When I work alone, it can be like dabbling with a canvas. Maybe you paint over bits, and it starts to form its own life and lead you off in a direction. It becomes an intuitive, subconscious process.
quote by Lindsey Buckingham
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I've learned that I get blocked when my subconscious mind is telling me that I've taken the work in a wrong direction, and that once I start listening to what my subconscious is trying to tell me, I can work out the problem and get moving again.
quote by Walter Jon Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Canvas
Oh how she loves her canvas,
The stories that it tells.
Oh how she loves to paint her thoughts,
And etch a perfect spell.
Oh how she loves her canvas,
The memories that it holds.
Oh how she loves to trace the lines,
And tell if new or old.
Oh how she loves her canvas,
Her stability in an unstable world.
Oh how she loves to fret away,
At all of her unfurled.
Oh how she loves her canvas,
A standstill of art and truth.
Oh how she loves the feel of it,
To reminisce her youth.
Oh how she loves her canvas,
A long work of her life.
Oh how she loves the twisted colors,
Splashes of red upon white.
Oh how she loves her canvas,
She crafts each inch with care.
She hides her canvas well away,
Though she often earns a stare.
Do not tell of her canvas,
Keep the secret- she insists.
But perhaps some time take a second glance,
For her canvas is her wrist.
poem by Dayna Mortimore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Work Of Art
Life is a ‘work of art”, and humanity is the biggest part.
We draw and paint masterpieces, and write the
Histories of each generation.
Just to show that we’ve been here
Because in our lives we live in fear.
Paintings, pictures, movies and words
With all this knowledge we still don’t learn.
For we create our heavens, and we create our hells
Look around you and you can tell.
Wars, hunger, poverty and hate
We better stop before it’s too late.
We’re already destroying all that nature is giving
“is this what we call living? ”
(if you want to see the “work of art” of humanity
Then take a white canvas and paint
“A large black dot”.
For that is humanity destroying the clean beauty
That the lord has given us.)
This canvas a work of art? Who is to say?
Can you express this life in a better way!
“Work of art” it is anything and everything that
Man puts in their minds, and it becomes
A part of the times.
For “perception becomes your reality”
And this is the work of art that I see.
poem by Louis Rams
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You Only Paint The Picture Once
(Teddy Gentry/Randy Owen/Ronnie Rogers/Greg Fowler)
Look at those evening shadows
Casting a peaceful light
The sun is disappearing
It's a beautiful sight
Moments caught forever
By the master's touch
A lasting reminder
To us
You only paint the picture once
(And) you only get one chance
Take the time to do your best
While the brush is in your hand
Make sure it's just right
Before the colors dry
You can't change it once it's done
You only paint the picture once
Love is the canvas
That's where it all starts
A lifetime together
Becomes a work of art
Just look what's been created
Between your heart and mine
Oh I believe that we're one of a kind
You only paint the picture once
(And) you only get one chance
Take the time to do your best
While the brush is in your hand
Make sure it's just right
Before the colors dry
You can't change it once it's done
You only paint the picture once
It's a portrait of life
You can't live it twice
You only paint the picture once
song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The work moves on a subconscious level into your life. It's not a process you notice, but I'm often informed by the world around me that I start behaving differently - whether the character is demanding, needy, evil, or maniacal. It's not by choice, it's a subtle envelopment.
quote by Callum Keith Rennie
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Poem For Caravaggio - Contemplating 'The Conversion of St. Paul' At 4 a.m.
to George Elder
In the shorter light, the extended
night of cold and star-bright questions,
may you cast clumsy net forward into
what it all might mean to fretted you,
to me, stretched canvas, though I will
not thrust these words upon your paint
or palette but make offering for your
own work to feed us through the eyes;
perhaps time to remount the horse
and soldier on, or to fall again, gain
Damascus perspective, from one's
back watch vision distort massive
horse into a God receding into necessary
darkness foregoing image,
see what may form in the spreading dirt,
what resurrection there is in the smell of paint.
poem by Warren Falcon
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Mother's Talk
My features form with a change in the weather
Weekend
We can work it out
My features form with a change in the weather
Weekend
We can work it out
When the wind blows
When the mothers talk
When the wind blows
When the wind blows
When the mothers talk
When the wind blows
We can work it out
It's not that you're not good enough
It's just that we can make you better
Given that you pay the price
We can keep you young and tender
Following in the footsteps of a funeral pyre
You were paid not listen now your house is on fire
Wake me up when things get started
When everything starts to happen
My features form with a change in the weather
Some of us horrified
Others never talk about it
But when the weather starts to burn
Then you'll know that you're in trouble
Following in the footsteps of a soldier girl
It is time to put your clothes on and to face the world
Don't you feel your luck is changing
When everything starts to happen
Put your head right next to my heart
The beat of the drum is the fear of the dark
My features form with a change in the weather
song performed by by Tears For Fears from Songs From The Big Chair
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Our Father
We all can paint on a canvas,
Whether it be great or small.
What we do is a masterpiece,
To our Father who loves it all.
If we believe our work is not good,
Then our mind is going to the Fall.
But we can be changed,
Through our Father who loves us all.
That change cannot be done alone,
For help, to our Father we must all.
Trying to explain the truth is hard,
But not to our Father who knows it all.
We are all part of His canvas,
We may not see it, but we are very tall.
We are the greatest buried treasure
For our Father who gets us all.
poem by Stephanie Varnadore
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In The Gallery
Harry made a bareback rider proud and free upon a horse
And a fine coalminer for the ncb that was
A fallen angel and jesus on the cross
A skating ballerina you should have seen her do the skaters waltz
Some people have got to paint and draw
Harry had to work iin clay and stone
Like the waves coming to the shore
It was in his blood and in his bones
Ignored by all the trendy boys in london and in leeds
He might as well have been making toys or strings of beads
He could not be in the gallery
And then you get an artist says he doesnt want to paint at all
He takes an empty canvas and sticks it on the wall
The birds of a feather all the phonies and all of the fakes
While the dealers they get together
And they decide who gets the breaks
And whos going to be in the gallery
No lies he wouldnt compromise
No junk no bits of string
And all the lies we subsidise
That just dont mean a thing
Ive got to say he passed away in obscurity
And now all the vultures are coming down from the tree
So hes going to be in the gallery
song performed by by Dire Straits
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mothers Talk
My features form with a change in the weather
Weekend
We can work it out
My features form with a change in the weather
Weekend
We can work it out
When the wind blows
When the mothers talk
When the wind blows
When the wind blows
When the mothers talk
When the wind blows
We can work it out
Its not that youre not good enough
Its just that we can make you better
Given that you pay the price
We can keep you young and tender
Following in the footsteps of a funeral pyre
You were paid not listen now your house is on fire
Wake me up when things get started
When everything starts to happen
My features form with a change in the weather
Some of us horrified
Others never talk about it
But when the weather starts to burn
Then youll know that youre in trouble
Following in the footsteps of a soldier girl
It is time to put your clothes on and to face the world
Dont you feel your luck is changing
When everything starts to happen
Put your head right next to my heart
The beat of the drum is the fear of the dark
My features form with a change in the weather
song performed by by Tears For Fears
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Work of Art So Great
I’m going to prepare for a work of art so great,
exceeding all I’ve ever tried to create.
Way beyond that of the usual and what is real,
surpassing the contemporary, and surreal.
I’m going to paint my mother before she was born
and my deceased father in his next new dawn.
I’m going to show my enthusiasm and love for life,
and also my idiosyncrasies, which I do dislike.
The paint will flow with my love, which is so strong
and my devotion, which is eternally long.
My determination of which there is none stronger
will follow my fortitude, which will last even longer.
I’m going to paint my energy, the mighty force within,
and then my endurance, I will never give in.
The swirls of paint will portray the thin air that I breathe,
and the phenomena I find so hard to believe.
Perspective will show a vision of width, length and depth,
and a larger, greater vision of life after death.
I’m going to paint all the lost souls in the spirit world
and how life began and how it unfurls.
The peoples’ struggles, their problems and strife,
and then heaven, a new beginning a better life.
I’ll show an invisible cloud for everyone to see,
the depths of the oceans and the saltiest sea.
The colourful gases on the far side of the Milky Way,
the depths of hell, on a lost souls’day.
I’m going to paint the beating of my anxious heart
and the passing of wind with a smelly fart.
The complicated process of an invisible thought,
and the split second a dream is caught.
A happy and sad teardropp before it has formed
and a cold, cold heart before it’s warmed.
The buzzing, thrilling sensation of that first ever kiss,
and the last one, which I would much rather miss.
The sizzling red hot burning passion that I have for you
and with it the love, and desire to be endlessly true.
And I’ll finish with what my soul has to offer you
and display it in sensations, and emotions too.
Several lifetimes this picture would take to paint,
It would be the greatest work anyone could undertake.
I will have to think how large this canvas should be
so that it can show everything that I see.
Perhaps I should begin it on a grain of sand
by using a microscope and a steady hand.
When each grain is finished I could place it in a glass jar
so that people can see my progress so far.
But if for some reason I cannot see this masterpiece through
the critics will say that I bit off more than I could ever chew.
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Life is a painting! !
Coloured hues make up our life,
A role modelling brush shapes up our life,
Pure water mix our sorrows with joys,
A canvas's always there to put on your life,
A stand will always place you high in life,
A person is always beside to guide you in life,
And at last the whole world exists to look at your life....
You first paint your life on a piece of white,
you strive hard to shape your life,
but remember you always enjoy the strife you put in your life,
you first succeed when you sketch your life,
you then succeed when you paint it right,
you last succeed when you frame it bright....
Remenber a small jurk may spoil your thing,
bit of misguidance or excess of showing,
may not seem big when you ae doing,
but finally while looking,
that makes all the spoiling....
Just it is, your mistakes are not big,
when you do it,
but when life gets tougher,
mistakes look as blunders.
so strive as hard as you painted as much in life to succeed...
Good Luck! ! Go paint your life..
poem by Koushik Poolla
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Creative Perceptions
Artist appropriate palette prepares
as poet intuitive channels and shares -
perceptions highlighted in paint or in rhyme,
on screen, paper, canvas, [b]rushed, touched outside Time.
Each reaches out writing, foresighting, prepares
stalls [f]rigid for music of spirit sublime.
But few can interpret the talent they praise
in the style of an artist in true paraphrase.
(24 September 2005 robi03_1306)
Bridgework
Artists palette, paints, prepare,
poets channel insight rare.
One canvas fills, one paper inks,
imagination interlinks.
Each respective stream compares
perceptions, self-respecting, thinks
perspectives sensitively, shares
intuitive fruition, links
symphonic patterns, well aware
individuals everywhere
sense beauty way beyond time's brink -
horizons widen, never shrink.
Images accompany
free originality.
(7 May 2008 variant of As Artist, Poet robi03_1396_robi03_0986 16 February 2002 robi03_0986 and also variant of Creative Perceptions
24 September 2005 robi03_1306_robi03_0986)
As Artist, Poet
As artists palette, paints, prepare
so poets channel insight rare.
One canvas fills, one paper inks,
the foremost and the least of links.
Both tune respective streams, compare
perspective, sensitively share
where, true to self there neither sinks
as each through intuitions thinks
the way to harmony, aware
that perfect strangers anywhere
may beauty sense beyond time's brink -
horizons widen, never shrink.
Both pictures form, accompany
creative thrust with spirit free.
(16 February 2002 robi03_0986)
for previous version see below
As Artist, Poet
As artists palette, paints, prepare
so poets insight channel, air: -
one canvas fills, one paper inks,
the foremost and the least of links.
Both tune respective streams with rare
sensitive perspective, care.
When true to self then neither sinks
as each through intuitions thinks
the way to harmony, to share
with perfect strangers anywhere
how beauty may beyond the brink
horizons widen, never shrink.
Both pictures form, accompany
creative thrust with spirit free...
(16 February 2002)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Man Is Foolish
The human mind works on three tiers
With upper, middle and lower levels
As the conscious mind, the subconscious
And the unconscious respectively.
While the conscious mind is voluntary,
The subconscious and the unconscious
Are autonomous and automatic.
The conscious mind is to one's awareness.
The subconscious colours the conscious mind
And the unconscious is independent.
Sexual overtone in the subconscious
Will impact the external behaviors.
The subconscious is the reservoir of
Lust, jealousy, fear, hatred and revenge.
Bitten by a dog, one is struck with fear,
Which lurks deep inside to fear any dog.
The subconscious and the unconscious
Are responsible for all the actions
Done impulsively or instinctively.
One is helpless to be not foolish.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sign-Board
I will paint you a sign, rumseller,
And hang it above your door;
A truer and better signboard
Than ever you had before.
I will paint with the skill of a master,
And many shall pause to see
This wonderful piece of painting,
So like the reality.
I will paint yourself, rumseller,
As you wait for that fair young boy,
Just in the morning of manhood,
A mother's pride and joy.
He has no thought of stopping,
But you greet him with a smile,
And you seem so blithe and friendly,
That he pauses to chat awhile.
I will paint you again, rumseller,
I will paint you as you stand,
With a foaming glass of liquor
Extended in your hand.
He wavers, but you urge him-
Drink, pledge me just this one!
And he takes the glass and drains it,
And the hellish work is done.
And next I will paint a drunkard-
Only a year has flown,
But into that loathsome creature
The fair young boy has grown.
The work was sure and rapid.
I will paint him as he lies
In a torpid, drunken slumber,
Under the wintry skies.
I will paint the form of the mother
As she kneels at her darling's side,
Her beautiful boy that was dearer
Than all the world beside.
I will paint the shape of a coffin,
Labeled with one word-'lost,'
I will paint all this, rumseller,
And will paint it free of cost.
The sin and the shame and the sorrow,
The crime and the want and the woe
That are born there in your workshop,
No hand can paint, you know.
But I'll paint you a sign, rumseller,
And many shall pause to view
This wonderful swinging signboard,
So terribly, fearfully true.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Signboard
I will paint you a sign, rumseller,
And hang it above your door;
A truer and better signboard
Than ever you had before.
I will paint with the skill of a master,
And many shall pause to see
This wonderful piece of painting,
So like the reality.
I will paint yourself, rumseller,
As you wait for that fair young boy,
Just in the morning of manhood,
A mother’s pride and joy.
He has no thought of stopping,
But you greet him with a smile
And you seem so blithe and friendly,
That he pauses a chat awhile.
I will paint you again, rumseller,
I will paint you as you stand,
With a foaming glass of liquor
Extended in your hand.
He wavers, but you urge him –
Drink, pledge me just this one!
And he takes the glass and drains it,
And the hellish work is done.
And next I will paint a drunkard –
Only a year has flown,
But into that loathesome creature
The fair young boy has grown.
The work was sure and rapid.
I will paint him as he lies
In a torpid, drunken slumber,
Under the wintry skies.
I will paint the form of the mother
As she kneels at her darling’s side,
Her beautiful boy that was dearer
Than all the world beside.
I will paint the shape of a coffin
Labelled with one word – ‘Lost’
I will paint all this, rumseller,
And will paint it free of cost.
The sin and the shame and the sorrow,
The crime and the want and the woe
That are born there in your workshop,
No hand can paint, you know
But I’ll paint you a sign, rumseller,
And many shall pause to view
This wonderful swinging signboard,
So terribly, fearfully true.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hello Candice, Are You Sure Of Yourself?
you speak of some bits, bits and bits
of bits buried underneath our hearts and
bones and you want them
to be unraveled bit by bit
that there is always a way, a manner
a process, some means
to an end, to find that light at the end of the tunnel
i am born on a complicated day.
And then i have grown hairs on my head
They too are complications
and my fingers do not have the same lengths
and shapes
That is also another complication
And my feet are not straight
And my face is not proportional
There are angles of deflection
There are lights in me which are refracted
And i may appear so far
And my hands may bend a little
It is because of the difference in our index
I am myself sometimes. I am not myself most of the times.
I ask you then: Are you sure of yourself?
Is that you? If yes, I am telling you
I am not me. I am somebody else.
If No, do not mind me at all.
I am having the tantrums of the poet
A dough with yeast. A grapefruit sour to your lips.
I am irony. I am another riddle.
I like to make myself readable. How many syllables do you
need? Tell me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Paint Me Down
Paint me down
Paint me down
Paint me down
Im walking into studio
Consider strange appeal
Paint me in the home
Im brushing up on sketchbook
Designs for love unreal
Paint me in the home
Oil and skin youll need to buy it
Consider what I mean
She sinks beneath thr moving pictures
Prepare the brush for me
Im craving with this need
Paint me down
Paint me down
Paint me down
Im soaking up the surface
Conceaiving new idea
Paint me in the home
Shes oiling up her subject
But all still life is here
Paint me in the home
All the boys with framed dimension
A cover up on lust
Hell take his pain and paint it over
Prepare the brush for me
Im craving with this need
Paint me down
Paint me down
Paint me down
song performed by by Spandau Ballet
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Deals are my art form. Other people paint beautifully on canvas or write wonderful poetry. I like making deals, preferably big deals. That's how I get my kicks.
quote by Edward Koch
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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~Painting Poetry~
Poetry in thought
words tumble
from my mind
onto the page and screen
like paint dripping
from sable silk brushes
creating new visions
of new realities
in the virtual space
of my Soul
painting a perfect picture
words drip down the canvas
in deep brilliant hues
of purples and reds
and vibrant blues
to soft indigo of
twinkling velvet starlight
yellow tones as warm as sunrize
and golden oranges
of fleeting sunsets
blanket the page and screen
as verse, lyric and rhyme converge
splattering from my tongue
giving form to my dreams
and shape to my fantasies
trailing across
the smooth texture
and terrain of
flesh and muscle
brushes whisper
across the canvas
dance across bodies
images of two entwined
captured boldly
in Nubian hues
of mahogany and mocha
limbs and torsos
move and connect
in a vision of words spoken
caught in the kinetic frenzy
of bodies joined
and poetry painted
across the canvas
of this night’s loving
a masterpiece to behold
for generations to come
culminating in the joining of
pen and brush
words and colors
page and canvas
poetry and paint
poem by Soulful One
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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