Art Sonnet Poems

My dreams allow my thoughts to fantasize,
opening a box of colored crayons.
And my subconscious scribbles sapphire skies,
coloring dreams in shades of gold and bronze.

Pastels and...

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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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Flit and dance from flower to flower
Gossamer wings of printed art
Rapturous beauty overpowers
Instilling warmth in my beating heart.
Bold against the drab grey surround
You float unencumbered,...

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In the green garden there's a young lady 

She runs her slender fingers across the fresh lilies' 

The suns soft light licking tenderly at her...

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How fortunate that I, correctly versed,
knew hand-grenades are passive. At their worst,
they maim and kill. But this is interspersed
with usefulness: defenders have no thirst
for carnage....

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The sparring mind requires a venue fit
for wide ambition’s pointed blade—the craze
of poignant poetry’s unbridled wit.—
Masked)by the wily writer’s wire-meshed gaze,

the soul unleashes on the...

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O’ Mother!, take me back at last, receive
—(unclasped arms as vast as mine)—my embrace;
this longing, laughing love, the proof and grace
of my abiding for your...

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how long and sourly sobs the lonely heart
depends on how grave the weight which grieves the tears
pouring from the despondent spirit’s pores.—
a witness, too, will...

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      Like as the waves make toward the pebbled shore,
          ...

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Love sends a signal (so intangible)
through time removed and space—more faraway
than high heavens, sun, spark of moody day
when Night her might has made immoveable. 

The...

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The Bard of Avon with a quill in hand,
Did weave such magic on the London stage,
A tapestry of words at his command,
That captivated every rank...

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