Many want to have podcasts,books,
movies, all trying to sketch a portrait
of a life, but the thing that captures it best
is the work and Love we leave behind
The indelible mark etched
On human hearts and minds
When the algorithm has long ago
forgotten our names
The treasures in those precious vaults
Will forever still remain
By: J.N.R Dutton
Photos are a heritage to the past
A memory of what once was
After all has been done and people are left changed
Portraits are no longer portraits
But a memory of what once was.
With pen in hand,
while others quantity scribble
the poet choice-fully writes….
(The latter requires more
thought, and perhaps less
feature – a truer poetic portrait
minimal angel a bit creature -- )
the church is a hospital for sinners
not a hospice for saints
as we're all unfinished portraits
that God must continuously paint
unfinished portraits
perched on the easels of life
waiting to be stained
with the sacred blood of Christ
none of us are perfect
we're all works in progress
Trying and striving
to do our very best
unfinished portraits
perched on the easels of life
waiting to be stain
with the sacred blood of Christ
let our hearts, minds and spirits
be lifted up by His mighty hands
let our canvases be anchored
on godly anointed stands
lengthen us oh Lord
color in our blank space
strengthen us oh Lord
as we relish in Your grace
unfinished portraits
perched on the easels of life
waiting to be stained
with the sacred blood of Christ
we now stand in awe of He
the one who dwells above
just let us never forget His infinite mercy
and unwavering love
unfinished portraits
perched on the easel of life
waiting to be stained
with the sacred blood
of our Lord Christ
I would often wander through the Tate
walking round the galleries and halls
admiring all the portraits
pictures and artwork on the walls
it was almost quite the hobby
then a painting I espied
of a proper Peeler a British Bobby
arresting is not denied
corporal punishment is implied
I admit would you believe and have to say
the stripes on his sleeve were a giveaway
but I was unfamiliar
with the artist responsible
as the vignette was neither a Sargent
and yet no more a Constable
I sat with the plant leaf again,
its veins straighter than mine.
The bus ride had ended. Manila steamed.
My shirt, still full of your smell,
even though you hadn’t come yet.
The blinds were half-closed
like eyelids in anesthesia—
and I traced shadows with my pen
pretending I was writing payroll,
but it was always a eulogy.
The dust in the corners of the cubicle
was not debris.
It was proof of my stillness.
Proof I had not been seen.
Proof I was human.
Somewhere a neon ad shouted skin whitening,
but I was already transparent.
A ghost who had filled in timesheets
and cried into broken staplers.
You would come one day.
Not as a lover,
but as a mirror
sharp enough
to open the mouth of the soul.
Portraits on the wall,
some grand, some small,
staring at the people,
sat around the table,
portraits on the wall,
ego show for all
in silence they stare,
look back if you care,
at disjointed thoughts,
from bygone hearts,
faces deadpan bare,
each behind every chair.
the walls sweep around,
from top floor to ground,
chandeliers and fireplace,
speaker phones, flower vase,
those portraits in the hall,
don't say much at all!
every few years a new one,
of the president just done,
adding to stares one more,
extending history and lore,
the friendly, the grim,
mix with bright, wise, and dim.
faded memories from past,
wonder how long they last,
Portraits grow each year,
their number cause for fear,
will stay or will they fall?
one day bring down the wall?
Written about a 100 year old establishment
that puts a painted portrait of the last president
on their walls.
Lives of residents collaged
as their portraits hang
from a gallery’s ceiling
and spotlight shine
upon their faces.
They are old
they are young
they are boys and men
they are girls and women
these people who have called
a small Iowa town
their own.
Some have posed
in fields
some by their houses
and they frown or smile
their faces offering reflections
of the lives they’ve known
but in their eyes, I see
reflections of the many lives
I’ve lived as I stroll
through the gallery.
My memories stir inside
a deep affection of quiet drives
through the countryside
and past this quiet town.
Once when I stopped
for a pizza
a light shown upon
the face of a girl at the counter.
lights shine like stars
on small town people
living ordinary lives
PORTRAITURE
profile
with style
At the museum, the portraits are hung
Of presidents, staring ahead,
A few of them still drawing breath, but by now,
Most have been, for a lot of years, dead.
Some I studied in school, some I knew not at all,
Others served while I have been alive
And the artists’ depictions were varied in style,
Though to capture the truth, they did strive.
In the midst of all men, just one woman appeared -
It was Eleanor Roosevelt, but why?
Not a president, true, though my fingers are crossed
She’ll have company yet, by and by.
Rainbow has many colors
Just life is blend with dark and light
Happy and gloomy moments, yet
We thank God for the blessing we receive.
Roses are red and pretty, yet
It has many thorns attach to it
Just life is blend with hope and glory
We thank God we survive each day we live.
Road is clean and pave, yet
It has many crossroads and avenues to take
Just life is blend with decision and option, yet
We thank God we're able to cross finishing line safe.
I painted portraits of you in my heart
till' dark clouds allowed pouring rain to fall
washed away paintings hung that fell apart
to leave my heart's chamber an empty hall
my love for you held portraits that I hung
now a darker place with its vacant walls
where my love's dust becomes a wormwood dung
when love died slowly in pain-filled thralls
this chamber, this hall, now a silent place
that's shrouded by a darkness of morass
when vanished portraits left a lonely space
where doors are closed and no one may trespass
For all my painted portraits I will weep
When I find them in my dreams when I sleep
Seasons like emotions fade away.
Where poisonous rain once
blistered susceptible surfaces,
now sapphire skies showcase the saffron sun,
silently soothing somber scars.
Yesterday was a vacant colouring book.
Today is a kaleidoscopic canvas of colours,
illuminating every blank page.
Rainbow rivers stream through my veins,
as eyes paint in positive portraits.
Pen flows like exotic fruit juices,
blending sweet smoothies.
Essence of fruit salad zest,
liberates from a coconut mind.
Psychedelic pineapple heart,
nurtures my mango soul's serenity.
Sentimental sun rays embrace,
soaking warmth deep inside.
Happiness is tranquil like a
pleasant fresh ocean breeze.
Drowning in foolish beliefs;
Pixilated portraits falling off
Corroded walls;
Blank canvases pervaded by
Grainy brush strokes,
Billowing amidst scattered flickers of
Crumbling structures,
Ambling in blighted stillness.
Venturing to find equilibrium in
This cryptic world,
Stranded and abandoned,
Layered upon a
Pillar of empiric darkness,
Glazed in meaningless semantics.
PORTRAITS
composite
unanimous
elated
& dumbfounded
overwhelmed
completely
surreal
yet
exciting
conveying
a sense
of
performative
persona
introverted
&
private
together
that subvert
convention
distorted
representations
imagined vaguely
fragmented
translucent
& figurative
an atmosphere
of
movement
&full of
storyline
accompanying
the
skewed
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