#portraits
Our voices spoke for its own,
The butterflies must bring the stories of morrow ,
lower the grief bound of sorrow ,
wasn’t a will given of torn
Shocking to fly very briefly,
Portraits to remind us of what we borrow,
to our lives that makes sunshines of yarrow,
Whites and yellows with no hollow,
What a void gives to souls flying for needy
then must shine alone in the hardest leaves,
I wondered where i left messages in the middles of pages,
Behind all this words that been given with no stages,
I had it all when it comes to believes,
What can make you worried while i am here,
Resting my eyes for a while
I got reminded of a smile,
Not the noir of paints being vile,
Then i stare at the pictures of paintings longing for ancient Greece
Dear marron why did you leave them behind?
Space had no light but for the Sun,
Now you call them your sons,
Oh I forgot you were the colours of them when they never had insides,
Pardon my weakness of expressions,
I lost my mind under that tree,
Not knowing what on did i agree,
One more chance given of lessons,
In that tile of lords you’re the broad,
The highs has surrounded you,
The colours that given no chance to true,
Did you expect now to never be told?
I gave a loud noise of condolences,
I missed when we had fire mixes of dreams,
Why is it always shoulds of what then seems,
We finally had answers of long faded streams,
History of must all be teams,
I loved to fondly to care of schemes,
I apologise for the portraits with no added greens and gleams.
Oct 30, 2024
Oct 30, 2024 at 4:57 AM UTC
She sells flowers in little bunches,
Sweet fragrances that please,
Delicate sepals of life,
That softly speak.
Bouquets of living colours,
Petals of inspiration,
Roses, chrysanthemums,
Daisies, carnations.
Accent blossoms, gerberas,
Lilies smiling in myriad hues,
Sunflowers a darling yellow,
Vibrant orchids in splendour blue.
With her touch, beauty breathes,
Glorious blossoms thrive,
Delicately arranged,
Floral expressions come alive.
For new love that slowly blooms,
For confessions yet to be said,
The finest of her finest,
She ribbons roses dark rich red.
Fond good health thoughts,
Through florals expressed,
She’ll wrap with gentle care,
With love’s tenderness impress.
She’ll weave wreathes and garlands,
Blends of wistful white, blues, pinks,
For memories left behind,
Now distant imprints.
In sweet scents, she colours days, months, years,
Walks alone each night when she is done,
Back home, no florid fragrance fills her senses,
To colour her world there is no one.
Mar 11, 2024
Mar 11, 2024 at 12:17 PM UTC
#*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*#
Mar 22, 2021
Mar 22, 2021 at 1:32 PM UTC
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.
Oct 28, 2020
Oct 28, 2020 at 7:12 PM UTC
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.
Aug 13, 2020
Aug 13, 2020 at 9:51 PM UTC
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
Feb 25, 2020
Feb 25, 2020 at 2:30 PM UTC
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
Aug 20, 2019
Aug 20, 2019 at 3:57 PM UTC
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.
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 5:26 PM UTC
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.
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 2:53 AM UTC
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.
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 9:45 AM UTC
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.
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 3:46 PM UTC
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.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 2:00 PM UTC
if you ever want to come over and be sick and use my body like a doll-rod
I invite you to do so.
if you ever want to throw the rings and earn no points just to throw something
I invite you to do so.
if your pictures turn moldy and you can't face the mirrors, neither can I.
it's been three hundred seconds and I'm wondering if I should be listening for alphabet city or the sound of the Wilson's razor, if I should be curt or vowelless, glib and just a big sickening consonant or Occam's tired and infinite inner gesticulations- calculated but fleeting.
if you ever want to be you in front of that cemetery wall covered in the haze of eggy moonlight
I'd like to take pictures of the alms on your arms.
This earthquake is spicy and I am thrilled to feel some of the momentum coming back to my chest. I'm wishing for art too and believing in faeries and mid standing-ovation bringing my ears forward by cupping my hands, and holding ceramic mugs to the side of my head, listening for a dial tone or the tones of the dying.
you don't even know you make me write
into a black book or the white box, into the notes
onto the arms, scribbling while driving myself crazy at three-hundred and eighty seconds. Is this recording? I can turn it up.
what does it mean if I want to hang doors and patch holes, make locks and wear capes? It's been such a long lawn time, since I first got high on myself, met a new person and didn't want to drown or for them to drown.
Is this when I take the rocks out of my pockets and stop lingering by the water? Please let me know. You'll let me know, right?
If you ever want to talk serial killers over Apple Jacks or Corn Pops
I invite you to do so.
If you ever want to skip rocks or run from the cops with a second skin
I invite you to do so.
I like to dangle my feet over edges, while wearing floor-length gowns, while wearing ebony feathers, and avoiding being arrested. It's 26 minutes into tomorrow and we didn't give each other permission to die yet, so please don't go down without me. You're supposed to tell me when it's time to wear my rocks in the river, even if I never mentioned the plateau or the room where I heard the women crying.
Keep my secrets in your open-handed notebook
I invite you to do so.
Pencil new eyebrows for me to don, draw new shoes on my feet to wear
I invite you to do so.
Lock me in a box until I'm calling for the horrors, in a light-absent four-sided trap in the fetal position, I could be in a basement or on the 7 and a half floor of the Mertin-Flemmer building, but hum to me please.
I've asked you to set me on fire twice and you haven't,
does that make us best friends? I hope.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 1:39 AM UTC
So I scuttled up, until I found a voice like Japan, I read him his rights, turned out the lights, and laid right back on the sand. They said, "Sir, he was much of a father to me, but we were labeled his kin, right in our family tree." "Oh wow", I said, with a gentle, smooth voice, he went missing last August, but now he wants back you boys?" "Oh yes, he sure is a feral man. We think that's why he dried up and flew to Japan." Right then, the two of them went silent just like two second story men, so I inquired, "What happened then?" "From Monday thru Sunday he took to prayer from the bible, and on every other weeknight he watched Japan's Top Model. He threw gallant parties to a harem of wives, he read each of their palms, and looked in their eyes; some time later, when everyone was about to leave, he'd turn on Happy End and start a wild **** By this time I was tired, the sun began to set, I grew tired of my beach patch and yearned for my bed. Although soporific, I tried to be polite, I said, "Let's finish this conversation some other time." "Of course!", they said, "We're off to bed. We'll see that you'll do the same." Then they stood up quick, and reached down and picked up my chains. The beach we laid on was black top, asphalt and tar, the bed I craved was behind a row of private bars. The two of them, them both, were children of mine, because my memory is shot, this might've been their millionth time. i got locked up in a county that's dry as a beach, like Elizabethtown, Kentucky, where I was raised till 13. No one, not even the warden, knows really why I'm here, even some man from Cell Block Five, asked me last Sunday, why was I here. My beach perhaps, it's love at last, concrete, gravel, and stone- a 6' x 10' room with bars and a porcelain throne. It's mine I cry, each night I die, with glee, with smile, with rite. But it makes the other guys run at me, and try to start random fights. I don't remember the boat I took, but I remember the tour, going to Japan at Epcot Center since I'd never gone before.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 3:30 AM UTC
People stare into the portraits hanging there,
Portraits just glare back, watching, gathering.
They see, hear all, and utter nothing;
Tears shed, plans made, broken
Secrets kept bound on canvas.
Absorbing laughter, thoughts,
Imprinted within brush strokes.
Oils containing dreams, brought here.
Artist’s folly, a person’s musing,
Thoughts trapped in a flick of stroke.
© Nick Strong 2014
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC