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Lyn-Purcell Jun 2018
Take    
my hand      
Walk with me      
through dalihian    
fields      

                  Vast
                  gardens
              ­   under the
                   crown of gold light
                   blooms

By            
the lake            
Under trees            
A silvern rope              
swings            

             Hold
             the rope
              swing to pond
               Swim beneath the
              stars

See              
Northern            
Lights dance past            
Strokes of painter's              
brush              

        Blues
          greens, pinks
          Pure   in  beats
          Music    for    our
          eyes

Tears                  
well  up                ­  
and  fall  at                  
the beautiful                
sight                

          Let
        love fly
        on the wings
          of hope and peace
        free

High        
to     the        
world of  dreams        
Ride   the  winds  of      
hope      

       I
        embrace
          hold  hands  with
           my  lost  inner
          child

Face            
towards          
the dark skies            
     Shadows behind              
me            

                                Heart
                          ­        is  now
                                   tender   flame
                                Don't hang,  lantern
                                  Fly
Lanterns poems, my lastest obsession!
I just let the words flow here. And reading it makes me feel so happy.
Like I'm lighting the lanterns of my inner child's dream...
Makes me feel so warm and fuzzy inside, it's almost unreal.
Truly. These poems are making me happier. A level of happiness I haven't felt in such a long time. I'm definitely going to do more of these! ^.^
Love you, everyone! Thanks so much for 84 followers!
You're the bomb!
Be back soon!
Lyn ***
Kimi Sanchez Sep 2017
There are faces that go on the pretty, high-end magazines,
In demand, highly sought
Read once
Then kept away
Then there are faces that go on the canvasses of painters who were once unknown
Coveted, evoking
Imprinted on the mind
Hanged in the Louvre
(for all the world to see)
Now worth a million
When all around you saw darkness,
you gazed at the stars.

Everyone wants to paint their pain,
but only you, Vincent,
channeled that awful torment
into beauty
immaculate and sublime;
only you, dear Vincent
saw the beauty in the shoes, the bedroom, the weeds, the washers,
only you saw the beauty when it wasn't pretty.

To suffer is human.
but
to find ecstasy in the ordinary
and transform the banal into the magical
is something only you could do,
my dearest Vincent.

Merci;
Nilesh Mondal Sep 2015
Our goddess lives under a banyan tree
Deep in the forest. She paints
And sings songs, to put herself to sleep.

2. Royina, your dad paints too.

Tuesday evening, he paints skies
And at the dinner table, you wonder
Why he has blue on his throat.

Wednesday, he paints the sun.
His fingers are red with the flames
He doesn't read letters addressed to him
Because he's afraid
Of burning them black.

Friday, he doesn't paint.
Just sits by the lake, on a secluded bench.
Feeding pigeons. And hearing them coo.

3. Royina, remember the boy who held you
Last time you allowed yourself
To be kissed?

He played a guitar, you told me.
And he had long thin fingers, which fluttered,
From string to string.

He wrote you a letter when you left.
And you folded it eight times. Then put it
In your pocket. Tell me, Royina
Did you put it in your heart too?

4. What is it with creative people, Royina?

The writers and the guitarist and the painters.
Do they look at you like you are the magic you are?  
Do they tell you, no, you're not
Who you think you are.
There are so many shades under your skin
Let me peel off your inhibitions, and I'll show you.

5. Royina, their letters never reach you.

And they wonder why, homes are still called
Addresses.
I write long stories
Short, medium as well
I write because I think that
I have something to tell

I've met people in my writing
All living in my head
They come to me in daytime
And they speak to me in bed

I don't know if I've met them
There's a chance they may be real
But, they're there inside me living
Letting people know just how they feel

I've singers, painters, dancers
blindmen, kids who like weird things
teachers, stutterers and hobo's
crippled kids and kings

I'm not sure if I've met them
But, by now, I know their names
I know everything about them
And I know, no one is the same

They keep me entertained and
I hope you like them too
I've got to move some boxes in my head
To see if I can find somebody new.
William Keckler Oct 2014
Must go. Cannot explain.
The sadness is on the table.
I left you as much as half
of everything I own.
Maybe more.
Spend it how you like.
I know you will anyway.
This is no joke.
The marriage painting is fixed.
The key is under
your lover's pillow.
Tell the cat
Vive La France for me.
Amitav Radiance Jul 2014
We are all painters
Holding a color palette
Conceiving a painting
It’s how we mix the colors
Depending on our imagination
Whether we paint happiness
Or scenes of saddened gray
Situations yield the paintings
Sometimes splashing all colors
Or else black colors gloom
Universe has mostly dark energy
Yet, we have found our colors
To paint our abode, we inhabit
No matter, colors of joy and sorrow
We celebrate all colors
We are all painters, wielding the brush
To create new colors of hope
Tommy Johnson Feb 2014
Blasting out of the fog and mud
Past the forests in the sunrise
Farms and high ways
Trotting through suburbia
Through the tunnel
Defacing and refusing to allow themselves to be part of an unjust ******
Believe in the intermingling of colors
Waiting for the planets to fall into place
To stop for a moment and inhale the abundant harmony that surrounds them and emote and create a inspiring response in the form of self expressive freedom that matches the beauty that had compelled them
Äŧül Mar 2014
Love can make us fly,
Love can take us high.
Love can't make us lie,
Love can give us wings.
Love could make us try,
Love wouldn't let us die.

Love isn't that instant noodles,
Love isn't ready-made clothes,
Love is a pure example of art,
Love made quickly isn't pure,
Love aims for the perfection,
Yes, love demands patience.
My HP Poem #589
©Atul Kaushal

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