Art Sonnet Poems

(continued)

Sonnet for Richard and Elizabeth
Twice Wed, Never Tamed
In Hollywood, where gods wear mortal skin,
 Their laughter roared and battles lit the screen.
 Twice wed, twice...

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Hear me, blonde tressed bonnie-lassie!
Kill me not by thine raunchy eyes.

Never could ye imprison me
By thy voluptuous coax

Thou can't get blood out of a stone
Akin...

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Oh waxing Phoebe!how merciless art thou?
To stalk when my Psyche lamenting.
Thou art stoleth radiance of her sanctity face
Ye haven't thy own
Never bud aroma roses, it's...

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Obscured Cupid as a brimming stream
To drench when thou hath bathe

Transformed he as a adherence
And hath entwined ye abdomen

Disguised as maid in thy harem
To admire...

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Oh! illusion of all illusions
Art thou incarnated as Cupid?

Depicted ye with wings
And hath armed with love-shaft

Entwines ye many hearts of innocence
And warms thyself in their...

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A mere mortal when thinks he is like zero with no value and appeals as in ‘In a deal with thee, Lord’, God assures him,...

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We poets, writers, misfits of the world 
like artist or mystics or troubadours
use our gifts to give insight to others
we offer more pulling back the...

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Thou art O Lord a unique One, 
And I am a value-less nought, 
(Sans thee oh what a worthless dot!) 
And an object of abject...

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Hello friends, makeup is a skillful art,                  ...

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When I'm dreaming, I sometimes fantasize
about opening a box of crayons.
As my subconscious scribbles sapphire skies,
coloring dreams in shades of gold and bronze.

Pastels and vivid...

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As a child, colors weave the way I dream,
Then what I feel and how I perceive.
My humming voice a dandelion stream.
Carnation pink, fairytales I used...

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When days of dreary tropes could feel no duller,
and gray heavens escape my pencil’s reach,
—oh misery!, it can’t be set to speech,—
my crayon box dreams...

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I need a break, a minute’s breath of space;
The furious tempo driving me along, 
a fussy temper, fervent all day long
to strive, stress, toil, scramble...

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The fate of a crayon, it waxes and wanes,
From the engrossing grip of an artist's hand,
To a still life framed in a box of chains,
Where...

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Why Poetry? she muses, sat in front
of paper, staring blankly, lifelessly
at her image.—		and really…, who is she
to ask the page—in a manner so blunt—

to shoulder...

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