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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
Tommy Randell Jan 2019
In the drawing of a self portrait
There are choices to be made,
Surprises that lie in wait -
Which Me will show his face today?

The Cynic, the Lover, the Clown,
The textures of Shadow and Pain,
The Father, the Loser, the Frown,
The calligraphy of Peace regained?

Should i try and aim for a likeness,
Improvise something dramatic,
Make a statement, Bold and Revealing,
Or go all out for the Laconic?

But who is the Writer and what is Written?
Who is the Painter and what is his mission?
On the canvas or on the page
Do I want a mirror and not a portrait?

Who knows? In poetry or in a sketch
The aim must be for something essential -
But never The Truth, no no no, for that
We'd all need a much sharper pencil !
Nesma Aug 2018
She leaves a note that she signed with her name although nobody else was there because he whispered the name of another woman while he was inside her.
She left a note that she’s written in her bright red lipstick because he said it made her lips look like cherries, and her mother had taught her that the fastest road to a man’s heart is a good meal.
She leaves the note in her bright red lipstick because he didn’t compliment the dress she wore on her fragile body, the shoes she wore on her dainty feet, or the heart she wore on her sleeves;
he complimented the lipstick she wore as a note written on his bedroom mirror;
a mirror that extends from the coarse land of Persia to the frozen seas of the north pole.
What she likes the most about the note she left is that she covers a part of the mirror, and a mirror is neer a friend.

He takes a leap of faith and jumps headstrong into a relationship that he knows will drown him.
He was named a champion in the 2015 Olympiad for swimming;
he lost his golden medal but the whiplash on his heart when he delved firsthand into the waters will always remind him how salty it tasted.
He sinks into an abyss of intensity that he cannot dry out no matter how long he sits near the lonely candle next to Madonna’s portrait.
He soaks in the glistening sunlight; water was never his friend.

She brushes her hair every evening and every evening she reminds herself that she needs to brush off her father’s rejection.
He trains everyday and every day he reminds himself that his heart is also a muscle.
They do it in the dark because it’s easy to love another and scary to see yourself.
Patrick Austin Nov 2018
A girl, a woman, lover, friend,
liking me more than she should.
I want to love someone again,
I know she wishes I would.
I love the joy and pain of her,
our hearts are an open book.
My wounds are fresh from this mad world,
when life was harshly shook.
Portrait eyes are such a treat,
looking up at this new man.
Simply, silly, kind and sweet,
She reminds me who I am.
Her witness down inside of me,
exposure to all my tools.
Teaching each other honesty,
we're reinventing the rules.
She has a look she can't disguise,
whenever I look her way.
Optimistic hopelessness in her eyes,
bittersweet each day.
Moving on and on and on and on...
Mahatma Gandhi  
Young visitors in a gallery,
Stood before a portrait of Gandhiji,
Charmed by his toothless smile,
Eyes sparkling through glasses round
And an old watch dangling from his waist,
With his chest bare and a **** cloth
Covering his lean , frail frame.
While they wondered how the good old man
Could shake the mighty British empire
And fight without weapons of destruction,
They were thrilled to behold a vision rare -
The smiling  Gandhi emerged from the frame,
Saying that his weapons were invisible,
Yet, they could vanquish the most powerful
Without hatred and shedding no blood!
His loving voice and childlike smile
Combined with an unbending will,
Wielding the power of truth and nonviolence
Could conquer his mighty ruthless foes
And turn them into everloving friends!.
Feeling amazed, the visitors stared
At the Mahatma moving back into the frame;
Begged him to remain and lead them again.
"My countrymen," he said "seem to have forgotten,
" The bloodshed and horror of partition.
"Terrorists and fanatics **** and burn
" And innocent victims feel miserable and forlorn.
"Twice a year, on my 'samaadhi', flowers are strewn,
" While helpless millions struggle and groan.
"In these days of endless greed and senseless crime, "
"Guided missiles and misguided men,
" My words seem to have no relevance,
"Yet, if they listen to their own conscience,
" Give up greed and serve with compassion,
"The India of my dreams will arrive soon."
Sad and surprised, the visitors stared:
Though the figure vanished, his words inspired
And they resolved to follow his noble ways
And strive for the welfare of all mankind.
                  ***  M.G.Narasimha Murthy
Hyderabad, India.        [email protected]
Mahatma Gandhi was assassinated on 30 Jan 1948. A memorable tribute came from Albert Einstein: "Generations to come will scarce believe that such a man as this ever in flesh and blood  walked upon this earth."
Kurt Philip Behm Oct 2019
What once held me captive,
now sets me free

My wanderlust blowing away

The clouds and horizon,
that buttressed my world

Meld, as the night into day

Those words never chosen,
survive on their own

Verses dry, all wings taking flight

What used to confound me,
present, future, and past

Joined as one—in a fusion of light

(Villanova Pennsylvania: October, 2019)
Pyrrha Feb 2019
A picture paints a thousand words
but even a thousand words
is not enough to paint
a picture-perfect portrait of you
too ethereal, too unique
pulchritudinous in the way you think

Let's take a hundred thousand pictures
so we can make a novel out of you
Let's take a hundred thousand pictures
so the world can learn that perfect isn't a myth
perfection is hidden within your smile
within your eyes, within your voice

Let's take a hundred thousand pictures
so I can immortalize you in my art
Let's take a hundred thousand pictures
and maybe then I'll have all the words I need
to make you believe me when I tell you
just how perfect you truly are
Which face will I wear today
    The face I wear at work
          Cheerful member of the staff
          Underpaid - unappreciated
           Tiny office with no window
           Paperwork nobody looks at
           Rules just for the sake of rules

Which face will I wear today
      The face I wear at home
            Always tired, depressed, besieged
            by a thousand minor ailments
            All the things I'd like to do
             crowded out by other things
             I have to do that are no fun.
      
Which face will I wear today
      The face that sports a poet's cap
            Gel filled quill pen clutched in hand
            Trying every format I can learn
            Gleaning from the published experts
            Writing happy after years of sad
            Finding sunshine in the shadows that I live in

Which face will I wear today
      The face above the helping hands
            that reach for places to be used
            That garner joy from mucking in
            to smooth the path for others
            Seldom thanked - often refused
            Bucket goal - to save a life.

Which face will I wear today
      The face that looks back from the mirror
            Mapping all the tracks of age
            Searching for the sparkle in the eyes
            that joined hands with my youthful looks
            and did a conga-line away

Which face will I wear today
      Picasso portrait of them all
            Ill and hale - strong and weak - sad and glad
            When seen together in the mirror
            it's a face I do not know
            and someone I don't care to meet

So check the clock and choose a face
    Paste it on and smooth it out
        Comb hair over all the edges
             **** the light and close the door
                 And take this face out for a walk
                       See if anybody says hello
                                           ljm
I guess we all have a lot of different faces/personas.  These are some of mine.
Laugh.
Laugh, cause the notes of your childish song fill my heart with joy

Cry.
Cry, cause everything coming from your eyes gives my soul life

Live.
Live, cause you're breathing art, a portrait worth a billion stars

Sleep.
Sleep, cause my dream is you, I'm willing to make yours come true
ryn Sep 2014
I see you, monster...
In your sockets bore dead, dark eyes
They hold the blackest of stares
Nebulous swirling pits of demise

Thin lips would spout the most sibilant of hisses
Every so often would curl into a snarl
Dry and chapped, almost unworthy of kisses

Large, rough snout, jutting out like a crag
You sniff around tirelessly for easy targets
Preying on the unsuspecting minds of those under your flag

Tapering chin, sprouting strands of coarse hair
Unkempt and gritty from your last meal
Decaying teeth, crooked due to little to no care

Your face is cratered; tales of trying adolescent years
Wearing a face only a mother could love
Expressionless but it screams out your fears

Ugly jointed limbs that grew out of sync
Disproportionate, misshapen, grotesque
Little noggin with sparse hair, packed within, a brain that thinks


I hear you, monster...
As you stalk your sleepless nights
Nocturnal ambience be your playground
Lurking in the dark; places with no light

Bulky, heavy feet but deft and silent
Can barely notice when you're up and about
As if cloaked yourself stealthy, with steps ever transient

Respire you do, exhaling breaths so gnarly
Ingesting good air, converting into fervid, loathsome notions
With which you paint a portrait so ghastly


I feel you monster...
Deep within the recesses of my heart
Destroying and distorting all that was pure
Testing my will till I should fall apart

You're but the twisted manifestation of conscience
Feeding on my trials and nurturing them into vile abominations
I despise that of you but I seem to have developed dependence


I see you, monster...**
You're horrid and beastly, an embodiment of absolute horror
I await the day that you would finally dissolve
For I am weary of seeing you staring back in the mirror
Still riding out the storm... Please bear with me
Janet Aitch Sep 2019
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
SOLDIER OF FORTUNE
Book down both my idleness and memories,
Come the 52nd summer, through ship to ship
The last sail from city to city, the perturb To Contempt
Thy will at time remain snub, hath my time being
Hoaxed with an irony to bare my dream, for my family,
my slug Hit the deepest of my wish, with an arm to an
Armor, though my gentle verse never indulge volitionary,
What’s Worth in me hath grown, neither my dream
Extant, to whom shall I sell? Thy portrait reckon without
understanding The captivity my dreams, to whom
shall I cry My bootless fate?, Hast thee forsaken  me?
Thou art trouble me not , Thee Succeed  anyone
In an unflagging quest for a word, though art’s will
For sinners, saint and believers never change
This is my portrait and this is my pain
This is the beat of the drum alongside an endless horizon
We can not be free until we can free ourselves
Leave this to me
In the end I will figure it out
Naples yellow
Prussian blue
Burnt umber
Cadmium Red Deep
Napthol Red
Quinacridone
Phtalocionine Blue and Green
Portrait Pink Light
Yellow Oxide
Raw Sienna

Can you make a painting without these?
Peter B Apr 2019
Hi,
it's me again,
hope you don't mind.

I need to talk to you,
you don't need to listen,
that's fine.

I missed you,
I know it sounds wrong.
I am sorry.
If you insist, I will go.

I shouldn't be here,
I should be at work,
making money for myself
and for the government.

I didn't tell anyone that I'm here,
they'd say I'm wasting my time.
But they waste their lives,
living without art,
like animals.

I want to be here, with you,
I want to stare at your face.
It relaxes me, it makes me happy,
it makes my day.

You are so beautiful.
I'd love to know you better,
I know I can't.
There's an abbys of time between us,
dividing us -
we live in two different worlds.

I'd better go,
I'm standing here too long,
the security guard is watching me,
I must look odd.

I'll see you soon,
take care for now.
Stay safe,
have a nice day,
bye.
Inspired by the painting 'Doña Isabel de Porcel' by Francisco de Goya (The National Gallery)
K Lupus Jul 2017
At my wits end grasping your vanishing portrait.
Reminiscing the golden time,
Circuitously projecting a chasm of flowers.
Drenching myself your reverberating voices.
Afraid to succumb to the neurotic state I'm in.

These precious memories I relentlessly hold,
Withering itself in a rapid surge.
A natural part of human experience,
Unluckily driven by such eccentric decease.
A repercussion of this chosen dalliance.

You're a phenom that came in like a storm.
Allowed me to love you, now I let you abhor.
Fallaciously believed in dandelion wishes,
A superstition created as stimulus of hope.
But it's too late to stop me, says Amnesia.

Remember me! Remember me!
You called
Tribute to Golden Time
Osiria Melody Mar 2019
Of stupid guiles and intellectual foolishness,
You take my coherent words and set them afire
A conflagration of deceitful gossip,
Catapulting my integrity to the depths of oblivion

A succession of revenge, plot one to one-hundred,
Taking away everything meaningful in my life
Of successful failures and kaput achievements,
You take my benevolent actions and make them backfire

You see, my friEND, I fear you not for I'm smart
Stupid in your eyes, but powerful beyond your pride
E-N-D is all that you'll ever be for betraying me
You will become an obstacle of wrath in this road of life

You rob me of what it means to trust others wholeheartedly,
Frame me up like an obscene portrait in a prudish community,
Blame me like problems were never meant to be solved,
Throw me into a bottomless pit of relentless agony

Someday, you will realize that the friend that I once was
Will be the commencement of your impending suffering
Until nothing is left of your dignity, all witheringly ugly



Melody
3/22/19
Cut out those so-called "friends" who proclaim to be the "real ones" in your life; you deserve to have friends who aren't toxic at all.
js Apr 2016
When I painted
a picture of
my problems

it came out
as a
self-portrait.
Oni Olusegun Jun 2017
I wrote her a poem
She won't like it
I tore it--
Its out of whack

I did her portrait with ink
She won't like it
I squeezed it--
Its not her skin color, its black

I plucked her some flower
She won't like it
I dropped it--
Its not rose, its lilac

I made her a pendant
She won't like it
I broke it--
Its not gold, its brass plaque

I'm at her door with no gift
She won't like it
But I love her
To the moon and back
Sometimes self doubt just ruin what could have been a perfect show
zebra Feb 2019
her body a sack of tubes
open wounds
like wet braided mouths
muttering thunder tunnels

she watching Friday night frights
of a cruel image,
a man; with sledge hammer genitals
looking at her through a shivered mirror

desire holds her transfixed
like a blink less eye staring
at a pinned butterfly

her hunger panged tongue
locomotes side to side
in fidget spirals
brewing red lipped bubbles
like gagged
weeping cuneiform tears
imagining
an immortal portrait of lusts tribe
while downy mists of dancing worms
eat scattered apples

with love that moves destiny
disobediently grinning
like a jeering peninsula
she imagined a coil of swollen barbs
a sea of *****
rapturous arched tongues
licking ******* urethra tornados
and flooding night music
like witches whistle through cat bones
Rob Rutledge Mar 2019
We are savage and we are cruel
And we know well what we do.
The imprints of sycophants
Echoes in blood red rooms.
The certainty of colour
Washed white and hung too soon.
A memory of light,
A bloom of deja vu.
Remembrance forgotten
Rewritten and then renewed.

Still we know not what we do.

The past is a sombre portrait,
Watercolour hung askew.
Dust and skin belie the truth
Stroke sure yet misconstrued.
In the maelstrom of intent
Will is broken before it is bent.
A promise spoken, never meant.

Still we know not what we do.
Rob Rutledge Sep 2019
The rage is real, I think.
Bruised lip, clenched fists.
A Portrait of a *******.
Ink slipped and left to fade,
A visage that only we create.
Born from all we know,
All we feel, All that pains,
Every manifested sorrow.

We would do well not to dwell
Upon that which we can't control.
But as the years age and grow
The certain turns into the unknown.
Curtains close yet start the show
As the actor dies off stage,
Alone.
Mark Sep 2018
Remember me in spring when blossom's blush
and petals flair a - light in morning mists
that'll haze a rainbow hue - of flowered plush
to portrait mine as every bud untwists.

Upon the birding bath as robins splay
the warbling chirp shall voice as tho' from me
for you my sweet, in springtime bloom of may
shall hear the larking flute of my decree.

The dancing leaves shall tap and Ivy's birth
and Snowdrop's bow as daisy eyes unveils
as fragrant, olive air shall scent of mirth
that once were lost, now shrines as spring prevails.

Vernal rebloom shall stream that pulse of mine
then seek that earthly glow, and there I'll shine.
Rowan Deysel Dec 2016
Caucasian cadaver in the windless woods.
Carelessly hanging from a tree.
Colorless face looking down.
Carrion yet to be seen.
Creation of an evil man.
Displaying his departed art.
Completed, his compelling plan.
Of helping death do its part.
Few colors, fewer sounds.
White skin contrasts the black dress.
Faded yellow floating all around.
Splatters of red fill the rest.
A frightful figure that overwhelms.
Above the confused and thorny trails.
All the shallow know themselves.
At the sight of this female.
Breathless before being dangled.
Dead before being displayed.
Beautiful body, cold and mangled.
Death magnificently portrayed.
Multiple stab wounds in your back.
Added to the smell of war.
Mind immersed in barren black.
Gnawed eyes to watch and adore.
Dripping, dim and dreadful.
The portrait he wanted to smear.
Your future as empty as your words.
Your hollowness shown clear.
You don't know what you're missing. 
Elders still die, the young still grow.
The leaves below are hissing.
At the corpse of a girl I used to know.
Made when I was an angsty, silly teenager who just got dumped by his first girlfriend.
atomic blue Jul 2018
da da dun da dun da dun
dun da dun da dun
da da dun da dun da dun
dun da dun da dun

there's a flash-- of lightning
lighting up the clouds
then in silence-- hiding
before the thunder sounds
and the sky falls to rain
and the earth quakes again
.
.
.
there's a rock-- sits rugged
dying in the shine
where before-- it bled
with colors inline
they coursed-- through veins
when it was alive
yeah the sky falls to rain
yeah the earth quakes again
.
.
.
there's silver-- set skies
to horizons of land
reflected-- in your eyes
shadows on wet sand
before the beach dies
by the flames that 'r fanned
yeah the sky falls to rain
and the earth quakes again
.
.
.
there's a portrait-- 't burns
smoldering to scatter
the atoms-- of remains
to times that matter
the sparks-- to our dreams
igniting 'ey shatter
yeah the sky falls to rain
ooh the earthquakes again
and the earth quakes again..


[email protected]
keep strumming this on my guitar ...
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