Studio Poems | Examples

In Your Studio

I’m on your lap
in a photo I no longer have—
a toddler with a borrowed brush,
my hand caught mid-daub
on your canvas.
It was staged, of course—
your painting for a calendar
on the easel in front of us
like the month you gave me
a tool of your craft
and I mistook it
for permission—
but my brush didn’t
paint like yours.

Sometimes I wonder
if you saw it,
the difference—
or if you just liked
how I held the brush,
intent on nothing more
than becoming you.
I no longer try
to paint like you.
I paint like me—
and I think you'd smile
to see what I’ve done,
though my brush still doesn’t 
paint like yours.

Close Enough for a Thursday

It’s been a long time since
I’ve ventured into
this new studio of mine—
dust has settled like ashes
on the unshelved books
and the jars of brushes
still packed away in boxes
that intimidate me.

Since I’m already here
I might as well unpack
one carton of my past.
I slit the tape on a box
labeled Miscellaneous,
not knowing what I’ll find.
Inside, a parrot, a toucan,
some triangles and French curves.

And buried deeper —
a chambered nautilus,
a Royal Doulton mare and foal,
and a photo of my daughter
in the beloved red clogs 
we bought in Reykjavik—
and which she took to bed with her
each night ‘til she outgrew them —
legs crossed like a diva,
already queen of her small world.

The room watches in stillness 
as I lay each relic
in the light like an offering,
and with each one
the unfamiliar space
begins to feel it might really
become my new studio. 
Something in me loosens—
and begins to believe it too.

My knees crack as I rise—
it’s not exactly 
a resurrection, but it’s
close enough for a Thursday.
I dust off the windowsill,
open another box,
and let the light fall in.
Maybe, just maybe,
I might be home at last.

All Creations Are The Studio Of God

Ah, the sea, the sea,
I love it, it's cleansing
It gives me peace and joy within
A renewed hope and recharge energy.

Oh, the beach, the beach,
Nice to play, and sunbathe here
Oh, I see the sand and me
I know are the same one day.

Oh, the beauty of the sea,
Is contagious, life's inspiring 
Adventurous, yet lurk danger
It's vastness is great and wonder.

All creations are the studio of God
The sea, the beach and me are His arts
I can't be ungrateful and abusive
But thankful for I am His masterpiece.

Batteries fully charged

The sun bursts through my window
flooding my world my universe.
I'm energized to start my day.
My mind on overdrive
overflows with creativity,
ideas cascade i wish i could keep up

Open those floodgates,
let’s see what happens ~



AP: Honorable Mention 2025

Studio Dune

      Staircase shifts as my footsteps climb
      Trapeze tree swing, springy arm chimpanzee
      Undulates gripping limbs, gym sublime 
      Driftwood bone betides baton twirling frenzy 
      Intimate sub-sand somersault, primate
      Orangutang scramble up slope, slip intended

     
      Double view plateau, marina masts poise
      Usher terpsichorean dream, breeze buoys 
      Nautical cavort awkward flap flail sail pelican
      Evolves to swan serene seaside glide elegant







          Second of August 

         Serendipity Robust

Henri Matisse's Studio

Henri Matisse's Studio

Scattered about like fish in a pond
are paintings and objects in a secluded room
in a sea of red shouting out loud;
Connoisseurs please enter, others not welcomed

The pink studio expresses acceptance
of chic bourgeois realism, re-enforcing boredom
with sunlight streaming through the window
and a welcome mat laying on the linoleum.

The colour-contrast room interiors
accentuate artworks during creative years
of avant-garde innovations
that have captured an audience’s attention.

One version is neat and tidy and the other chaotic,
peering into one and looking out from the other,
revealing Matisse’s mind in motion
from realism and post-impressionism to Fauvism.

My Art Studio

My sanctuary is my art studio, which we carved out of our garage.
I have paints, canvases, brushes, and loads of glitter.
It’s my creative place where I can sit in silence or listen to music.
If I look up I am facing trees, which outline my three windows.

No one bothers me here. My husband knows better.
Sometimes the dogs want in, so I let them unless they get loud.
Then out they go, usually chasing squirrels.
This is a room we built out of the back of the garage, and I love it.

whose Studio is it

Whose studio is it?
Johnny Cash? Elvis? Willie?
We made lots of guesses of course.
Not realizing it was our cousin Norris.

Norris is always building one thing or another.
He cannot get along with employers or his brother.
What will he do with it? Someone brave asked us.
Rock and roll bound? Suggested our cousin Gus.

Norris built guitar-shaped studio because he had nothing else to do.
In between jobs again, without a clue.
He still lives at home and he is sixty-two.
Nothing new said his mother. Nothing new.

In the Face of Love

One would not know, to look at me,
my years spent at the ballet barre -
tights sticking to me in summer,
cold fingers in winter.

And the aching to be better,
to be seen,
to be given a correction from my teacher. 
She was the goddess of all dance and knowledge,
the stern angel of technique and artistry. 
She made me cry,
yet I loved her. 
She made me hate myself 
and hate ballet and its impossible standards.

If I had been perfect,
self-loathing would not have existed
in that sweat-wringing studio;
the click of her cane would not have conjured dread.
I yearned to be beautiful-
in her eyes and in my own,
but she always wanted something unattainable. 

Now, decades later,
if by chance I hear that music,
I inhale with anticipation, 
dancing in my mind -
weightless and lovely,
the movements forever ingrained in me. 
Perhaps I do a port de bras 
if no one is watching.
But I'm sure she is looking down and frowning,
hoping I will extend my arms a little more. 

The strange thing is, I know she loved me.
She just wanted something from me that I didn't think I had.

Emagi Rossetti Artist Studio

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI 'In an Artist Studio'


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In the Studio With Dave

Ten guitars line the wall
A rack of six, a rack of four
Standing sideways to me while
Proudly facing me,  two more
Making the point that this was a
Place of music, joy, creative pain
Emphasised by the lyrics of
A broken daisy chain,
Another a  song of 
A life over too soon
The only expressed regret of
How he would miss the moon.
Music flowing over me
As I sit with half closed eyes
Sinking into the mood
Unaware of time flowing by.
Twelve guitars stand watching
Making me aware 
This is a place of music
Of crafting, loving care.
I think they still watched me
As we closed the door
Wishing there had been time
To listen to so much more.

Studio

deep in studio
cloaked in thoughts, escaping strands 
dwindle to paper

Audio Recording of My Poems

High time i did their studio voicing 
To ignite a genuine rejoicing 
Over verses dismissed like Virus 
And by Sun Magaz The Mysterious, 
Poet making out as The Deleterious.
For all he might seem  Boisterous...


But Good Producers gasp for cash,
Here in Nigeria ‘dying to smash;’ 
Rare knocks at their doors for sought job, 
Even as they bear he names like Bob,
Planning to it complete with Marley
Or if it’d trouble cause Barley…

Yet, Reader can The poet’s Voice pick 
Theirs quite likelier for The Task click; 
Wasn’t there A Dolly Parton’s song 
A Whitney Houston’s gave Bigger throng?

What Gets Me Out of My Art Studio

What gets me out of my art studio?
The urge to urinate, to eat, or to play word games.
I am a painter who wants to do nothing else during summer.
My husband can testify everything else is second choice.
Including him, but he does not mind.
He is also obsessive, and understands it well.
He should. We have been together for fifty-five years.

The dogs are in there with me, sleeping with great flatulence.
When a delivery man comes, they try to deliver to us.
Because they can see me; I am behind a glass wall in the back of my garage.
I shake my head “no” and point to the porch
While the dogs are barking as if they are going to tear him up.
I call my husband and tell him about the package.
If I don’t, the big puppy will get to it first and rip it to bits.

Oh, wait, and food.
Food will get me out of my studio.
Sweet foods like cinnamon rolls and cherry pie
And salty foods like potato chips.
My husband also makes me sweet beans with wieners.
I blame my flatulence on the dogs.

The Studio At the Beach II

The Studio At The Beach Part II- The Green Dress Regalia

Her dear father and his consoling ways
If she couldn’t concentrate on schoolwork
he'd put his book down, light his cigar,
In a deep mellow reverie, pick up his guitar
I know it hasn’t been easy with schoolwork
he'd sigh, smoke billowing from his mouth
Shrouding our faces in a gray-white fog
He'd speak in a comforting melodious purr
Wrapping his arm around his daughter’s shoulder,
My precious   little jewel, there is no reason
For you to be so downcast, you're breaking my heart

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