Long Painters Poems
Long Painters Poems. Below are the most popular long Painters by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Painters poems by poem length and keyword.
Our modern world has become
so advanced and sophisticated,
and its technology is at our fingertips;
unlikely yesterday when everything was slow-paced,
now fast-food and credit cards are a convenience...
and poverty is the plight of low-income!
Some will know greatness,
for having made unthinkable strides,
and they will be honored or even immortilized;
and I like to be one of them...simply remembered!
The great minds of the past, like those of today,
struggled to come out of obscurity,
until Popes and wealthy people recognized their genius;
and those names became so glorious!
Each one of us is born with an amazing gift,
and through vocation and inspiration,
it can grow in size and scope...
if it's used with good intention!
Painters choose the colors of their images,
writers create the words of their moods;
sculptors carve out faces with a chisel,
and composers imitate the feelings of the soul!
Some will know greatness,
and though riches may not ever be theirs...
their works are the reflection of themselves,
or of others who made a difference;
we have seen them, admired them
and applauded them with excitement!
And they are as detemined as we are,
fullfilling a mission beyond compare!
Your loosened hair
Gleaming in the benign sun
Roses in our blood inhale dense air
Decking up before departure has begun
The green is paling one by one
It's the dance of death in colour
A fountain of farewell with a hue
For the cracking bones of October
Palliating painters seated in queue
Picasso brown red and blue
The message on the train is as clear as an apple
Our hues are too fleeting to hold
Come let's dance dear before yellowing begins in maple
Before our roots get too old
Under the introverted autumn sun let's melt our gold
October 20, 2020
Autumn Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Francine Roberts
He walked into my office, business in hand,
In denim baggy overalls, a plaid shirt, white painters cap,
and grandpa's old white leather orthopedic shoes.
If I ever get to the ripe old age of 88,
I want to be this lone wolf silhouette of a man.
A slow gait with frailty of movement.
Each step carefully orchestrated and contemplated.
Making one worry the next may become a fall.
But he moves on without even a stumble.
Steadfast stature and posture braced on any lowly perch.
Outer coat showing gaps of missing muscle and mass.
Paws and face forlornly exposed with past battles scorned.
All affairs in perfect order, the next move oft anticipated.
Irises glossy white shadowed with blue wisdom and mystery.
Draped with curtains and folds boldly saying "I am."
Negotiations begin with silence in wait of movement.
Tail wagging intently, teeth exposed only when he smiles.
No bite to his bark, he needn't growl nor gnarl.
Few words, saying only what needs to be heard.
Walking away after a handshake, flash of teeth, and a wink.
09/12/17
They float effortlessly
zigzagging,and fluttering,
so care free.
Watching them enjoying
the savory nectars, that
ripened flowers share and
release.
A pallet of majestic colors
are lavishly worn.
Orange, and blues,
lavender, and yellows
are vividly shown.
So many designs and
colors are painted on their
majestic beautiful
canvassed wings.
Inspiring the great
painters to paint in the
early spring.
They start out as a
larvae, who would have
thought?
They would metamorphise,
into, masterpieces and leave
us completely in awe!
Michael Tor 12/14/2015 Skat A Sponsor For Men Only (Could You, Would You)
Write About Butterflies Contest.
Luna, lovely Luna,
she is a goddess
and also
~the moon is
an honest Manipulator~
See her, this beauty
waxing and waning
so steadfastly.
She is always there
above us
like the immutable God
who planted her
at the planet’s genesis
as the night scape
for all humanity.
Who can say why
she inspires painters to paint
and poets to praise her grace?
With the wiles of a woman,
she changes shape
yet she stays the course
set by her creator,
for never does she stray
from her usual pattern.
God did not make her
to be a liar,
yet oh, how she beguiles!
Throughout millennia,
she has glowingly gazed down
on numberless lovers.
How many affairs of the heart
did she help to consummate?
Her constant rhythms
turn the oceans’ tides
and when fully bloomed,
this mysterious moon
is said to induce madness.
Yet who can pin guilt
on the face of such
pearlescent innocent
luminescence?
Like earth’s seas,
we are mystically pulled to her.
A portion of our fate
she pre-ordains,
and whether she is silver,
ivory white or golden,
she steers the way,
and we are fools
who do not understand
her power.
Snowflakes
seasons, all four
pretty little gardens
holiday cheer
landscapes beautiful
be it mountains or the sea
painters painting
selfish to the souless core
yet tell me is so pretty
dawn, dusk and sunsets
clichés smashed with superficial
wrap you hate any way you wish
a real mother cares for all children
angels looking down
see the hypocrites
self-centered in floppy nightgowns
if I had a knife
and was them
I would fear myself
however I fear nothing
I whisper softly
the embrace of death
near
Its your own cold heart
you should fear
Gone in the toilet
all hatred flushed
It’s funny to look at creatives,
painters, writers, musicians and such,
look back across their bodies of work,
and laugh at how much of it is luck,
that things they put their whole soul into
now languish deep in obscurity,
while works they did for cash rise above,
the reasons a compete mystery.
For example, Anthony Burgess,
the writer of Clockwork Orange fame,
wrote the book in three weeks for money,
from a half-baked impulse in his brain,
only to see the story snowball,
becoming, by far, his best known work,
even became a famous movie,
the success of it made his brain hurt
to the point he denounced his own book
as he went through the balance of years,
but try to recall his other books
and you will find no memory appears.
Though the man didn’t embrace the work,
the impact of the tale did not cease,
and I think that it is safe to say
poor Burgess crapped out a masterpiece.
You have seen it plenty in music,
like the overperforming B-side,
KISS was known for their raucous rocking,
that is how they’re practically defined,
and yet their greatest commercial hit
was a sappy love ballad called Beth,
a B-side to more pulse-pounding fare,
yet somehow outperforming the rest.
How many songs came about like this?
It’s so many it’s now a cliché,
and all that was well before Youtube,
now it seems like every other day
some amateur you’ve never heard of,
who past efforts just seemed cringeworthy,
just got ten million hits overnight
because they crapped out a masterpiece.
Max Brand writing all of his westerns,
a genre that he helped to define,
thought they were junk, his poems were art,
yet just the westerns have survived time.
The people who made the first Matrix
Have done nothing that impressive since,
to the point that it’s become quite clear
they don’t know what made the first a win.
No matter what the medium is,
it seems not to matter in the least,
set people free and somehow some will
happen to crap out a masterpiece...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
NOTE: This Poem is dedicated
To all those mother and fathers
Who have lost
Their dear little ones
In he recent US killing.
Ravindra
A Poem for US Citizens & Politicians
No words can console
The grief stricken hearts of those parents
And of your people
Who have lost
The pieces of their hearts in the killing.
No remedial measures
Can restore those lovely words
Which used to pour honey
In the ears of their loving mother and father.
When they were live
The smiles of these ill fated children
Used to fill the hearts of their parents
With strength, kindness and love
And faith in God.
Now since these angels
Are no longer alive
O’ Almighty God
Kindly strengthen their shaken hearts
O' God
As they have lost
The most valuable part
Of their life, love and happiness
Their dear loving children.
Others can only express their feelings
For the tragedy in which these small children
Have lost their lives
By the merciless insane killers
Who are the outcomes
Of the gun culture only.
Every sensitive heart in world
Would pray with wet eyes
For those sweet little boys and girls,
Who have lost their lives for no sins of their own.
Let the wise politicians and law makers
Poets, writers, Painters and Musicians
Social activists and thinkers
Of America
Taking a lesson from this incident
Should change those laws
Which give birth to such heinous crime makers
And mad law breakers.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 22nd December 2012/b>
Blackness surrounds me as the depression is set
Reflections of the past always make me regret
When the sunrises the problems ensue
Days and nights forever thinking about you
You were a poets inspiration and a painters eye
You were mine but I told you goodbye
You wanted more time but I couldn’t see
Now I’m heartbroken and there’s no cure for me
I know now in hindsight I made a mistake
I realize that true love was at stake
Living only now with the thought of you
Existing but not whole until my life is through
You were a poets inspiration and a painters eye
You were mine but I told you goodbye
You wanted more time but I couldn’t see
Now I’m heartbroken and there’s no cure for me
In the labyrinth of warmth, I sought refuge in the cold room of frozen memories,
From the cold room, I fled to the coffin of unspoken promises,
And from the coffin? Only the bare hands of time bury constellations in the soul,
Though coffins are perhaps the cheapest homes in real estate listings,
No cell is lonelier than a grave forgotten by shadows past.
Remember us—all of us—in a single place of eternal rest,
We are buried incomplete, for our bones still breathe in your throat,
With your umbrella, you tried to take revenge on the sun; haven't you heard?
Even the "sun" sings its longing for "water" in secret verses.
From the conspiracy between rain and sunrays, a dream of a rainbow is born
For the evaporated hope of water—now captured in glass aquariums,
Though bottled, a fish state has been dismantled.
What well can survive with its neck cut by unfulfilled desires?
Where on the river's neck do the dam's fingerprints disappear into purification plants?
From bruised necks, a museum of invisible fingerprints was born.
Even the observer has closed his eyes tired from so much searching.
These tickets—what field of view do they truly open in your soul?
Longing—soaked between eyes and sea, between your sky and forgotten earth,
Of all the temptations that pursued a kite, only a diamond
Remains on the geometry test of moments lost in time.
A butterfly divided the world between two fragile wings,
For the crime of unusual colors, it was denied
A photograph in the vivid colors of hope.
The butterfly's bright thoughts left the cocoon too early,
In an era of color extinction, they chose to fade
In themes of black and white, in the silence of a forgotten painting.
We didn't paint—but stretched new canvases for old paintings and memories,
Photographs, forgotten by memory—yet one of them
Will eventually find its place in the frame of our obituary.
As painters and photographers, we agreed on the truth of faces,
Though we clashed as deeply as our tools of creation.
Yet—our hands are the latest fashion in delicate bow ties,
Designed to clasp the collar of time that flows ceaselessly into eternity.