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Shofi Ahmed May 2017
Art, a smile like the one
on the face of Mona Lisa.
Curved like the waxing moon
above the sea.
Light a flame before a face
yet to be seen.
What will it prevail,
will it show once for all
a slow tilt on the smiling lips
—a curve softly locks on
a rose from the sun,
or a shadow beneath the moon?
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
Shofi Ahmed Aug 2018
The sun is with the paintbrush
ambling down the river blue.
See, your eyes are the mirror
in between the earth and sky duo.

Bask in the open air theatre
eye on spread out with colour.
Indulge in, with a slice of summer
you got the brightest star, the light
on your canvas, you got the clue.
Now draw your way through
art yours in between the two!
A poem from my upcoming book Qun: Love is Unconditional
Robin Lemmen Jul 2018
There is art
In your heart
Painting pictures
When I lay
My head down on your chest

There are songs in your eyes
Singing lullabies
When you hover
Pin me down
With your stare

There is a poem
On the tip
Of your tongue
I taste it
When I kiss you

You are tortured
Stereotyped
My jaded lover
I hear it
When you won't talk
Alice Baker Jan 2016
I am a canvas
Painted in harsh strokes
With kind words
Mistakes blend in
Over time and diligence
But are never erased
They sit quietly
Under layers of oil paint
Built into my foundation
gleck Sep 2016
Children get handed things easily,
and they learn
that it's easier to throw away
than to hold on and keep it.

Adults are very different,
they cherish things
and would not objectify others
since humans are not things.

But right there,
throwing you away
like an object,
the man who was no longer a child said;

"I don't want you anymore"
robot mom Jan 2016
Admire the proportions, the features, the confidence.
These are supposed to define the ideal male.
These things have nothing to with my perception of ideal.

When I put myself in that position.
I call myself Michelangelo, David in front of me.
I admire his proportions, his features, his confidence.

I throw myself so far into the fantasy, reality becomes a fog.
Enamored by him, his features, our closeness.
I am entranced by him, we transcend into the unknown.

I return to reality, and realize that I've gone too far.
I can't take back the words I've said,
or the time I've spent staring into his eyes.

But I'm no Michelangelo and he is not David.
My inspiration is much closer to my heart.

The love in my heart.
The passion beneath the gaze.
Fire Mar 2018
You ripped it
my pretty little heart -
but that's okay because
now I can pin it
to a wall
and scream
This Is Art.
The Infinite Seas
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
We glide through life on hollow wings, while making art with earthly things,
when halting beauty stops us all around.
Unmindful of the world we share and gifts that we are given here,
content to fool ourselves with pleasures found.

We search in vain like fools to find, a beauty of a special kind,
a noise that forces all the world to see,
how wonderful our talents are to spread our names and voices far
and let us live into eternity.

How foolishly to think that we can along with czars and magic men
to light a fire that burns eternally.  
When most our hopes and dreams can bear is lifelong bliss in moments shared,
while hand in hand, I run away with you.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
He was art; unparted with his
pens, and brushes. He blushed
at your compliments, for it
was just a way to keep
from losing his pose to
sanity, a dainty piece rocking
against his wall,
making him
stay together
just one more
   day-
Art!
All feedback is appreciated
Harmony Oct 2015
When I think of feeling despair for unknown reasons
I know it is time for me to create something
As I think of this, words of a friend come to my mind
As to how she finds comfort in cooking
So I go to the refrigerator and search out ingredients
To make a warm healthy dish for my family
it makes me feel good after washing, cutting
chopping, grinding and sauteing
All the while I take in the aroma of each ingredient
And finally as a whole dish
spooning them for taste testing
and when my nose and tongue
lets me know that is A OK
I find that I am feeling better
Enough to wash the dishes n
wipe down the counter top
this is free-writing ; please feel free to correct. I will be grateful that you took the time to read.
Desmond the poet Aug 2018
It’s a good day the lord granted.
Everything seems so perfect.
Weather is sweet.
Sun’s shining.
What could go wrong?

…….Until…..

I felt you coming.
Like a hijacker through a rear view mirror.
How I wish for a false alarm.
Dear lord may this cup pass.
A moment to accept the inevitable arrived.

Oh my God! you seized me once again.
You came like a thief at midnight.
You hijacked my mind.
You exposed me to wrath of migraines.
Horrible 30 seconds in a 24hour day.
It's like a small stain on a white garment.

The cruelty of an epileptic seizure is inevitable.
https://m.facebook.com/EpilepsyandCpfriends
This an expression of how a 30seconds encounter with with an epileptic seizure can ruined the whole 24hour day.
Jordan Rowan Mar 2016
Art
You're a work of art
Which is why I don't get you
Pale skin that's
so beautiful in comparison to the sunset.
Her eyes,
the perfect concoction of blue and green, stare away.

Deep in thought,
tears on her cheeks, a smile pasted on her face.
Although her scenery
is lovely, the thoughts she has are not.

Dark demons
swirl in her mind and pick her brain.
They travel through
her veins, and pull her apart at the seams.

On the inside,
she's going crazy; she is undeniably insane.
On the outside,
she is smiling just like you; she's unwillingly happy.
Knit Personality Jan 2015
I am a lesser god of verse:
   I wish I were a god much greater.
But heaven knows it would be far worse
      To be a non-creator.

8===>
The flat earth is flatter
   Than the round earth's a sphere,
And what's all the matter
   Is very unclear.

The world is a caper
   That's made of illusions.
I use white lined paper
   To draw my conclusions.
Andrew Jun 2017
I peruse exhibits through the modern art museum
Nails hammered into wood
And trash strewn on the floor
I couldn't help thinking
What the **** is this ****?
These can't be the champions of modern art
Moonlight and Arrival morphed my empathy and perspective
The theater is fine
Music is there for those inclined to discover it
So what about visual art?
I know a few things for certain
Nails hammered into wood never changed my perspective
Nor does seeing a garbage can in a museum affect my empathy
Trash is not art
Trash is trash
Waste meant to be thrown in the proper receptacles
So as not to obstruct our view of true beauty

I will concede that
Beauty can be found in everything
Depending on analyzation variation
But those that live an examined life
Constantly see silver linings and sour grapes
Experiencing comfort in tundras to the point of banality
Those visions are much more interesting
in their organic state anyway
As opposed to an interpersonal expression of the seemingly obvious

So what to hang in an art gallery?
I have my own opinions
At this point in time
No visuals elicit more emotions
Than dank memes

When I'm consuming art
Questions are innate in my consumption
Is this a vessel for empathy?
Is this examining the human condition?
Dank memes meet those criteria
Satirizing the powerful
Highlighting emotions and virtues in ourselves
That we're either proud or ashamed of
Memes share a common thread with poetry
In the sense that everybody can create memes
Or be a poet
I get the impression that
Universality of art diminishes it's importance
In the minds of patrons
There's an element of truth to that
But what makes art special is quality
And what makes art truly special is high quality
And that's what belongs in museums
mt Jun 2018
i have a mole on my right shoulder and an always swollen heart,
i often feel lonely, i have eyes that see art.
at night i'll think i'm pretty, like when my hair falls in rings
i say the word love often so i guess i love many things
i like myself better at night so this is about that
Tegan Sep 2018
Art
She was like art in a museum;
so beautiful to look at,
but you could never get close enough to touch
too fragile...
Azurel Nov 2018
You used to tell me that beautiful things come from pain and adversity.
Like motherhood, unconditional love, and true stories.
As I stood in the middle of a room painted white,
Staring at the remains of rolling hills burned to black,
I saw you staring back at me.

Burnt fields like black panther fur
Shining against your bones
Velvet black
You’ve changed
And changed and changed
Yet your love still remains
Burnt fields like black panther fur
Whiskers are the needles on a compass
Always pointing to the azure sky
You used to sing when I cried
Rolling your r’s over rrolling hills
A haunting melody startling black birds into the night
Feathered constellations against a sliver moon
And lips pressed to my salty cheeks

You told me that your favorite skin tone was chocolate,
As you laid out in the sun hoping to melt. “A quarter black” is what you say when you want to feel proud,
Even as you tell me stories of how your mother was called negrita,
The girl who stood too dark amongst the crowd.

Burnt fields like black panther fur
Black like the broken wings of mothers before you
Who had hands with scars from cotton seeds
And blue veins like uprooted trees
Stretching all the way to their tired knees
Burnt fields like black panther fur
You criticize your aging beauty
Speaking in envy of the color gold
Like you are a broken bowl in need of kintsugi
Yet silver snakes still slither
Over the pebbled river beds of your black curls
Dripping down the small of your back
Until they reach the base of your ivory spine
Burnt fields like black panther fur
You criticize your aging beauty
Because you never thought
Cocoa lips and sun spots painted on sculpted clay that never cracks
Could ever look as stunning as it does on you

You told me that it is better to speak my truth then tell pretty lies.
So I told you mine and you cried,
And cried and cried.
But look where we are now,
Standing beside each other with the same eyes,
Just different reflections.

Burnt fields like black panther fur
Tongue like a sword set ablaze
Tempered in pools of milk and honey
Blood red sun grazing the tops of your eyelids
Still reminiscent of those in old photographs
Where you saw the little girl you search for in me
Burnt fields like black panther fur
I am sorry I made you cry
But even when our backs are turned
We are still
Black birds singing in the dead of night
Free
Thank you mama for my broken wings.
Inspired by a photograph of a burnt field that I saw in an art gallery. For my mom.
Cné Sep 2017
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. This becomes more evident as we grow older. What we once may have thought was a work of art, now because of age has fallen apart. When we started out we might have looked like a Michelangelo, but in the end I fear that we shall all become Picasso's.

Written by James M Vines
James wrote this little rhyme for me. And I had to share!
Thank you, James!
srax May 2018
They'll paint white walls over your thoughts
Because they think simplicity looks better than polka dots

They will strip you down to nothing
Because bare is better than bare minimum

They say your body is your canvas
Then why are they scribbling
On her canvas?

They'll doodle
They’ll doodle words
With some phrases of flatter
Like "You're pretty"
Teaching us that -that's all that matters

They'll hang up a **** model picture,
Because your body should look like this, you know? Richer.

They'll say your body is a temple
“Oh you're eating all that for lunch?”
They'll say your body is a temple
But her body
her body is the house
she grew up in
And yet you have the audacity to try and burn it down?

Oh,
I forgot to mention,
The white paint that they used to paint over you? yeah ... slight misunderstanding. Its permanent.

What could they expect? Their fault, actually... it said everything on the label.
But they were too busy, you see.  Too busy to see what it was really made out of, too busy to read what made it the way it was.
Because one glance is enough, right?

One glance is enough to ask her what did you eat today?
And she would answer oh plenty!
Sure she did.
she ate plenty of lonely with a side of regret and sprinkle of sadness for a touch of flavour
And for dinner, she ate her tears
she watched her blood eat her alive
And suddenly
she wasn't so hungry anymore.

And you would look happy with her answer because
she is treating her body like a house she doesn't even recognize

And you would look happy with her answer because
she let her body become your canvas

And you would look happy with her answer because
Your white paint was worth your money after all.
Troy Jan 2018
Marvelous
A beauty to  Be had
His body with its chiseled curves His large hands
As I gazed upon him
I noticed his perfect form
And his very chiseled abs
Not a blemish to be had
As I touched his pale white body
So smooth
Almost soft to be exact
His hair so full and curls
A plenty
Who is this beautiful man
With perfect form
A work of art to be adored
Timeless in his form.
His name is
David.
By  Michael Angelo.
One of the most stunning works of art j have ever seen...
Michael Angelo's sculpture of David is a must see..
karin naude Mar 2013
freedom in art
freedom in heart
freedom in expression
freedom of soul
deep understanding of expression
nourishing the mind
ever challenging
forward, keep moving, forward
freedom lived
freedom experienced
no words needed
the body moves, demand visible power
painful endurance for tender moment
graceful beyond delicate
captured in time, echoes for ever
what time, what space, its an illusion
eyes surrounded by deep dimples
flowing hair, expressing mouth
ooh how elegant the wine has become, well aged
the body demand respect in movement
the heart resilient
the mind always moving, wanderer
oh how beautiful the art of freedom
Sebastian Macias Jul 2017
We were supposed to be art
Art in the form of beings
To see, to touch, to evolve with
From the waters, to art
Electricity & salt fueling us
It is all falling, slipping
We are to enchant one another
To feed off the energy produced
By the touch of two eyes
Staring at the moon
Drinking the Spanish wine
The words we speak
The lust that drives us during ***
It is all to have been art
They shoot each other,
Some hate one another,
Others are blinded by themselves
Do not disappear, great art
We are here in the gardens
Inside the paintings
All around the city glowing together
The voice of art is real but fading
Some pretend, no substance
No passion, no sensitivity to the energy
But here it is, a truth to be told
We are to be art, daily
In our sleep to create
In our actions to be alive
And in our minds to explore all worlds
If you could see us now,
huddled up
on this bathroom floor
like the wet towel in the corner,
a most-likely-used toilet brush
covered in
ash & hair
is the next closest thing
in arm's reach
to a real statement.

You want to know what it's about?
You do not want to know what it's about.

To dunk those
pearly whiteheads
in oil and expect
whiter pearls
would just be silly.

Take the bedazzlings from their feet
and what is left to judge
that which they do not want to know?
for all the donors & gatekeepers
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