rivals, hated each other, jealous of each.
The loser left crossing the Alps to sulk in France taking his painting,
today she smiles at her fans, like a star to be idolized by the public.
And Michelangelo's works are treasures he left with us forever.
There was such an intense dislike between the two artists always,
but really they were so similar.... perhaps it WAS all jealousy,
because I have read they were both a bit odd.
_______________________________
July 7, 2016
Epic
For the contest, Historical Rivalry, Part 1
Leonardo vs Michelangelo, sponsor, Marugu Mo
Sixth Place