When I say artist I mean the man who is building things - creating molding the earth - whether it be the plains of the west - or the iron ore of Penn. It's all a big game of construction - some with a brush - some with a shovel - some choose a pen.
quote by Jackson Pollock
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Related quotes
Under Construction
His accent serenades me
And presses at the door
Broken promise to be
Around for my mind war
And my accomplishments interrogating me
Todays become tomorrow
Before I wanted it to be
And desperate discussions
The start of the destruction
Our sign, in my mind
Ill be fine
Ill be fine
cause Im under construction everyone
So youll have to mind the mess
Im under some construction
I always had to try harder
I never really could keep up
Sitting in the corner
With my illness and bad luck
But in this humble place Im feeling like red wine
And I hope to get better
With some time
Ill be fine
With some time
Ill be fine
cause Im under construction everyone
So youll have to mind the mess
Im under some construction
Confection
Modification
Motivation
Of construction
And the rituals that soothe
And disgust me will be gone
With some time
Ill be fine
With some time
Ill be fine
Ill be fine
Im under construction everyone
So youll have to mind the mess
Im under some construction
Im under construction everyone
So youll have to mind the mess
Im under some construction
Under construction
Construction
Feel better with some construction
song performed by by No Doubt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One of the dreams of Zionism was to be a bridge. Instead, we are creating exclusion between the East and the West instead of creating bridges; we are contributing to the conflict between East and West by our stupid desire to have more.
quote by A.B. Yehoshua
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Artist
The Artist and his Luckless Wife
They lead a horrid haunted life,
Surrounded by the things he's made
That are not wanted by the trade.
The world is very fair to see;
The Artist will not let it be;
He fiddles with the works of God,
And makes them look uncommon odd.
The Artist is an awful man,
He does not do the things he can;
He does the things he cannot do,
And we attend the private view.
The Artist uses honest paint
To represent things as they ain't,
He then asks money for the time
It took to perpetrate the crime.
poem by Sir Walter Raleigh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Dividing Line
There has always been a dividing line
But you choose, you choose, yes you choose not to see it
And then you wonder why you fall
It cuts through the heart of every city
If you climb to the top of the highest building
You can see where it falls cause the streetlights stop
The colours start to change
You hear a voice inside you
Not the words that you wanted to hear
Not the things that you wanted to see hey, hey, hey, hey
In the comfort and safety of your own home
Remember those outside in the cold
And the wind and the rain
And take in your hands a little ray of light
And turn it into a beam that pierces the darkness of the night
There has always been a dividing line
But you choose, you choose, yes you choose not to see it
Sometimes we believe if we close our eyes
The rain might wash it away
Thats why we stumble and we fall
Not the words that you wanted to hear
Not the things that you wanted to see hey, hey, hey, hey
When everything that you hold dear to you
Has finally faded away from your life
The last cold ray of sunshine slowly disappears
Round the corner of the building
And leaves you alone
When darkness covers the city and the streets are silent too
What will you turn to...
song performed by by Genesis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Darling Is An Artist
My darling is an artist
who saves pictures, her impressions on a canvas
and sometimes deep things
are expressed by her mere words,
as she paints the sea green,
at times mother-of-pearl
or a dull blue
and I wonder how she does it?
With a brush she can warble
can charm and adorn things,
she can bring bewitching colours suddenly
to the early breaking day.
l'Envoi
My darling is an artist,
sometimes she muddles my whole life,
when her lips are sugary sweet
and she tells me the plain truth plainly.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rags & Old Iron
Norman curtis, oscar brown jr
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
I heard that old rag man now making his rounds
He came right to my alley lord with sorrowful sounds
Crying rags old iron and pulling his cart
Ask him how much hed give me for my broken heart
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
So I asked that old rag man how much he would pay
For a heart that was broken baby when you went away
For a burnt out old love light that no longer beams
And a couple of slightly used second hand dreams
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
For those big empty promises you used to make
For those memories of you that are no longer sweet
I wish he could haul them off down the street
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
When love doesnt last tell me what is it worth
It was once mamas most precious possession on earth
When I asked that old rag man if hed like to buy
He just shook his head and continued to cry
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
Rags old iron rags old iron
Rags old iron rags old iron rags old iron
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Wood Handled Shovel
I take its smooth wood in my hands
to turn the earth as spring returns.
I make straight furrows in my garden
Like those before me worked the land.
This was Dad's shovel years ago
And in my father's callused hands
it coaxed our plot to yield us fruit
as good as any farmer's stand.
Outside of faded photographs
So few of father's things remain
His house torn down, his stuff dispersed.
his kingdom shrunken to a grave.
Of all the things that I possess
this little shovel made of wood
is my link to Him I loved
and to a time when life was good.
J.M.
poem by John F. McCullagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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At our company, our Design and Construction Consulting Service Team not only helps eliminate the risks inherent in the construction process, they typically save our clients 5% - 10% on overall construction costs. They also help make sure projects come in on time.
quote by Roger Staubach
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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As An Artist
As an artist,
I carefully paint
a picture on my
canvas
with each stroke
I wipe away a tear
causing a smile to
reappear
As an artist
I endow your face
with my brush
making it more
perfect as I go
until at last the
image of my love
I see.
poem by Heather Burns
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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If a building looks better under construction than it does when finished, then it's a failure.
quote by Doug Coupland
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Let's Have A Little Game
let us play
this small game
he that gives the smaller one
wins
i'll start
with a dog and you will have a cat
you win
and i will choose the flea in the cat
and then i win
we go into much smaller things
i'll have the bacteria and you choose
this virus
you win again
then i take the atom
you take the neutron
and i take a space of
emptiness
shall i win this time?
ok let's stop, let us try another one
something big, bigger and biggest
let us start with the size of our hearts
game.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sunset Thoughts
The sun sets slow to the West
The routine evening rest.
I quietly sit and watch
Feeling somewhat tranquil, yet melancholy -
I think of the great pleasure
That this moment is.....
And wonder why,
So few are -
Opaque clouds scattered, streak the salient sky
Like living lines
On an intent artist's brush,
The blue and the gray overhead
Are now at peace
Above the country, so free.....
Orange, yellow, purple, and red
Blaze, and burn through the horizon
Into the black-burnt transcendent treeline
Just below the setting sun, saying
'Goodnight, my sweet children' -
A pure gift,
so beautiful...
The wonder of it all
Is nothing less than
A marvelous miracle.....
It reverberates with eternities
Endless echoes,
(the mystical Music of majesty,
flowing through the cosmos) .....
Cloudy fingers hold the light
As God enfolds
The earth, the sun, the universe, and even
my own very fragile soul.
All here - together - in this delicately devine
End of day.......
The sun sets low, into the West.....
Is it merely routine
This evening rest?
.....I think not.....
poem by Smoky Hoss
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wild West
Out to the west theres a trail that leads somewhere
And a call of the wild that takes some people there
Through monument valley to california sun
From new amsterdam to the way the west was won
Well years will go by when you wont get nowhere
Youre cold and youre tired and youre free and you dont care
You keep pushin on when your friends keep turning back
You keep building towns and laying railroad track
And things get crazy and you have to use that sun
And you wonder if this is the way the west is won
But keep thinkin that way and you wont get nowhere
cause you got a right just to get where youre goin to
Gotta keep runnin gotta be the best
Gotta walk tall in the wild west
You keep on the move or you try to settle down
And theres strangers from further and further away in town
And you give them some tools and they know what must be done
And you know the west was won
And they say . . .
Where I come from, you cant get nowhere
Im breaking my back for some opportunity
Making my fortune and Ill take it all home
Tell my kids about the wild west
And theres still beauty as the flowers bloom on desert sands
And theres still hope as the sun rises over the rio grande
But its so crowded now and nothings simple anymore
And theyre still knocking at your door
You hear guns in the night and you hope theyre not for you
cause a dog eats a dog then he eats his master too
In the land of the free and the not so often brave
Theres both love or money now choose which you will save
But . . . keep thinkin that way and you wont get nowhere
cause you got a right just to get where youre goin to
Gotta keep runnin gotta be the best
Gotta walk tall in the wild west
song performed by by Joe Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Song of the Red Man
When the palefaces came in their whitewing'd canoes,
Long ago, from the sun-rising sea
When they ask'd for a lodge, and we did not refuse
Happy then was the red man, and free.
He could then choose a spot for his wigwam to stand,
Where the forest was crowded with game;
For the blue-rolling lake and the ever smiling land
Were his own till the palefaces came
For the broad grassy plains and the forests deep and grand,
Were his own till the palefaces came.
They came! they came! like the fierce prairie flame,
Sweeping on to the sun-setting shore:
Gazing now on its waves, but a handful of braves,
We shall join in the the chase nevermore
Till we camp on the plains where the Great Spirit reigns,
We shall join in the chase nevermore.
We receiv'd them with gladness, as Sons of the Sky
We believ'd them of heavenly birth;
But alas! to our sorrow we found by and by,
That like us they were born of the earth.
By their false traders wrong'd, by their firewater craz'd,
There was no one our braves to restrain;
So the swift flew, and the tomahawk was raise'd
While we both mourn'd the blood of our slain;
So the smoke-wreath did cease from the calumet of peace,
While we both mourn'd the blood of our slain.
When the oaks, pines and cedars were fell'd to the ground,
'Twas a sight that with sorrow we saw;
For the game fled affrighted, and no food was found
For the old chief, the papoose and squaw.
Driven westward we came, but the paleface was here,
With his sharp axe and death-flashing gun;
And his great iron horse is rumbling in the rear
"O, my brave men!" your journey is done.
Like the beaver and elk like the buffalo and deer
"O, my brave men!" your journey is done.
poem by Henry Clay Work
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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That Stage Of Denial....
i do not wish to write about pain,
an artist has to clean the mess and write instead
about
happiness, but it is not here and what is here instead
insistent and forceful is
pain, but i refuse to give in to its demands to inflict
pain to my words,
i smile,
i offer silence,
i like to hear the falling of the pin
on that carpeted
floor,
i hear it,
i walk away, i dabble in all that the trees are singing
on a rainy day,
i do not wish to write about your pain,
i do not feel it somehow,
i feel mine, but what is the use of recognizing the one that hurts you
and destroys you
for when, until when,
i choose now,
i shall write about a landscape of green grass, where trees are tall and huge, where plains travel infinitely into space
where seas are calm where fish sleeps comfortably on the seaweeds
and corals,
where butterflies flutter like shreds of paper from a building high,
on this stage of denial
i shall dance my mambo.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When God temporarily rolled up the building plans of prophecy and placed them aside, He made known a secret set of plans. With this program came a completely new set of blueprints. According to the counsel of His will, He had predetermined to call Paul as the masterbuilder of the project. So then, the instructions for our building program are found in Paul's epistles. Little wonder the apostles says 'I have laid the foundation, and another buildeth thereon. But let every man take heed how he buildeth thereupon' (1 Cor. 310). It is essential to use Pauline construction materials (grace doctrines), simply because someday soon the Building Inspector will examine our workmanship to determine if we followed His codes.
quote by Paul Sadler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Friendship of Birds
A pair of parrots with some sparrows
Sitting on rods
Of an under-construction building.
poem by Asif Andalib
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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It is not the beauty of a building you should look at; its the construction of the foundation that will stand the test of time.
quote by David Allan Coe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If a patron buys from an artist who needs money, the patron then makes himself equal to the artist; he is building art into the world; he creates.
quote by Ezra Pound
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Behind the Iron Gate
Behind the Iron Gate, we saw so many different things.
I saw the crazy-paving path, you saw the wrought-iron wings
stretched out across the lintle, o'er the blackened double door
a welcoming of angel's warmth, a refuge for the poor.
I saw the march of tattered dandelions of neglect
the next door neighbour's foliage, Leilandia, I suspect.
You saw yourself some years ago, a paint brush in your hand
Nothing boring in restoring distant memories, so grand.
A few decades, a few decayed and teetering on the rim
last vestages of childhood and the days we spent with him.
A stranger with a thousand tales who swore that none were true
Behind the Iron Gate I peer, and wish I saw the same as you.
poem by Hola Mentirosa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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