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You see the big picture
And you rush in
You paint the road you walk on
You wear Your grin

You observe the blue sky
But the beauties inside
Your heart can love all that you touch
And we love it oh so much
You shrug off the compliments
Your humility shine through
People observe the painting process
Wonder what it’s like
To have talent like you
Standing before
A bonfire
I see faces
In the fire
Looking at
The clouds
I see faces
In the clouds
Staring at
A historic wall
I see faces
In the wall
Focusing on
A ***** floor
I see faces
In the floor
Mountain rocks
I see faces
In the rocks
Depth of
A painting
I see faces
In the painting
Gazing the sky
At night
I see a face
In the Moon
All these
Pareidolia faces
Not known
Harm anybody
Turning around
I see faces
Different from
Pareidolia faces
Some unreally
Real faces
Under heavy duty
Sorry, makeup
Every fortnight
Ready for
A break up
Some real
Beautiful faces
Some real
Ugly faces
Not Judged
By the eyes
But by the
Heart's cry
Pareidolia is a normal phenomenon in human psychology.
They may have grown in a wood
or a garden, wholly in bloom.
They now rise from the vase
in a sovereign floating of joy :
crysanthemums in bud, narcissus,
full-blown peonies and tulips,
fulfilling themselves, they ripple
and throb with passion. They speak
to each other.

One bloom has fallen, an arabesque
of salmon pink. The empty shells
and one small insect add a spiritual
dimension, mortality’s immediency,
a yearning for the unattainble.
Those delicate blossoms hang
against the blue sky, nostalgic
for eternity.
Norman Crane Oct 16
Let's lose our minds amongst the olive trees
Labyrinth of oiled imagination
Twirl like falling leaves / falling to our knees
in unbalanced joy and veneration
of ourselves. For there is nobody else
but us; there is no other time but now,
Red flowers bloom. A blue shadow propels
a still landscape into being somehow
fluid. Timelessly we swim, wet within
each brush stroke branch and painted wave of wild
emancipation—to forget the din
of the wretched asylum. Vincent smiled:
Dive too deep and you shall go insane,
The olive grove remains the other side of the pane.
Inspired by Vincent van Gogh's painting of the same name.
Sara Kellie Oct 15
A vanta black with specks of white.
The darkest night, embedded light.
The finest flicks, raised painted grain.
Diagonal lines, depicting rain.

The only colour of sodium light,
all placed on sticks and stood upright.
They line the street and evenly placed.
The coldest night, a bitter taste.

Upon the path, a man and dog.
Both brisk in pace and breath of fog.
Icicles drip from frozen eaves.
Returning home, both kicking leaves.

Winter pallette
alupa Oct 16
I coloured your soul.
Drew stripes
in blue and purple.
I painted your heart.
Covered it in silver splatters
I made you my finest art.
But I failed.
Just one small streak in the wrong direction
ruined my imagination.
So I scrunched up the paper
And pushed you away.
Why is nothing ever enough for me?
Réne Curtis Oct 11
A starry night he did proclaim
with hues and stokes so untamed,
he layed on with palette knife.

The twirls and swirls of gold
above the dormant village old,
despite his own inner strife.

Stars played cheerfully around,
restful hues on slumbering town
as though, sleeping with his wife.

While the sun awaited to arise
shadows of wheat black to his eyes,
he turned the heavens into wildlife.

Locked in his cold dismal room,
he painted not of his true gloom,
but of a dreamy, wonderous life.
To favourite my painting and artist, The Starry Night by painter Vincent van Gogh. Painted in June 1889, from the east-facing window of his asylum room at Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, he awaited the sunrise.
Betty Oct 8
A sky of painted rain from custard yellow clouds, fell beyond my gallery window glass.

The grass a silken thread of cinnamon fire, vermillion and orange tea brewed strong and hot, which ran to choppy rivers damson plum and vintage flowing wine, stretched far beyond my own imagining
to boiling seas of unknown hue.

Did a morning ever dawn which held such colour and such light, If so it isn’t one I ever knew!
I wondered what it would be like to wake up in an abstract painting
Five.. four..three... A life depends
When the last leaf fell,
His life will end
But one day he was getting well A heavy rain happened
He asked his friend for the curtain to be opened
The last leaf is still there
But the one who made it is not anymore there

One.. it's still one
His life was saved by that old man
That masterpiece changed everything
It saves life because of that painting.
Inspired by the story: The last leaf
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