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Shaine Fraz Jun 2016
How fortunate
Our color blends unintentially,
Wildly with thoughts bleeding outside the lines what have we started: again

And again I stroke
And again you absorb
And again this easel-- summoned
And again your vellum-- softened

Perched on a stool,
Vibrant as mangos --ripening
I chose you, the spectrum
Unknown to most

The only museum I go to.
© 2016 by S Fraz All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of S Fraz
jane taylor Jun 2016
his writing caught everyone’s attention
like an artist i once saw on the street in québec
he stood out amongst the crowd in montréal
i asked to take his picture
he obliged

this writer is also canadian
and paints masterpieces
with words

his colorful lines sometimes float on jagged edges
brushes of sticky sugar coating are exchanged
for starker strokes of reality
tinged with weathered wisdom
creating shadows in his work
accentuating the light

there’s not a write of his
that does not stir emotions
his words linger
rolling around in your head
bumping into each other
morphing into new connotations
his easel alive

you wonder if he did that on purpose?
could anyone have that kind of talent?
yes…..his brush continues flowing
even after the paint is dry

suddenly at midnight i awaken
and hear another morsel
a word, a phrase, a color
that only made itself known
in the dark of night

understanding he's a favorite
i imagined audibly hearing a collective sigh
when he contracted cancer
would he now leave his canvas dry?

no, this courageous artist
bravely took his palette
and continued painting
his words that us awaken
now e’vn more radiant
with tragedy astride

and ‘tho he talks of dying
i pray that he will stay
but should his spirit fly
we have seen a master show us
how to walk into the light

©2016janetaylor
this poem is dedicated to fellow poet chris who just passed away
we love you chris!!!
http://poetfreak.com/705083/chris-vaillancourt-rip.html
Janet Aitch Sep 13
On a painter's easel
is a double portrait
just a sketch at present

The artist feels he hasn't
got the sense yet of his sitters
or of their relationship

What was the grievance
causing such a ferment?
Was there a fracture
behind the smooth facade?

The painter pondered

and went on with his painting
Mary Gay Kearns Mar 2018
You're  here today in your spot
Where the footpaths cross
And a little to the left
Under those tall trees
On a patch of flat earth.

Across the grass to the right
The old Plane, magnificent
In structure spreads branches
Like a globe of lightest green
Catching the glittering  sun.

Your easel, an old brown relic
With leather carrying handle
Held together by a strap
Carries your canvas and paints
Whilst you wear a tweed cap.

And what I like, standing back
To watch, is the quiet consistency
Of observation; two living forms
Joining in the imagination
To create beauty and truth.

Love Mary
For Ian , my friend who,paints .
Love Maryx
Ella Aug 2018
Somehow caught in the middle riding high upon a picket fence.
White washed easel penned my thoughts in recompense.
Somehow this feels all so rehearsed these spoon fed lines.
While laundered past remnants create
together knot sublime.
Somehow between want and desire
either the altar or the door.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2018
THE LANGUAGE OF WATER

You wait by the lake
alone

except for your self
&
your reflected self

as if the landscape
dreamt you up.

Your thoughts a flock of birds
scattered across the failing light.

Clouds laugh
run along the ground
on tiny unseen feet.

Trees stand on their heads
wriggling their toes in the air

& you
become as two

both real & unreal

as if a living
dream.

You hum
Pachabel's Canon

as sun & horizon
listen.

Not bad for a human
they both agree.

It's as if
I need a key

to enter this magical
dimension

as if I have to
invent one

...a magical one.
I take a little stone

whisper to it the secrets
of flight

and teach it how to say: "Splash! "
in the language of water.

The little stone
transformed  with its new knowledge

does as it is told

shatters
this mirror world

opens
the dream

and I enter
bewitched

as any fairytale
Prince

my voice
calling your sweet name

with longing

you turn
& we embrace

kiss
& look upon ourselves

as the dream
remakes itself

stitching itself
together with silence.

An old artist
(unknown to us then)  

places us
the lovers

at the center
of his composition

adds this
final brushstroke

and pleased
with his efforts

folds up
his chair

packs up
his paints & easel

smiles at our
kisses

wishes
us a goodnight

and is gone
eaten by the twilight.

Our laughter
frail & fragile

lingering on the night air

playing peek-a-boo
with the moonlight.
John Gallant Nov 2017
Spiraling whirlwinds of despair
sling sand against crepe-paper skin.
Etching raw the leathery landscape
meandering between jagged scars.

Scouring splatters of rage red,
angst blue, shadow black, elated opal,
from the smock cocoon
that encapsulates pure radiance.

Spindly driftwood pillars splayed wide,
wobble with each gentle stroke
upon the foggy canvas
cradled by this rickety easel.

Gradient of choice drips
from the curved edges of life's pallet.

Shall I let this abrasive erosion
thicken into a callous curtain
trapping in the light?

Or, shall I let it perforate the surface,
allowing the glowing marrow
to be drawn into the kaleidoscope vortex?
duck Oct 20
feet planted in the dirt,
the painter sways on the edge of the hill
wild ferns curling around his thighs
and pollen dusting his collarbone.
a canvas, as pale as his wifebeater,
is slotted onto the creaking easel.
the air is thick with sunshine
and it drips from his temple
before sliding down his shoulders.
birds whistle and swoop,
the thrum of the trees behind him
hum in appreciation and contentment.
the sweet wind is warm on the back of his neck,
and he departs with tinges of yellow behind his ear.
You shred my words
Thin colors from my brush
You still the flight of soaring birds
While grinding my ego in a crush

What music can I sing
What melodies compose
After your scorpion sting
And heartless blows

If I ignore your sneer
And refuse to listen
Will I lose my fear
And start to glisten

Probably not
I’m so weak
My art is fragile
Not magnifique

I’ll silence my pen
And dry my easel
You win again
My inner weasel
Sean Fitzpatrick Nov 2018
Seems to be so long ago
that life was to be celebrated,
with ones that love you, and you they,
with the whole world looking on.

But passing by that etched frame,
where once warmth emanated from within,
now brings a bigger picture in,
one away from the easel.

For nature was not a place to stay,
to warm the hands and sleep the day,
and to carry on in no peculiar manner
is to mosey on another way.
Mohd Arshad Jan 2
At the bonfire,
It's white out situation,
You, in ponch,
Rest your head
On my thie
And I stoop to imbibe
The intensity of your love

Painting is complete
On the green easel
Onoma Sep 8
this bay-skied easel works

pastels off the frame, to a

baby's palette off the face

of the earth.

as a cooling breeze birds--

with the moving images

of birds not necessarily

in flight.

or in view just now.

the seagrass loosens the

tide as antennas in reception,

picking up on the shadowed

cavities of distant trees

whitening birds

trying to come in.

the smell of sea salt heavy

as a sacrificial animal, trailed

by imploding senses.
The words flock together
  and stretch on the frame

Their meaning runs over,
  still wet from the pain

The canvas is porous,
  the easel maligned

The curtains blow outward,
  faces calling in mime

The streets all a-chatter,
   it was Paris in spring

And striving to look busy,
  the most important of things

Looking back at my window,
  above the tannery so high

A shadow stares back
  —and I flee in disguise

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
Ryan O'Leary Jul 28
The table was set for one,
a butter dish had already
been discovered by the flies.

A palette, with a knife,
must surely have been
acting as the bread board.

On an easel, in the corner,
there was a painting of a
loaf, but no brush strokes?
Stored up enough,
but the energy now takes on its
own purpose.
If only I could draw;
I'd create picture books
on exactly what the ending looks like.
Rough sketches left collecting
for many months,
before I ever once thought of putting
color to them.

The why, would be as mind trancing
as tracing catch phrases into the many
levels of dust accumulated.
I'd write something so cliché, like,
"With this oily finger I remove the collection of time."
or, "With this flesh ensconced utensil, I cut
through time."
I'll think myself so clever, that I'd forget
where I left off, and distract myself
again with writing.

A small recluse emotion of mine
objects viciously, but my attention to every
words incentive laced meaning would
leave the visual to again rest unchanged,
not colored.

So's the plight of one who likes to think
himself an artist. There's that scandalous
narcissist again just waiting to ****** you up,
reminding you just how beautiful your words
are, and how small in intellect those who
don't get it are.
Upon that shelf your pictures sit.
I can only write as a narrator,
because our "philosopher,"
"philanthropist of word volley, our
genius of word play,"
is once again too caught up in the
descriptors to finish the real
picture.

Not that this idea will stand the
test of time, but I do believe more
writers will commit suicide, selfishly
of course.
Oh, the tragedy, the malady of writing
so enigmatically that no one gets
your "deep soul."

While upon that shelf,
within a fiber of your overrun
writer's ego, there's a drawing begging
to be finished, colored, maybe even
shared.

But just where does it reside?
Did the alternate you place it
in plain sight, simply so it wouldn't be found?
If it's too early it just can't be worth it,
can it?

He'll have to learn to put down the pen,
rid himself of the whiteout, the erasers,
set up an easel, squeeze out some paint,
and realize there are other mediums
where there aren't mistakes, misinterpretations.
Only perfect imagery through wispy wrist,
sweeping arm, no words, images
are now your letter blocks to construct with.

Brushes, and all manners of paint your pen.
Stop being so foolish "Writer man,"
if your ego clings too sharply to words,
simply remind it,
"This could be another pen name."
"...I love that idea, what would it be?"
"Narcissist ****."

"So caught up, I forget I'm tethered to nothing, but doubt."
Hungry spirits lifted like the bounce-back of a fresh cake on your mind this, is my bakery,

Welcome in and here you can take your shoes off,
You can set up your canvas in the corner, and your easel wherever it fits, this is where we call home,

The aroma marries blueberry scones with your sweater and notepad, scribbling down your life story you take action and smile at the painter as she flicks your handsome grimace towards her red lipstick cup tilted in your direction,

Why I come here is only a dream to some, as it once was to me,
As I pull the fresh bread out of the oven I slide in a tray of cinnamon buns that lick my senses drastically,

One order at a time braces the love I have shared,
welcome in and take my aroma home with you, where you can feel accomplished and where the seed will bring others to express themselves creatively, it may seem silly, it may be exactly what you need,
Welcome, to my bakery.
Keara Marie Jan 23
The very thought of you has my legs spread apart, like an easel with an empty canvas begging for art.
Travis Green Jul 21
There isn’t a day that goes by that
I would stop believing in him, the immense
strength and determination soaring
in the seas of his brain, masterful diction
behind his bold lips, his dark-brown eyes
full of artistic creation and appreciation,
divine intelligence, definitive depths,
broad borders of flesh streaming in
sophistication and imagination.
His glistening body stepping into the light
of the universe, embracing the beautiful
scenery, feeling the magic that flowed
in the breeze across the green fields,
as he stands on the blossoming ground
facing his sparkly canvas and easel.
And as he painted away with his thin
brittle brush, the glossy paint making
music with the scenic surface, intense
brushstrokes coming alive, his jubilant
face concentrating in a wave of daylight,
his ears taking in the serene sounds
surrounding his existence, his hands
moving in circular motions, scratching
his cheeks as he stared at the magnificent
painting – how the array of hues blended
so perfectly with each other, how the brilliant
depiction of the landscape mirrored his own
existence.  And I would fall in love with every core
of his soul, watching from a distance in the
courtyard, cheering him on, wild waving
like a crazed fan in a crowded stadium, hoping
he’d see the expression in my existence,
and know that I would always be his bright
star guiding him along his way.

— The End —