Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Lonely day and solemn night
Guide this pallett to the light
& Let the fear and need create
What words cannot communicate

The Painter;

a slave to love and duty,
Passionate anguish;
Desire and beauty.
self poem vs self portrait

Poems pointed with meaning while paintings uniquely described certain feeling s
Boi Nov 2018
Sentient
Primate
Alive

Is that the soul or the nerves inside?

Is the brain a soul? or is it hearts
that drives?

Are the lungs the source,
each breath our revive?

Is it but piston and shaft,
within us that survive?

I'll have two liters gear oil.
Synthetic, please. Yes, Premium.
I found a picture of two human figures, a male inside a female. The sketch is open from the abdomen down to the thigh, showing what's inside:
The male crankshaft and piston machinery ***** is inside the female chamber connected to her backbone, made of metal. The chamber has an outlet opening into the stomach.
Dr Peter Lim Sep 2018
There are many things
I wish not to be
it would be hard to cope
they would certainly ruin me.
Anne Jan 20
There’s a moving portrait above my sink,
her cheeks are pudgy,
her skin is pink.

Her eyes are melting,
teeth fallen out,
her noose is bleeding
a river of doubt.

The portrait screams,
she cries for aid,
she tells a dead god,
that he could have stayed.

No oil,
no paint,
no canvas,
not a brush;
Instead this portrait feels and aches,
her rawness still to gush.

Yet dusk is dusk,
and by dawn it is dawn.
You may look for such a portrait,
to find that it is gone.

Not a finger nail in sight,
not a single clogged hair.
It begs but one question:
Was she ever really there?
every **** night
Lucia C Jul 2018
Your lips are something
I would like always
To keep in mine. 

Your eyes make me
Loose focus easily, 
When our glance alignes. 

And when you smile
I just forget 
That rationality exists. 

Can you just be 
A little less
Of one thing that I miss?
Everyone who met her always
Portrait her image as a
Sturdy one in their heart. But,
In real everyday she is trying
Hard to fix the pieces of
Her broken soul in one.
Pyrrha May 20
I want to fall in love with his bad days
His insecurities
Become a best friend to his loneliness, his fears
A partner to his loathing

I want to love him for all he thinks he isn't
So I can prove him wrong and kiss away his hate

I want to fall in love with his tears
His messy hair in the mornings
His grogginess before his cup of coffee
His clumsy and nervous stutters

Everything about him, I want to find myself fawning over
I want to give him my all and love his everything
Because love doesn't pick and choose
It consumes all or it leaves with nothing

If I only choose to love his shimmer in the sunlight
Or his childish smiles and giggles
Then it would be as if I loved a portrait
Our love would only tarnish and fade with time

I will love everything or I will not love at all
Janelise Oct 10
I want so badly
To love myself.
To feel worthy
To feel understood.
No one will ever hold you
The way you cradle your self worth

And i am worth the moon and back.
With every dimpled smile
With every inch of this brown skin
I can be warmth personified.
I will fight for my love;

For my family
For my friends
And finally for myself.

I am the reason the sun rises.
A goddess of hope in your presence
Here to support your dreams
To remind you that you are dear.
I am empath, warrior, queen.

And even when im broken - jagged
Pieces of my heart stuck together
With bits of gold - i am still a prize
Not to be won
But to be experienced.

Someone youll never forget .
Someone youll forever regret losing.
So, Keep me close.
CK Baker Mar 2017
there’s a barnacle scar
deeply ingrained
on the basalt stack
at mark thirty two
whispering summer winds
scented oil
cotton and roe
drift
as waves brush
and shape
the sandstone shore

the briny air
and lost erratic
set a tone to this
pollyanna portrait
it's andrews undulations
and gifted benches
its concessions
and traces of the barry burn
its sculpted driftwood
and sanko lines
make this picture
almost perfect

children play
as venom spews
from the caterwaul pair
those odd looking mates
casting smiles
with arrested despair
settling shots
swiping bugs
dipping and darting
as photo men
and muscles
and long neck seabirds
make their turn

the hunched hoody
and his sorted sidekick
get their fill
(of moss and rubble ~ chubby and kelp)
nice to meet your acquaintance
the pho man would say
an odd drop
and ironic turn
from those horrific corners
of timeless desperation
down by cannon bridge

harbor seals
and carriage horse
are fronted by
raven shade
jolly tides pause
in quiet bays
(with curious looters
and *** pickers)
sand merchants
and field totems
all streamed by the light

cirrus strands
blanket the
outer edge
hovering craft
and shimmering willows
bolt the evening frame
blood orange
and tethered
with a filtered glare
bottle-nose dolphins
and seabirds
(and shifting tides)
are all settling in
for the long night stay
Faizel Farzee Sep 22
It's that hateful nightmare again
      It won't leave me alone
        Chasing my happiness
It wants it pictured and framed

      Negatively captured for all
                      Eternity.
When everything is going well,
Life seems to have forgotten
That you still exist
Until it comes to grab your smile.
Third Eye Candy Jun 2013
your soul is
what tumbles
from your old youth;
toothless, mute -
and beautiful.
it disputes the diluted musical
that unfolds you...
proof-less, your lute
is full.

your soul is
where you twist rocks and fell from -
a great height, below your skin suit, dull.
it drew you
with resolute ink, with a needle
and spoon...
etched on the cuticle,
a portrait
of your
skull.

and
you're every
nebulous
moon.
The photograph hangs on the wall by the window,
Three judges appear (one carries a folder)—
A tarot card reader, embalmer, engraver,
Without much to say and not much of it said
About the boot in the crib and the tire in the bed
The round faced man and the *** on his head
Painted with flowers and chipped on its edge.
And the cat near the door with its collar and bell
Flailing and airborne and mid caterwaul.
And the three-legged dog with her leash on
And sweater, jubilant, leaping— Mon Dieu! Grand jeté!
And the crow— O the crow! In its cage cawing “Fire!”
The crow crowing “Mayhem!” and “****** most foul!”
The dog and the cat and the crow and the tire
The cage and the crib, the *** painted in flowers;
All in a frame with a sign alongside—
“Self portrait. Around the Ides of July.”
A ribbon is clipped and then hung for its owner.
It bears the word “Mention” and then the engraver
Makes a note on a form he hands to the embalmer.
The tarot card reader turns— She and her hat,
And addresses the room, “Ain't no card made for that.”
.
An ekphrastic poem.

Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)
With this pen, I paint an image of you.
Not a portrait, but a true portrayal of you.
The ink flows into words that dance across your hair.
The end of each sentence marking a cross that you bear.

A painting would be suitable for some.
With beautiful colors, cascading down on you from above.
But, those colors mearly hide the truth behind your smile.
With the right shade of light and a light smear, it becomes a cosmetic fix for a while.

My words flow through every crack and fill every shadow.
They bring all light to the surface, for the reader to see within the shallows.

The image of you that I create can be vivid and great.
But with this pen, my words can also design your fate.

You see the truth here is that my words hold all truth.
They leave no place for lies to hide, with each word holding proof.

In the readers eyes, my words are you…
With this pen, I can create you…
With this pen, I can finish you...

- Brandon K. Stephenson
The underestimated writer and the power within his pen.
Kris Dec 2017
he was all spirit,
filled the empty space in any room
(the wrinkled creases of any heart)
in which he resided--haunted;
like the subtle scent of frankincense--
permeating; a soft ethereal touch.

he was all silence,
never home to a raised voice or
exasperated shift of ligaments;
and yet with an effortless exhale,
in one fluent motion of air
he was able to catch your lungs.

he was all light,
lured your gaze with a gentle smile--
his warmth embracing you like arms
as subtle, yet irresistibly brilliant, as
a candle flame to a lonely midnight moth.

he was all soul,
without weight, but full of depth;
you could perceive him inwardly,
feel the years of lives lived
collected like treasures in his chest.

he was all there,
even when he no longer was.
Peripherally related to an older poem I wrote entitled, "portrait of a girl without organs."
zb Oct 2018
i smear oil paint across your lips.

your face, outlined in pale brown and
robin's egg blue and
yellow-green,
rests gently in negative space.

part of me hurts
when i look at this part of you,
this part i am
so familiar with,
in an unfamiliar way.

the lines of your eyes
(eyes i've gazed into a thousand times)
betray my secrets and my soul;

the whisper of your hair
is the same as the quiet brush of mine
on the tops of my bare shoulders;

i reach out to touch you,
and my fingers touch dried oils
in shades of raw umber and cadmium lemon;
my paintbrush still dangles, wet,
from my other hand.

the creased wax paper on the table
carries swatches of color,
the potential energy of
my pigment-smudged hands;
you are still unfinished.

i am still unfinished.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2017
A message heart delivered by a musing troubadour
left footprints upon a well weathered rivers’ rocky shoal

the lazy days of the summer’s simmering
ethereal breezes lazily waft astir

Unknown distance ‘tween yonder skies azure;
thoughts of nebulous distances fearlessly ignored to be sure,
connectedness sown and deference’s soar from high above,
yet beyond vast breadth afar the great divide

His brimful heart in hand fulfills passersby thirst

needing love here, hearts on sleeves sincere,
wellspring sensibilities handed out willingly here
voids filled by word of quill …
right now is the known needed time

Glasses half empty suffused to their half full brims;
do unto others you will reap just what ye sow,
a poet beyond the bounds of his own demure,
bearing immense understanding

The quintessential essence of family love
drips from heart like heavens rain,
testifies the heart's purpose for being

A poet’s voice speaks in soul’s timeless tongues
unknown breaths from another understanding realm
too deep for words;
yet the word sayer struggles to see his forest ‘s poetic beauty
for to see beyond the pendant beauty
within its magnificent grandeur
of his own gifted heart’s nurtured trees.

~

The Twist

This poem was not written by me.
It was written almost four years ago,
lying fallow in some passing cloud.

Writ for me by someone effervescently more talented than I,
and one of the poets whose quality of work, and command of our shared language is something to which all of us should aspire.

I post it now as yet another homage to the true author.

For in reading it, never was a poem was far more clearly,
an unwitting self-portrait.

It was written on August 21st, 2013
by Harlon Rivers


by Nat Lipstadt
one of us, his tongue Moses-stung, with a hot coal of language's divinity
~
this would-be poet,
weighty troubled by misdirected words
of a musing troubadour,
for if ever a reflecting pool ought be
a two-way mirror reconfigured,
this poem is deservedly reversed
and of him homaged

by time, well weathered the poem above,
it's simple elegance tips and tilts the scales,
double blinding the justices supremely,
binding them for honesty for the subject,
is the auteur, one who sees too well
and yet l!
cannot perceive himself in his own words,
when now needs the judgement of their verdict
and your worthy recognition

now I ken better distance 'tween artist and art,
I, a workingman's daily dallying in simplistic machine craft,
my works deservedly lost in the waterfalling
of the endless also rans

non-nebulous distances.between skies of
Oregon country blue
and
the worldy worn asphalt grayed words of a graying man aging,
then let clarity speak, in plainest harmony,
know my deference’s soars to the high above,
one of us at birth, god gifted,
not I,
one of us, his tongue, like Moses-stung
with a hot coal of language's divinity

blessings, the keenest of nature,
where they divide and how they intersect
his brimful heart in our eyes fulfills the passerby's thirst
for revelations, small shards of shared sensibilities

my voids filled by the words of his quill

"to see his forest ‘s poetic beauty
for to see beyond the pendant beauty
within its magnificent grandeur
of his own gifted heart’s nurtured trees"

This was written April 15, 2017
for Harlon Rivers
by Nat Lipstadt

behind the poems,  travels another world…
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2017
all poets are human, therefore, all humans are  
poems*

<•>

"In logic, a tautology (from the Greek word ταυτολογία) is a formula that is true in every possible interpretation."

<•>
hardly a tightly taut tautology,
yet true this, in every possible instance

all humans, poems,

as if their portrait painted

from words dipped in a vocabulary palette

which is why,

you my million muses,

are so oft the themes of *who
I write

and when foolish think there is no
inspiration in the air,
your names
each and every,
a title awaiting
finishing
a gift for Jamadhi Verse

Friday, August 25, 2017 6:10 PM,
S. I.
Robert C Ellis Jul 2018
Poppy colors just being
Flesh and hair just seeding
Man hassling sound for a face
The eyes an unwinding outer space

The skin spoils from gin and pig
This crown of man; this broken rig
The teeth are see-through the meat
They are time that will not keep
Viridian Feb 2018
I have accepted the heart you held in my hand.
I wished to fit it with my own.

But in the process, you kept deliberately cutting my fingers

Was I going too fast? Possibly.
Were my pieces too small? Possibly.
Were the edges too sharp? Possibly.

And yet, I continue to clutch at your shards with ****** palms.
I can't let you go, even if you hurt.
I accepted your heart, and I can't go back on my word.

I will, one day, form a beautiful stained glass portrait of you and I.

No matter how many ounces I bleed, I'll attempt to complete this work of art.
And yet, I ended up shattering more of my own pieces to try and fit them in with yours
Yours, whose pieces weren't meant to fit mine at all
Lizzy Jun 2016
I'm thinking about you
And how we were in
Very similar shoes.

I'm thinking about your smile
And your hair
That I always envied.
It's so strange to know
That I'll never walk behind you again.

I'm thinking about the way your absence
Turned our hometown upside down
And inside out.

I'm thinking about the portrait
Your brother just drew of me
And comparing it to the portrait
Anonymous painted for your mom.

Thinking about the guilt
That I somehow still carry.
Even after knowing the truth
And knowing what happened to you.

The weight of knowing
It could have been me,
But wasn't;
Is so present still.

Why did I make it out alive
When you had so much more to live for?

I'm so sorry
That this happened to you
And I'm so sorry that i couldn't do anything to save you.
Forget about the face,
My ears are question marks
And oddly placed.
Everything that can be said, they say -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.

The eyebrows too I think,
One of them's a caterpillar
And clearly out of sync.
Some say asymmetry is beautiful in its way -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.

At 66 my lips are thinning,
Squinting sideways when I smile
In effect more akin to grinning,
My English teeth a little grey -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.

The right positioning and number of limbs
Does little to improve
The overall slackness of bones & skin.
Indeed, I don't walk so much as sway -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.

So there it is, my mirrored Self,
Companion in my ageing days,
Heir to generations of rich genetic wealth.
Self Portrait, posed to flatter, as displayed -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.
s h Oct 2018
they paint a picture of me:
black and white and grey.
i pose for them,
so still I have forgotten how to breathe,
my lungs aching
and my head spinning.  
they paint only
the portrait they want to see
obscuring my flaws
and covering all the bits of me.
black and white and grey,
black and white and grey.
i drag my fingers
through a bright color
and smudge it across the canvas.
they want be to be
black and white and grey,
but maybe
pink was my color all along.
stop trying to be what they want you to be.
Mote Jul 2018
Awareness appeared like a virus
cutely attached to my brain stem.

I am a terrible person. I say
misgivings  like u wld say
thanksgiving and I speak
it aloud to those gathered @
the Table // The Table touched
by each person I've hurt & [yet]
they are cool with me //

This is the bluest I've ever been.
JV Beaupre May 2016
I. Long ago and far away...

Under the bridge across the Kankakee River, Grampa found me. I was busted for truancy. First grade. 1946.

Coming home from college for Christmas. Oops, my family moved a few streets over and forgot to tell me. Peoria, 1961.

The Pabst Brewery lunchroom in Peoria, a little after dawn, "Who wants my sandwich? ****, this first beer tastes good." I won't tell you what he really said. 1962.

At grad school, when we moved into the basement with the octopus furnace, Dave, my roommate contributed a case of Chef Boyardee spaghettio's and I brought 3 cases of beer, PBRs.  Supper for a month.1962.

Sharon and I were making out in the afternoon, clothes a jumble. Walter Cronkite said, " President Kennedy has been shot…” 1963.

I stood in line, in my shorts, waiting for the clap-check. The corporal shouted:  "All right, you *******, Uncle and the Republic of Viet Nam want your sorry *****. Drop 'em".  Deferred, 1964.

He electrified the room. Every woman in the room, regardless of age, wanted him, or seemed to. The atmosphere was primeval and dripping with desire. In the presence of greatness, 1968.

US science jobs  dried up. From a mountain-top, beery conversation, I got a research job in Germany. Boulder, 1968.

The first time I saw automatic weapons at an airport. Geneva, 1970.

I toasted Rembrandt with sparkling wine at the Rijksmuseum. He said nothing. 1972.

A little drunk, but sobering fast: the guard had Khrushchev teeth.
Midnight, alone, locked in a room at the border, why?
Hours later, release. East Berlin, 1973.

She said, "You know it's remarkable that we're not having an affair." No, it wasn't. George's wife.  Germany, 1973.

I said, "May be there really are quarks, but if so, we'll never see them." Truer than I knew.  Exit to Huntsville, 1974.

II. In the present century....

And what have I learned? Here's advice for the next ones: On your desk, keep a coffee cup marked, "No Whining", that side out. Final retirement. 2015.

I quietly admired a Rembrandt portrait at the Schiphol airport. Ever inscrutable, his painting had presence, even as the bomb dogs sniffed by. Beagles. 2006.

I’ve lost two close friends that I’ve known for 50-odd years. There aren’t many more. Huntsville. 2008 and 2011.

I started painting. Old barns and such. 2004.

I occasionally kick myself for not staying with physics—I’m jealous of friends that did. But I moved on, and came back. There is still problem 12-19 in Becker's mechanics and it still needs solving. 2016 and continuing.

Honest distortions emerging from the distance of time. The thin comfort of fading memories. Thoughts on poor decisions and worse outcomes. Not often, but every now and then.
Eloisa Jun 18
A portrait of love
In the realm of fantasy
Our hearts beat in sync
Rainbow paints on a canvas
Only us, in bed, naked
WS Warner Oct 2011
Static, memories
Emanating, separating  
The postcard- perfect
Still life speaks
From its storied past.
Invisible, to drift
Among  
The florid aphorisms,
Ending in
Deleterious debris,
Aftermath of
The inevitable.

Empty room, echo hollow
Tabula rasa -
Carpet clean, quite candid in it's
Return to callow.
Consciousness athirst,
Absorbing phenomena
Effervesce, inquisitive
Ideas foment,
Sealed inside a question.
The what -
Against the narrow
Scarcity,
And fatigue of should.

A tender malleable
Youth,
Betrayed, under
An assumed decorum -
Residue of truth,
Flattened emotion
Privations of a self
Unheard;
Misplaced affirmation,
Buried pathologies  
In architecture
Fear manifests symbolic.

Harboring apathy
The lunacy of pious
Pedigree,
Import contagion,
Fetters of benignity
Doubt and indecision  
Into ******
Cognizance,
Fallow spirits
Seep fumes of decay,
Credulity bleeds a human stain.

Social edifice, inoculated  
Heirs of neurosis;
Palpable, sensual pain
And transience, though
Tacit - remain,
Our haunted history,
The blind hyperbole,
Maudlin
Forbearance, this haven,
A portrait
Of immaculate condition,
Nurtured with precision
Under sterling pretense.

Provincial domicile -
House beautiful,
Savage irony -
Unseen treasure
Innocence unabridged,
Faces, tiny creations;
Compliant vessels
Wounded,  
While modernism murmurs  
Its promise.

Brave New World,
In a late model sedan,
Domestic ranch on a
Corner lot,
Suburban natives,
Silence means security.
The misunderstood
Speak louder -
Consumerism beneath    
Unvarnished ambition,
Never could
Repair the brokenness within...

© 2011 & 2018 W. S. Warner
Next page