"illustrations" poems
Inspiration, alike joy comes in different types,
It could be as simple as a little wallflower, or as complex as astrophysics, or even more than that, what counts is the source,
Allowing us poets, from a simple emotion, to develop a piece of art,
Allowing the artists, to express themselves within beautiful illustrations, each unique in style and shape, even if some parts may look as if they have been repeating themselves a couple of times,
A word of love can be enough after all, to set a lonely heart ablaze,
Such is the beauty of this earth we are living on, the beauty of being different from one another, but finding what ties us together is truly magnificent, with each difference may come a nice mutality,
Some look up to the sky, shining beyond the scene, the sun brightens up their mood, followed by the dearness of the dazzling white clouds,
Others may find a rainy day wonderful, the raindrops which can be interpreted as tears are but for them falling jewels from the heavens,
These are a few examples of what may birth inspiration, but it can be even smaller, like a small, delicate corn of dust.
~ Umi
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
They say the pen is mightier than the sword
If this is true then God was the sword and you were a pen
And I was the pencil who laid you a foundation of erased mistakes only for you to trace upon them as if they didn't exist.
And I was cast in the bottom of some cluttered bag
while you were gently capped and placed in a box lined with blue silk,
And you knew I would always be there to test the waters before you spilled the pages with your brash delicacy.
But you needed me and I craved you for completion.
Together we created sweeping illustrations and lengthy novels with dozens of sequels.
We depicted a tale of modern love in our ball-pointed journey.
But my graphite stayed intact while your ink started to run out.
I could see as our pages unfolded that your colors no longer spread as boldly.
You became more and more invisible as I desperately etched harder and harder into every page hoping to give you clearer guidelines
but you no longer had it in you.
And soon enough we couldn't make anything beautiful.
You had run out.
And I'm still hopelessly drawing maps desperate that you can regain what you once had and use the indentations on previously blank pages to find your way back to me.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 11:11 PM UTC
I feel comfort in the familiarity
Of being lost
Peculiar in its irony
Its definition reversed by my falling in love
With the freedom of not being found
Sometimes it's more peaceful
Living quietly without the sound
Of homesickness in your ear
Eyes wistfully on the clouds
Thoughts pondering in head
Soft promises vowed
To a place not seen again
It feels to me like exciting exploration
Sights locked in mind
All these complex illustrations
Of trees, streams, crumbling walls
That otherwise would of went unseen
All these beautiful kingdoms
Adorned by the falling leaves
Of this year's autumn
How could I not fall for that?
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 11:50 AM UTC
This world has become black and white with illustrations in clear color
Side by side we dear only protest in silent agony,
for statistics to see and noone else to notice
I cleared my senses so long ago,
discovered shades of gray
Soon blurred lines became crossed lines in a flash of lonesome honesty
In a simple world with simple values I have chosen to be loud
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC
I lived my half dictionary life before I could
comprehend compulsory compromises.
Collectors arise, disguises and devices beeping,
chastising my blindness.
Gather geography from Afghanistan and Myanmar
graciously growing gold gilded gift horses,
gleefully gloating about floating far away.
My hoof beats above concrete match my heart’s defeat
across borders and mountains
embroidering cardboard cut-outs
calling deserts, decorating front covers.
Exhaling handcrafted letters for my missing half,
half demanding highest caliber commanders and half commanding completion.
Jade jays joyfully lay arrays of bouquets
fragile flowers decay faraway
in jawbones and jail cells.
Begging farewells in a hotel’s lobby
began my hobby,
early morning coffee and carbon copies
concurringly cocky around his dead body.
Gang ciphers for cartels are
Christmas bells hissing at collars,
half dollars embellishing bar crawlers
godfathers hollering at car haulers.
Atrocities across cities attack,
attachable atrophies audibly ambush arthritic anthologies.
Anomalies begin apologies between apostrophes,
advancing autonomy arousing ancient animosities.
All eluding Antarctica,
giant frozen crests, multi-coloured ice
hidden in my illustrations
anxious for my distant half.
Friday cassettes and cigarettes
deliberately making bets following “M”.
Breaking bindings and finding “beta” in alphabet,
may feasibly end in debt.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
Down at the Shipyards people are *Waiting for their "Ship-to-come-in". At the Ballpark people are *waiting for the "Home-run-hit". At the Racetrack people are *Waiting for "Their winning horse". At the street corner people are *Waiting for the "Light -to-turn-green". At the office people are *Waiting for "That-Raise". At the restaurant people are *Waiting to be "Waited-on". At the bookstore people are *Waiting for *THAT "New-book". At the the Shoe store people are *Waiting to see if "The-Shoe-fits". at the Doctors office people are *Waiting in the "Waiting-Room". At the grocery store people are *Waiting to "Check-out". And it's been said, that folks today,have No-Patience ! WELL, Excuse me, just the few illustrations above, clearly demonstrate, THAT somebody is *Waiting for something ! What are their intentions of asking for Indulgence, Tolerance and Unity. AND,, don't dare Upset the Apple-Cart ! Down at the Coffee shop people are *Waiting for that "Java-with-Ummph". At the corner people are *Waiting to be "Taken-for-a-Ride". Downtown people are *Waiting for a place to "PARK & WAIT" ! "Pray Tell,,,WHAT ARE WE WAITING FOR " ?
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 8:18 AM UTC
i'm from a small, yellow bedroom
yellow flowers, yellow layette
and yellow jaundiced skin
i'm from the taste of the tea mother makes me when i'm sick
and from the sound of her singing
about how she looked and looked for the light
like the roots and the leaves floating in the boiling water
her voice a soothing sound
like bubbles in simmering tea
i'm from words written on a page-
the feeling of an old book and the smell of a new one
and i'm from hiding beneath the covers
falling in love with black letters printed on white paper
i'm from lots of illustrations and then none at all
when my mind became colorful enough to fill all the pages
i'm from "the game is afoot"
and "after all this time?"
i'm from all over the world
pieces of my heart, a jigsaw puzzle
like my family scattered all over the globe
i'm from canada, from the US, from france from lebanon from italy
i'm from a country nobody wants
but a country that desperately wants us back
i'm from messy hair, oversized sweaters
half-finished sketchbooks filled with promises
and ******* poetry lines
i'm from the echo of my own voice
against the splatter of the shower
i'm from reading in the flashes of street lamp lights
i'm from pursuing science and desiring art
drawing on the airplane's foggy windows
and wondering how it flies
with a clear head and with clouded eyes.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 7:31 AM UTC
─illustrations on the ceiling
i love the way
the sunlight ripples along his skin
with no complaints
"messiah" the shadow talks
"of course he is" i reply
and i resume to orchestrating my love
─little phobias
i wander aimlessly along his windows,
his eyes;
they are gates to afterlives unloved;
they are oceanic shrapnel
sky imprisoned infinities
a lapis point of view-
that i treasure
his heart is drenched
in my soul-
in a sweeter sickness-
in the liquid measure of my steps-
he mentions i'm contagious
i tell him he is my favorite way
to bleed
"september prodigy" the shadow babbles
"why?" i rasp
**"sun at long last
kisses away
all the ghosts
harvesting from
the heart of the moon"**
and i broke out into stars
─my serendipity
i love the raw
music of our conversations,
and how his voice
undresses me
and my monsters
so delicately
in fabrics of the dark
i love how his laugh
makes all the other planets
look dull;
how his smile
is the first step
to curing the blind
so the blind may know
what i know
"the symphony of seams"
i love how he is the shocking
philosophy
of turning suicide notes
into paper cranes
of picking fights with death
so i may remain
i love the phoenix tucked in his soul
how it defines-
the altitudes-
the limits-
our existence he describes to me
"reincarnation?" the shadow asks
"every morning he wonders" i answer
and the fever invests it's time in me
"what is he to you?" the shadow murmurs
"*besides broken flowers,
and ink blots shaped like rain
he is my favorite stairway to heaven.*"
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 10:32 PM UTC
I think I would give up the world right now to be able to sketch.
These images appear in my head day and night
making me want to spend hours on end drawing.
Drawing vivid illustrations
The ones that constantly replay in my head.
I want to be able to see some sort
of physical image of me and you.
one that makes the heart melt
one that is lost for words
One that shows
what I see
what I feel
I wish I could explain it.
I can't even put it into words.
these words don't exist!
But I know every single line
of every sketch.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 8:59 PM UTC
the waiting in hallways
lined up on the wall
with eyes following the chatterbox and her
flowing train of rabid listeners
who hang themselves ritualisticly on her
shallow water illustrations
swimming on this thin tide of unpublished lip candy
her bubblegum words are commentary
upon which her followers build temples
to the unfit mothers of televangelists
the chatterbox spills her loud thoughts
on the sun warmed concrete
as the summer lawnmower navigates
around santa and his late december reindeer
and the children's labyrinth of christams morning plans
while i sunbath nearby
she gathers her spilled thoughts
and races away proudly proclaiming that'
my poems are too short for the pulitzer
so she is ready for her laurels
and a fast road to academia
with a neatly packaged version of her inner perversions
spread like *** and lip candy
on the local coffee shop bookshelf's
for the pretty college girl with glasses to drink from
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 2:08 PM UTC
In a distant dystopia, it towers above all.
It radiates a dim blue glow, that
Transfixes eyes and minds alike.
Pulling with the gravity of 20,000 suns,
Its force cannot be rivaled.
An irresistible, iridescent abomination, and
An admonition unto the autonomy of thought.
Weaving tapestries of illusory illustrations,
Into the indigent intellect of its unsuspecticng viewers.
It's images penetrate the psyche like magic, as
Minds are manipulated into the madness, of
Mass consumption of manufactured "needs."
Its reporters replace reason with rhetoric, for
Objectivity is no obeject in an age of sound bites.
It demonizes difference, distracts, and desensitizes.
Apathy becomes queen, and facile pleasures become king.
Remember your vigilance.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 4:40 AM UTC
What is the point in
Poignancy?
*Fragment,
you tell me.
Another one in paragraph three.*
What do words matter?
I have spelled love with Lilacs instead of an “L”
I have drawn the curve of my “O” with the chill of a
Sweeping breeze.
A “V” can only appear as the violet of a
sparkling sky, or I will be unable to read it,
and every “E” will amount to nothing more than
emptiness if the voice it has been given
does not epitomize song.
*Comma-splice,
Replace it with a semicolon.*
I am trying live freely.
I want to breathe in color,
to inhale an orange Savannah sky
And exhale green which
shows through the translucent dew
of grass.
*Unnecessary use of description.
Limit it, Lidiah. Limit it.*
My fingers itch with the ferocity of
A vengeful army.
They are waiting to trample pages with
The lead of my pencil, the bayonet
of a Revolutionary-War-era rifle.
The word limit sounds like tragedy.
A single word that can somehow act as
a precursor,
To the death of passion.
Your words have put you in a box.
People always say
“Actions speak louder than words.”
In a way that is true.
But I also know it to be
a tremendous piece of fiction.
*Lidiah,
Please watch your run-ons.*
Why can our words and our actions
not be the same thing?
Isn’t the act of speaking,
the act of raising your voice,
the act of being heard,
isn’t that an action?
*Lidiah,
how many times do I have to remind you?
Clarification throughout.*
Why have we decided that our words
Mean nothing more than
stepping stones on the road to action?
When did we decide that our voices
which rise like clarion calls,
forever instilling our promises,
are to be left on silent?
Precious jewels set into rings.
Poison in a water tank.
*Lidiah,
what you say is irrelevant
if your MLA bibliography isn’t in
alphabetical order.*
Our words are our actions.
They mean the same.
Words are the distinctions of our beliefs
Illustrations of our personas
They are not mosquitos to be slapped away
and forgotten.
*Lidiah,
paragraph five is too long.
Stop rambling.
Be concise.*
Please tell me,
what is the point of being concise?
*Lidiah,
stop rambling.*
Why do we let justification
equate to useless rambling?
*Lidiah,
you have to detach yourself from the narrative.*
Feelings mean more
than a couple of sentences.
More than a good or a bad.
A mad or a sad.
Comma-splice
What about ferocity?
Never end with a preposition.
What about passion?
Replace this with a conjunctive adverb.
What about the discernable strife
that follows even indifference?
What about that?
*Lidiah,
what is the point of
Poignancy?*
What are we without it?
What does the human soul matter
if we have forsaken the parts of ourselves that
remind us of what a soul is for?
*Lidiah,
you will never be heard
if you do not learn to follow the rules*.
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 1:04 AM UTC
Sitting across from you in the bathtub
Staring into your eyes as I lift your leg out the water
Placing your ankle on my shoulder as I draw illustrations along your calf with my tongue
You moan my name so prettily as you lean your head back against the wall
I had to remind you that my tongue cleanses you like nothing else.
Nov 1, 2024
Nov 1, 2024 at 9:15 PM UTC
Morning drops like a parachute,
circumnavigating
the irrational things within her.
She drew the grim cartwheel
--crayoned images of kids in closets,
and blackens them into
illustrations of war.
She sleeps on bleak days
with young cameras,
Lucy under the tongue,
rosaries at the border
feel like pins and needles
to an adrenaline sorceress
in giallo approach,
her eye in a labyrinth,
the eye she lost in the Crusades,
filming streets below
the color of dark Roman wine.
It's a staring contest,
waiting on rooftops
in stages of collapse,
there she lives or dies
at the dividing line with the grave.
Jan 20, 2024
Jan 20, 2024 at 5:51 PM UTC
The trapeze artist without
trapeze,
encased within a paper weight,
reading through eye
glasses crafted for readers
astigmatic use.
This is the mind set...... this is the end truth.......
Being is embryonic,
to become, to the pupal larva,
a new becoming, Life.
II
Quantum leaps often end in tragedy
when the time traveler ceases to travel
The sudden stop!
Rapid communication......synaptic calibration......recall all yesterdays.
blind intellect one tenth of one second 15 seconds
The dimensions split and the bicameral mind appears two lobes
right and left, inverted vision adjusted for
mythic fusion,
creating abstracted convolutions
answering to them self. A planet in a galaxy of confusion.
III
Imagination finding place in the new electronic
institution, man made synaptical illustrations
from pixilated madness.
We take from this..............an
illogical extension of our existence that makes some sense.
We make it such
that it becomes
the most told lie
we believe without questioning.
Till death we do part.
IV
As I inhale looking at my past...my last past, well
in any case the past is where I just wrote past the last time
like now PAST.
Rationalization is overrated, intellectual ************
is for the cools, and catatonic haze is a new wave drug.
It is early in a new society's evolution.....
It is late in the face of time......
ergo quantum quandary quid pro quo
Ajerry / copyright
2013
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 6:34 PM UTC
I Think I'd Make A Good Principal is just one of the stories within these pages, but you'll also find a recess superhero, some suggestions on where to time travel, a tiny guy that can't sleep, a fussy grandpa that lives upstairs, a zombie mouse, and several other funny and imaginative poems sure to delight both kids and adults. (Complete with wonderful illustrations by artist David Lee)
It's something that wouldn't be typical,
But I think I'd make a good principal.
The first thing I'd cut would be funding for math,
Maybe not fully, but at least in half.
Next on the list would be killing off science
Proudly shaking my fist in defiance.
Social studies is sure to get axed,
And geography class prob'ly won't
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 7:39 AM UTC
paper chain tongues that leave
story book whispers with smudged illustrations
across one's foggy heart.
elephant tracks engraved
in my distorted brain with runaway thoughts
that chase nonexistant standards.
vanilla tape pressed on
my unclean eyeballs with slippery questions like
why is the sun only shining when i'm in the basement?
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 8:04 PM UTC
Why must I be so in love with you?
Every thing I do brings back the depressingly lovely
thoughts of you.
Maybe it's the nonchalant way you smile when you see me
Or maybe the way your forest deep eyes gleam when you read my poem
Or maybe it's just God's way of perfection.
I'm sure I could become an Olympic Track runner after sprinting down the halls everyday
Just so I can stand next to you...
The way you laugh at my silly gestures brings joy into my compressed heart
The way you draw illustrations for my poem about depression makes me wonder
why did I ever write those when my cure is right in front of me?
If you only knew how much I smiled, cried, thought, and dreamed of this one text from you
Maybe then you'll understand
"...But you can call me your Batman..."
You would be my superhero.
My knight in shining armor.
My protection. My warmth. My security.
My First Love.
Maybe. Just Maybe.
This is God's idea of perfection.
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 9:05 PM UTC
*A bantam sounds afternoon tidings as the iron weathervane points Northeast ..
Both silhouettes as endearing a sight as my eyes could
ever witness ...
Astral nights , my amour ..Colorful light illustrations brushstroke the East ,
The edge of the Milky Way perplexes , I bask in it's subtle persuasion ..
Wind battled score and five year Pines sound timorous refrains , offering great euphonic consolation* ..
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 7:52 PM UTC
everything i've wanted to tell you
i will tell you tomorrow
and the wait of it all doesn't even give you sorrow
these dilapidated sentence structures suffocate us,
they drown out our intricacy, our noisy illustrations
and i don't even want you to resuscitate me
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 10:42 PM UTC
We tremble when our favorite team loses,
Or cheer when we see them win.
But its our lucky charms and their uses,
That keep the goosebumps possible on our skin.
Warriors with their totems, chants, and prayers,
Found hope in small possessions.
It pushes them forwards because its theirs,
The luck gives them joyful expressions.
Now for me, I don't find comfort in the moon,
Nor do the stars in the sky grant me glorious power.
Only now have I found my favorite tune,
And it turns out to be a small, little flower.
"Luck isn't real, and never will be",
I'd tell myself, when others had success.
But now, I know the truth and would have to agree,
My lucky charm is you, and I wouldn't have ever guessed.
You turn me around when I go the wrong direction,
Treat me more honestly than anyone would.
I'm overwhelmed when I wake up to hear your affection,
Making me feel honored, as if a man in knighthood.
Four paragraphs doesn't do you justice, but it's better to stop,
And save more for later, since we're both horrid at goodbyes.
Hope you had a good sleep, and don't need one more cough drop.
I love illustrations and imagery, so here's one for the sunrise.
You're the prize at the bottom of a cereal box,
As rare as an alien from outer space.
Independent, beautiful, and as graceful as a fox,
And to my deck of cards, you' are the ace.
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 3:06 AM UTC
the remnants of a broken down villain
he's waited here in thick silence
with his elaborate plans
drawn on the wall complete with corrections
stick figures in the halflight
crude illustrations of the vocally frustrated
small errors in life represented by
five burnished monkeys cast in bronze
lined up in order of smiles on his mirror wall
the surface of his words
are reflections of the rain
which never comes but stays
in the golden gilded cages of his mind
shes so sweet rides up on her mystery wheel
and starts to strip off the layers
but stops when she reaches her freshly washed skin
and she dose a little dance just for him
shes been trying to get him off this
diesel gas fumes kick he's been on since vietnam
and the burnished brass monkeys break into song
something slow with a nice backbeat
something about the middle east
and the wires that join us all in prosperity
she sells *** in plain brown paper bags
on the street to support the tragic train
they say shes weak but we all know its just makeup
she wears and shes the strongest man alive
she isn't drawing grand designs to conquer the world
but its something shes well on her way to doing anyway
with her backup band
five burnished brass monkeys
each one with a hand on a bible
swearing allegiance to the madness
found in stick figures carved with loving care into
the walls of a madman's eight inch mind
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC
~~~
the wind of correction
*those invisible currents
for which we create labels
like most everything,
comes in shades of vagaries,
colorations of fierce and gentil
some bear the names of hurricanes,
gale forces, and those, the knotted stiff ones,
welcomed by man's power mills and sailing ships,
and the softest of summer breezes,
caressers of my isle sheltered,
for which I must winter~survive,
that have far too short a half-live,
those summer winds that rejuvenate my sinking soul
but the wind that gets no acclaim,
is the wind behind us that straightens the hunched,
the wind that has no illustrations of its un-famous name,
'tis the wind of correction
that lifts
the wings of the becalmed,
the bewitched, and the downtrodden,
the one that lifts chin from chest,
the one that energizes,
cures the curvature of our spines
to make us sally forth, clear eyed and optimistic,
leaving behind the residue of debris of destruction
when blown off course, be patient,
for a course correction by a kinder kindred force
will set you aright, push you into flight.,
for this wind comes to everyone,
someday, sometime
you do not know the wind of correction?
unfamiliar where and when it blows?
perhaps you call it something else?
I have heard it said,
that its other,
more
correct,
truer name is
love*
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 6:28 PM UTC
Flashes of insight igniting at midnight
Honoring magnified clues within a myriad of hues - mesmerizing formations revealed through iridescent illustrations
Silent but eloquent symbols of nature; I marvel at the extraordinary revelations throughout this atmosphere of sheer opulence while itching in the seams of somnolence.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 10:49 PM UTC
Supernatural
Beams dazzle
Illustrations shape
A character speaks
Pleasantries
Quakes of fear occur
Lullabies eject
From her lips
As she pirouettes
Such color spectrums
Radiate
To mold a queen
© 2012 (All rights reserved)
This poem is featured in the poetry collection “Technicolor” as written by Glenn McCrary
The collection is currently available in paperback and hardcover editions for purchase on Lulu.com
.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 4:11 PM UTC