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Cress Rosario May 2014
Brushes and paints can do a lot of pictures
Images inside his head that was once captured
It can speak for a million of smiles
It can reveal us thousands of lies

Even paintings has its own secrets
Hid by the one who passionately paints it
If we could dive through that canvas
We would know the story he wants to tell us
As an artist and a painter, I want to know unseen stories inside every painters hid in their works. We paint for a reason. It's either we are inspired, hurt, thinking too much, fantasize of something, delighted, or we want to wake up the world.
sir humbug Jun 2018
the job of the artist
is to be
luminous and dangerous

luminous to others
by being
dangerous to themselves

when the words are ripped from the chest,
atmosphere disbursed by the body’s projectile messes,
starburst fireworks,
luminous and dangerous,
luminating the shared night,
laminating your truths,
in poems disguised


and so the job,
our work,
begins
Cné  Aug 2017
Painted Song
Cné Aug 2017
Fragmented lives entangled
but asunder in our journey
as our paths cosmically connect
in a romance of the arts

And who's to say what's real
to touch or deeply feel
what will truly last
or simply where to start

So I’ll
paint you alla prima
as I feel you playing me
in warm colors of merging ardor
a wet blending of artistry
my brush strokes of your body
painted in my mind
of impressions blushed in passion
in hues I can’t describe

Suspended in the moment
floating on a breeze
I revel in this picture painted music
almost in disbelief, unthinking…
knowing every nuance of our love
found only in our dreams

Like children in parallel play
I’ll finger the keys
and slip the locks
of all your orchestrations
filling the walls
of my concerts halls
with deep
splattered tones
in pinks and blues
the hues
that forever
bind us

And we’ll not look back
nor forward
but hang here in the moment
to display our
Painted Song
in the eyes
of giggly children
both doing
our own thing
together
on a string
curated
A collaboration with Howard Hilde
https://hellopoetry.com/u693528/
JV Beaupre May 2016
"So why are you painting a woman in a bottle?"
The challenge. Handling all those quirky reflections and layers of transparency.

"She has phantom arms and legs, what about that?"
Yes, pretty cool. A Vitruvian woman in a bottle. *

"I'm looking for Meaning: Don't paintings look under the surface?"
You mean, what does it mean, really mean? It's just a way to test my skill.

"But what are you saying with that?"
It's not feminist nor anti, it's just an exercise. Besides, there's a rope.

"But aren't you, as an artist, exposing reality, presenting emotions and feelings, seeing the soul?"
I'm not on a soapbox-- I'm testing my skill-- I paint and don't think about it too much. After all, 'Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar' or is it 'just a smoke'?

"I don't like your message."
OK, I'll paint you in a bottle...
As a shrunken head.
On the other hand, I once painted an agricultural scene based on a photo from the 1930s that I thought carried a social message. Most people wanted to know what kind of tractor it was.
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2018
Art, unborn,
aches to find form;
to manifest itself.
Within me it screams,
while those around
remain deaf to its cry.

It claws to free itself
from mortal chains,
restless to share its vision
with the world;
to tell its story
in verse and beauty.

This art within,
impatient, cannot wait.
It struggles to find
its voice
within my finite days
and world.

Until at last,
like a volcano,
unable to restrain that voice,
it erupts,
and my art flows out,
spilling onto paper.

The words and images
become solid,
taking form,
giving birth to the art within.
Thus, completing me,
quieting the cry inside.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
He was art; unparted with his
pens, and brushes. He blushed
at your compliments, for it
was just a way to keep
from losing his pose to
sanity, a dainty piece rocking
against his wall,
making him
stay together
just one more
   day-
Art!
All feedback is appreciated
If you could see us now,
huddled up
on this bathroom floor
like the wet towel in the corner,
a most-likely-used toilet brush
covered in
ash & hair
is the next closest thing
in arm's reach
to a real statement.

You want to know what it's about?
You do not want to know what it's about.

To dunk those
pearly whiteheads
in oil and expect
whiter pearls
would just be silly.

Take the bedazzlings from their feet
and what is left to judge
that which they do not want to know?
for all the donors & gatekeepers
In love with Gwen Stacy
When in stasis


Cannot let go of the old neighborhood charm until?

In love with Mary Jane
                  When the mind takes off*

Now, I become the hero Spiderman yet a problem?

     * *She leaves, no Mary Jane
                        And the symbiote, VENOM


Comes along in angry mind of the hero spurned?

Stuck in webs
anger as Man
         Hero no words


Comes along in angry mind of the hero spurned?

I want to do something widcha'
something makes her mad
I want to do something widcha'
something makes him Mad.


I want to do something widcha'
some thing? *

Zowie Georgia Jan 2013
Pretending nothing's wrong
her rage walks through her feet,
spiralling up to the expression on her face,
and the lack of.
A clown with many faces she is
but smiling now lacks feeling
because her happiness left
and only questions remain:
Does he still love her?

In her yearnings for an embrace
her arms are still unable to open,
as though her affections are preserved
to memories that cannot be bettered
because she's scared to be vulnerable.

Now they sit awkwardly,
though the longing of a touch lingers somewhere.
A distant look through an embellished picture
now a reminder of the connection they knew so well.

Met by her resistance before,
he fears more rejection,
through this frustration he shouts about life,
how he feels less attractive,
the mirror he too would drown in
if coughing didn't keep him afloat.

Breathing eachother's frustration
the atmosphere now speaks a foreign tongue,
the words that were once easily said  
now relics in the air.

His eyes well up when nobody can see,
because the love he feels for her hurts him inside.
Her anger hurts more everytime she ingores him,
and she can no longer dicipher who's suffering more.

What do you do
when Love's penetrated with too much power,
too much illusion?
What is to come
when the expression of One's divinity is too stubborn to say
**I am sorry
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