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Nikolas Aug 20
Stained wooden tools in use,
Rapid brush strokes, blouse is loose;

Oleanders running up the windows,
My painter's face is like a wild rose.
Graff1980 Aug 13
You can paint infinity
on a set of plates
that lay here before me,

share a season’s story
leaving out what is gory.

You can dance in skewed
make rainbows cry
while a little child
staves off this painted rain.

You can make manifest
the spirit over which
you give dominion
to all who live in
this little world.

Let lovers walk
from pools reflecting
many shades
that illuminate
the end of days.

Can take the infinitude
of every instance
that made you, you
and summarize it
in multiple tints
of blue;

Take the beauty
and wonder of
a stranger’s face
lit by inspiration
as she reads
by a windowpane,

while I can take apart
and break the art
you made with your heart,
to write this silly little poem.
Kamilla Jun 16
Every cascading curve,
Envisioned and brought forth
Colt brushes accompanied by oils served
Gentle glide to slight drag North
Smooth, fair *******
Of yellows, white and reds
Complied thoughtful hues
Silk of emerald, bride of white
Paintress’ gaze, lovers by night
Äŧül Jun 2
For you, I am an artist,
My art is music,
My art is love.

For you, I am a soldier,
My duty is guarding,
My duty is protecting.

You lost someone special,
I'm an addition new,
Do not worry, Mitali,
I'm here to stay now.
My HP Poem #1852
©Atul Kaushal
Chris Saitta May 27
A vintner of aged leaves in the wine-press of the sun,
Thin-skinned like the lucent grapes from the vine-runs
Of the island trellises and teal-cordoned waves, lowest slung
Fruit-laden bough of sky, Sicily, whose ateliers of rolled cigarettes
And uprolled sleeves like tides tease smoke into studio paints,
The black apple wine of storm made into mouthfuls of pulp rain,
Before the sunrise is gathered again in fishing nets and crab pots,
The coastal towns with their salted roofs of pied clay and pigeons
Along the lava stone streets, and night from the chanteuse of Egypt,
Singing her coral to heron, as when her bird-like barefooted slaves
Left tracks across Old Kingdom wastes, so this dreaming old man
Leaves his wrinkles to these grapes and across the sand-island pillow,
Asleep with his fathers, hay-hauling peasants of wandering darkness.
Atelier is simply an artist’s studio.
with a gentle touch
caressing your thigh
making you quiver and moan
with her fingers grazing your skin
in vulnerable places
kissing your lips, your neck
your stomach
draping her legs around yours
so delicately
almost like a painter
touching you with her brushes
seductive art designed
on the submissive canvas
FloydBrandon Jan 26
Trial by fire in freezing
Fear is denial in grieving
A picturesque portrait but the painter is sleepy
Now he’s painting his nightmares instead of his daydreams
O Vincent
Great poesie through dotted skies
And o'er flooded eyes
Of softest loneliness

Take my desert tongue
And immerse it, from chamber to tip
Let it burst onto crazy lip
The loose chimes of loving

And if all patterns take me
To the whims of quiet sleights
I will not flail against that night
For any place is rightly dipped in beauty

Should I find myself forlorn
In the heights o'er skipping valleys
Or the depths of sodden alleys
I will accept it in your breath
Bhill Dec 2019
What is about the wind that comforts or troubles one
The constant howling as it bends and swirls through barriers
Trees waving their branches as it engulfs and swallows them up
Moving water past their natural breaks
Changing the landscape of deserts like a painter with his canvas
Sand dunes creating new and ever-shifting raw formations
And when it ends...
The silence is unexpected and so, so quiet

Brian Hill - 2019 # 326
Do you like the wind?
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