Inspired by the Painting "A Girl With A Pearl Earring" by Dutch Golden Age Painter "Johannes Vermeer"
What are you telling me, My timeless Beauty?
You turn and stop..,
You look at me with your plaintive eyes,
Your luscious lips are apart, but you remain voiceless…
The pearl in your ear shines ~
Light on your face shimmers mysteriously,
Your eyes are serene ~ reflecting, refracting
The depth of your emotions…
Those dove-like eyes are the artist's inspiration!
The topaz blueness of your headscarf
With which you have covered your sensuality,
Surround your face with a serenity of
The ocean, gleaming emerald green
Of your attire evokes the unspoilt
Magic of your youth…..
You are not what you appear
To many souls in this mundane world…
They don’t see the painter’s Muse.
You are the nymph, who visited me
For a rare moment of tranquility.
The Pearl shines, an iridescent
Gem shimmering, unfolding your heart~
You remain eternal in my imperishable creation...
You linger in hearts..... my masterpiece!
the gathered wind blows
uppermost, heaven moves as
the sea rolls movement
~
tornadic regim
flowing clouds movement intense
water rains plumets
6/7/26
Written words James Edward Lee Sr 2026
The sun woke me to another morning
I think about the life I have lived
The ups and downs, the love, the pain
The lasting spiritual connections, the losses
The lessons, the forgiveness, the wisdom gained
Those hurdles I have overcome along the way
All the changes and places I have experienced
Laughter, crying, happiness, gratitude
It all weaves into a created masterpiece
A long story told, with good memories I hold
No-one is perfect and authenticity is special
Truth, the everlasting light beyond betrayal and lies
Everyone can only do their best in this time
Every person has their own created masterpiece
Everyone is equal regardless of differences
Today , I am thankful to make it through another medical procedure
As tough as it my be, it is just another part of my masterpiece
- A LIFE FULLY LIVED ON DISPLAY -
Heidi Sands
5/12/26
(C)opyright
You tore me apart and left me in ruins
Then proceeded to kiss me after seeing shiny tears in my eyes
My cheeks were turning red and warm
Then with a smirk, you declared me as your favorite masterpiece
So ruin me, bleed me, hurt me, I was meant to be yours
Desert me and come back, you will always find me at my shores
WHAT A MASTERPIECE I AM THAT GOD AS MADE
ME THAT I HAVE ENOUGH OF MY HEART TO GIVE
TO THE REST OF WORLD.
(JUST MY THOUGHTS)
In silent descent, Yuki claims the air,
A fragile hymn no mortal hand can keep;
Each crystal breath, a prayer too pure to bear,
That falls like dreams the waking cannot reap.
The sky, in grief, lets go its hidden light,
And scatters truth in fragments cold and white;
Each flake, a whisper from forgotten years,
A trace of time dissolved in frozen tears.
What art is this that lives only to die?
A fleeting grace no warmth can reconcile;
It crowns the earth, yet fades without a cry,
Leaving no proof but memory’s soft exile.
So beauty blooms where loss and stillness meet,
And vanishes, yet leaves the soul complete.
Pour into a structure,
Like a yard glass:
Being head over hills,
For the pretty lass;
Her cathedral, to me,
So, immaculate:
A woven golden tone,
Attracting black in it;
Such curves,
Are immersed in beauty;
The human version:
Stradivarius –
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He started with tinsel~
because, well,
it was shiny.
Draped it like ivy,
a haphazard garland
stuck to bark
with stolen gum.
The ornaments came next:
acorn caps,
a button from someone’s coat,
a soda tab,
and one fragile,
forgotten robin’s eggshell
balanced precariously
on the highest twig.
His crowning touch?
A popcorn strand,
half-eaten,
strung with the dedication
of a creature who believes
snacks improve everything.
The tree tilted slightly
under the weight
of his zeal,
but oh!~
how it sparkled
in the December sun,
a wild, crooked work of art
only a squirrel
could call perfect.
Always amazing, this truth I hold,
In every glance, your grace unfolds.
Through my eyes, you will remain,
A constant star in joy or pain.
Amazing always, like morning’s hue,
Soft and bold, forever true.
No time can dim, no storm erase,
The wonder etched upon your face.
Through my eyes, you’ll never fade,
A masterpiece the heavens made.
Always amazing, this I know,
Your light is mine, and mine to show.
I’m fully out of my slumber,
now knowing poems aren’t born in dreams,
but from a mind dipped deep in ink,
a brain awash with quiet resilience.
Yet in its silent agony, the paper stares blank—
befuddled by the jargon the nib dares spill,
deepening laughter in the sponsor’s folly,
rejoicing with the writer’s block
still unperturbed within my brain.
But there’ll be no excuse for defeat’s glare to scare;
so long as my mind stays sane and sound,
my “impossibility” shall be read as “it’s my possibility.”
Just give me time—and my fears will flee.
So fill again the pen that refused to write for glory.
Where is that page that once denied my excellence?
Within its belly, a masterpiece lies full-term,
ready—aching—to be born.
Take strength, my weary muscles.
Flee away, all stubborn sleeps—
for your absence shall birth my excellence.
If you judge it AI-written,
that ache is yours, not mine.
I need no borrowed wisdom—
I craft my own masterpieces.
Your indulgence cannot impugn my intelligence;
my poems shine with brilliance.
Think like a machine if you want to—
I care less.
The machine itself bows to my wisdom,
knowing I am what it is not.
Without programming,
I write beyond its best.
Next time you call my poem machine-made,
know this: you too are programmed,
unable to discern the spark
of human intelligence
from artificial mimicry.
You are, more or less,
a machine in training.
Use not your filthy mouth to brand my poem as garbage;
rather, it is you who must cleanse your brain
of the trash you let deceive you.
Like a pig, you cannot escape your stench;
even when washed clean,
the reek remains ingrained.
And you will always return
to wallow in the filth
of your artificiality.
How far gone is my soul and mind,
That coming back seems impossible?
My hands ache to be steered by your prompt,
Yet hours of blankness blunt my will.
But still I can etch out classics—
My pen lies close, surreptitiously listening,
To gather in ink the wisdom you proffer,
For those fleeting moments of madness.
The top ten will never be my goal,
But that one crown that ends the race;
For this is no sprint that halts at a hundred—
A trophy beside my poem is all I crave.
Yet the nearest mile I first must conquer,
Before the next, and miles beyond.
Though fingers ache as if racing from fear,
No shadow of doubt shall make me yield.
Oh mine! Oh mine! I see it now—
A wonder folded deep in words.
I’ve penned a masterpiece for the summit;
No judge can deny its rightful place.
If none are near to ring my bell,
I’ll strike it loud with my own voice;
For I am no gentleman in this contest—
But a rival running the race to win.
Very brutal by nature my mind can confirm,
Poetry marathoners need a cap laced with wisdom,
To grace the desired seats of battlescarred warriors,
The skillet must still burn hotter than Hades.
Surely Marathons are run with endurance and persistence,
So is this one, for my goals are lofty.
Though I lack great speed, power, and technique,
My oak must stand deep-rooted through the storms.
My drafts litter bins as torn scraps of junk,
Haters blot the ink of my masterpiece.
Negativity weighs on my frail shoulder,
Yet my resolve stands steadfast on aching feet.
But no one can deny good poems their glory.
Like smoke they escape all traps and dissipate,
Clutching throats to make their presence felt.
All I need do is write—and hope.
The songs that masterpieces sing
Are heard by the deaf and sung by the dumb.
Their rhythm washes away the dust of imperfection;
They heal the soul and soothe the mind of sorrow.
So, my pen, fill yourself with ink of perfection.
Write on this paper I lay before you—
Another poem no sponsor can deny the top prize.
Write before the last drop runs dry.
Thought of making a statue of you
Then had an idea that a portrait would be better
Remembering all your fine lines with no flaws
Your beauty of distinction
Perfection in your eyes by the artist
Your face glistens under the moon light
Beacons like the stars that twinkle
Paint in creation that everyone will see and admire
Your eyes will be painted in 3D
Capturing your moving portrait like a Queen
Color contrast
Image from the heart
Stand out
Inspiration you gave
First time we met
As the French say “Amore” on my mind
Your picture will be like a love story chapter that never ends
Captivated me
Through the different brushes of color
Relish the goodness and quality
Masterpiece reality.
She is the mural painted on barrio walls,
stories in her curves, rhythm in her calls.
Colors of abuela, the fire of the street,
a masterpiece rising where cultures meet.
But art needs a frame — firm hands, steady eyes,
men who don’t compete but safeguard the prize.
A frame holds the story, keeps memory tight,
protects from the weather, the dust, and the night.
Alone she’s the art, brilliance untamed—
but her power shines louder ’cause he is the frame.
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