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Big and black
The umbrellas
Knew not of any other size
And colours

A rainy day
Decades ago
I reckon

Men on foot
And bicycles, black
Peddling the tar road
Soaking wet

Their attire
Native, pure white
Monochrome
The photograph
Inspired by a photo
Portraits lying on the old shelf,
Reminds me of a time
I used to do a good impression
Of myself
They say people never change,
It's rather quite strange
That there's a world beyond that door
While I was stuck sleeping on the floor,
Trying to diverge the bold arrow of time
Is in itself a crime?
Things seem unreal
Like a one-hand clappin'
Things take time to heal,
Just let it happen.
The journey of a portrait through time.
Allesha Eman Aug 2020
In endearing silence,
Exists the stillness of black and white,
The painter holds the palette against their chest,
And their heartbeat colours in the pigments,
As their brush strokes the canvas,
Droplets of light begin to surround you,
Like floating fireflies, or stars on earth,
And in your eyes, colour blooms,
You sit, framed, in black and white,
But the smile you wear when you stare at wonder,
Brings your colours back to life,
The painter captures a portrait,
Made from the paper of destiny,
A picture of you finding yourself,
As the silence waves goodbye,
Leaving behind echoes of your hopeful laugh.
Gray Roxanne Feb 2020
Imagine me
unlocking your eyes
in such a way that
heaven and earth in their
full boundlessness
pour unto me,
osmosing into the depths
of my being

Imagine me
falling

             deeper


                                          into





                                                                                         you
another poem inspired by Yoko Ono's "Grapefruit" for my poetry class
Steve Page Aug 2019
We each sit in silence,
punctuated by the scrape of canvas,
and while it takes a while for me to hear you,
to taste the essence of you,
- slowly your aroma filters through
your curves,
your creases
and I cease to see your flesh and instead
I see the palette of you,
embedded in the greying of you,
waiting for this, this view,
this interpretation of you,
while you sit in your steady state
of quiet undress
Each September comes BEAT Borough of Ealing Art Trail - Art shown in artists homes. And each August poets are invited to write an accompanying poem to a piece of art. This is one of my BEAT poems.
Randy Johnson Mar 2019
All I have to do is paint a portrait of somebody being dead and he or she dies in real life.
I've painted portraits of my former boss, my in-laws and I also painted a portrait of my wife.
I've been given a magical power but I don't know where it came from.
My killing spree is not going to end, there will be more deaths to come.
I'm going to paint portraits of Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump.
Then I'll paint portraits of the creators of the new Doctor Who TV show, I'll get rid of all of those chumps.
I'm also going to paint a portrait of a bully who I went to school with.
He'd better enjoy what time he has left because he won't have long to live.
I will never see the inside of a courtroom, I will never be tried.
If you don't want your portrait to be painted, don't get on my bad side.
Swagat Das Jun 2018
Far away,
Where the ochre of dusk kisses the horizon,
Where the scarlet of blood leaves behind trails,
Where the grey of dust smogs above the rubble,
Rests a content orphan mutilated by war,
In his eternal sleep.

Close by,
Where the wall of portraits poses proud a witness,
Where the shelf of books prisons a beloved diary,
Where the bin of waste smokes with burnt letters of love,
Rests a broken damsel torn by betrayal,
On a pillow wet with tears.

A few fathoms away,
Where the green of suburbs mocks the city of splendour,
Where the thatch of roofs overlooks the wooden stoves,
Where the hunger of eyes satisfies itself with morsels,
Rests a weary mason struggling to survive,
On a floor freezing cold with winter.

Within you,
My lady,
Where the seeds of dormancy give way to saplings of emotion,
Where the fairies of yore build castles of attractive imperfections,
Where the mistletoe of beauty houses my swooning heart,
Rests my incomplete Elysium forged with love,
On a garden littered with flowers of hope.
Can we all build a Elysium, together hand-in-hand? If we could it would be the most beautiful place that ever existed.
Reuben Aug 2017
Portraits and pictures resembles the past,
Every one forms an image and memories that lasts,
It portray and tell the part of our lives in sequence
That depict ourselves from the time we experience

No matter how, I look every angle and see it through
I can still find the people that brings my life breakthrough
To summarize what contribution, they did
I thought both loneliness and happiness are the possessions, I hid

Being with them both loved and hatred is I got for
Because one thing, I will always pray is to change, I did before,
For those I cling and show them the light, I felt delighted and contented
But others I hated and leave in the dark, only regret I can described

Most of them are unique and special but one is dearest to my heart,
Awaking for the time, when I see the smile that melts me apart,
Reminiscing the moment that someone came it brightens my day
And only giving inspiration in my heyday

Oh my God above, Can I turn back the time?
Going back in this period and steal a chance, would it be a crime?
Should I only do, is to accept that is forever lost?
To change anything a bit, is yet unknown, of how it cost.
Candy Noire Jul 2016
I have dreams of him
His eyes are missing
All flesh, pristine
He's not looking but still seeing
He cannot show but he guides me
To the meadows I roam free
Clear skies torn apart by sun rays
Like it was always that way
Our bodies glisten as they sway.

He calls me in, a messenger
I breathe him and he is medicine
From the ghosts in my bedsheets
From mosaics of grief I've seen
And the shadows appear on the hilltops
Trickling towards me like rain.

Then stormy skies run like watercolour
He is gone and darkness creeps in
Bad dreams line the clouds of sleep
From summer in the meadows to rough seas
I see his face in my morning coffee
And I pour him down the sink
For I cannot swallow this feeling
Knowing the visions belong to me.

You haunt my dreams of places I will never visit
People I will never meet
In the background of each painting
You're the stains on every seat
You're the barbed wire round my heart
You're the rotting in the woods
You're the dark circles under my eyes
I can't sleep because of you.
Here's a toast
To those who never asked for it
Because they really need one
And i for one am not letting them out
That would be wrong of me
And wrong for you
You got to think about the things that you do
Even if they appear as minor
They're much larger in the other portraits
This card game shouldn't end in a forfeit
But those few seem to anyways
High stakes, low stakes
Makes no difference to me.
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