Portrait Poems - Poems about Portrait

I knew a gent ramrod straight meticulously dressed Shoes laced tight polished to a ‘t’ Vest, exquisite timepiece Punctual meant ...

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i feel them lie their brushes down, theyre finally done painting my portrait, years of hard work, finally done my portrait, a finale -- one of many! however, i glance at this portrait, it looks nothing like me the face that stares back is just a mere reflection of me in fact, its all wrong this portrait stares back at me it makes me rather uncomfortable it...

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This time, Janice is wearing a priest collar and I’m the altar. She hisses when I open my Notes app during communion, calls me a heretic for spellchecking my trauma. I tell her my whole personality is based on being misquoted. She says no, babe. It’s based on needing a witness and a warning sign. Then she bites the rim off my coffee cup and whispers the...

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It’s Sunday, and I’m drawing myself again, third time this week. This version features a haunted air fryer, a coupon for free emotional labor, and Janice— the shoebill, wearing my ex’s hoodie and threatening the moon. She’s perched on a folding chair I stole from a church basement, clutching a Slim Jim like a relic. Her breath smells like copper wiring and vengeance. She doesn’t blink. She’s...

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I gave myself the body of a secretary bird— long legs like accusations, a face too sharp for comfort. But wings? I borrowed from a taxidermied dodo: soft, irrelevant, stitched to the wrong century. In the background, a sky I did not earn. In the foreground, a foot poised to crush a snake that looks suspiciously like me....

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You’re only as good as your last. —my spine, mid-fold I enter a contest like I enter most rooms: looking for sound no one’s made yet. I don’t chase strange— not all weird is created equal. Once I find it though— the mirror says submit the mask says edit the stage says nothing, but still demands presence. I wrap my fear of not-enough in a metaphor so elaborate it...

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The ships gone adrift On the blue portrait of us Were just two strangers No destination in mind Every port just looks the same ...

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Windswept spirit, ever keen, Inquisitive mind, light and free, Laughter's echo, a vibrant scene, Memories woven, endlessly, Artful soul, for all to see. ©bfa031925 Acrostic in Quintain (Birthday of Wilma D. Honrubia) ...

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No matter whichever way you are orientated, It is all the same; true love and physical attraction expressed. Even if a choice, it is your blank canvas meant to be painted....

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When Joe was young he had tonsilitis In grade school he developed bronchitis Later, elbow bursitis And Colitis,...

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note the nothingness of the tag yet so much time was spent gazing, observing each inhalation, exhalation ~ each held breath ~ not disturbing her rest. love learns no more. she once had a name. perhaps it was unimportant in the end. love learns no more. "unimportant" ~ a title that occupies such space, especially when it’s breathed in, embedded into the lungs. muse turned subject turned...

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Another year Another pic Of you and me....

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Weeping for no one, the great near-sister sobs, "Go, Queen, and find all the pink jewels." Soon they are found, examined and named: Little Pink Fish, Aurora of Evening and Forest Fire Sky. They are gathered and brought to the princess. Her beauty is her face; she is only five. She often goes from great to ungrateful. Then, being sorry,...

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I walked the winding way down your memories. We live in the age of perpetual documentation - a blessing for the socially inept. Every abstract gives insight, but I crave the full portrait, you in your every shade and hue. I wish to know you better than breathing, but I fail even to take notice of where the edges of my...

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Woman in a painting When she left it was snowing she left no snow print years passed like a stacked wood waiting for winter at permanent art exhibition in a painting by Paula Rego she was bigger now than before Etched in her face the abuse she the abuse she had suffered She had survived she left footprints that told of the...

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