I use a retouching varnish which is made in France, Libert, and that's all the varnish I use.
quote by Edward Hopper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Culture is one thing, and varnish is another.
There is no nail varnish that can make old hands look younger.
Truth and Falsehood
Truth by her own simplicity is known,
Falsehood by varnish and vermilion.
poem by Robert Herrick
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Civilization is hideously fragile and there's not much between us and the horrors underneath, just about a coat of varnish.
quote by Carrie P. Snow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Moth: You are a gentleman and a gamester, sir.
Don Adriano de Armado: I confess both: they are both the varnish of a complete man.
line from Love's Labour's Lost, Act I, Scene 2, script by William Shakespeare (1598)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Vuph
Coat them with bee-wax, varnish and oil;
And i will be there to love you!
For the possibilities of your locally grown timber is part of my muse.
I am like the carpenter's toolbox and my name is Vuph,
And i have food and lodging for you on this love;
But you are here to fulfil your mission.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Richmond upon Thames
I read my poem
about the maroon fairy
to a goose with orange legs
maybe it was the clash of colours
or the aroma of a varnish- flavoured sorbet
that caused him to stand stock-still
in front of the boat-house milk-bar
who's Oberon?
king of the fairies
I like the bit about
a cowslip-bell of dew he said
and
with a backward glance
his head turned one hundred and eighty degrees
does he have orange legs?
poem by STEPHEN BRIAN Brady
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Our Health
What is coating is vastly improving our health,
The factors are manifold, so sudden and alert;
The finality of a leader is expertly considered,
Factors are like factorials in the making,
Once the stupid rumour is apparent.
The coating or varnish is expertly resounded,
In the way of courts and laws,
The judges matter for all those concerned.
Our health shall suffer when we entertain ourselves
In the ways of the knowledge of God.
poem by Naveed Akram
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There Are No Finishing Touches
in reality no matter what
the usual work is always undone
you want to finish it?
it finishes you instead
look at the pile of books
don't you see the fangs on
every page? the blood on
every chapter
each word the taker of the
little flesh left in your mind?
you try putting the finishing touches
like a varnish on the well sanded chair
you blow your breath
and stand at a distance to look at
what a finished product should look
shiny, yes too shiny
and then you miss the sun
because what you see is always the
mirage beyond
your feet still are no master
as paths move away
as distance stretches itself like
light to infinity
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Gold
I am hot or cold
depending on your breast
I can grow old
but I cannot tarnish.
Alone, I'm the best-
needless of bead and varnish
Bend me, I'll bend
Dilute me with other elements
I'll just get stronger
more pliant, even, maybe, longer.
I am heaven sent
my glint survives the dame
I'm buried with. Your bones may break
but never mine.
Changing, I stay the same;
Loaded with stones
I'll take them, make them
mine-see how they shine!
But I've a limit, too.
I can gather dust but never rust
for put me in your drawer:
let ten minutes, ten years pass-
as before I am
a simple, complex thing-
but never fear
I'll ring for you and be
forever, truly true.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Casualty
As with varnish red and glistening
Dripped his hair; his feet looked rigid;
Raised, he settled stiffly sideways:
You could see his hurts were spinal.
He had fallen from an engine,
And been dragged along the metals.
It was hopeless, and they knew it;
So they covered him, and left him.
As he lay, by fits half sentient,
Inarticulately moaning,
With his stockinged soles protruded
Stark and awkward from the blankets,
To his bed there came a woman,
Stood and looked and sighed a little,
And departed without speaking,
As himself a few hours after.
I was told it was his sweetheart.
They were on the eve of marriage.
She was quiet as a statue,
But her lip was grey and writhen.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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On The Death Of Mrs. Mary Neudham
As sinn makes gross the soule and thickens it
To fleshy dulness, so the spotless white
Of virgin pureness made thy flesh as cleere
As others soules: thou couldst not tarry heere
All soule in both parts: and what could it bee
The Resurrection could bestow on thee,
Allready glorious? thine Innocence
(Thy better shroude) sent thee as pure from hence
As saints shall rise: but hee whose bounty may
Enlighten the greate sunn with double day,
And make it more outshine itselfe than now
It can the moone, shall crowne thy varnish'd brow
With light above that sunn: when thou shalt bee
No lower in thy place than Majesty:
Crown'd with a Virgin's wreath, outshining there
The Saints as much as thou did'st mortalls heere.
Bee this thy hope; and whilst thy ashes ly
Asleepe in death, dreame of Eternity.
poem by William Strode
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A Skeletal Man In A Big Town!
He smells Varnish!
Because he works as a wood-polisher
To a Funeral Caretaker.
He nicely polishes
The Coffins
With his stained hands.
He's the owner's pet
The old underdog not paid well.
There he takes
Three meals free and he sleeps
In an old coffin at the Embalm room.
Shrewd Boss loves him very much!
And given him a promise
That he offers the very best Casket
For his going away!
Poor Man in a late evening
Mutters after gulping an illicit liquor in the town.
'I polish their coffins and see my wrinkled face.
As per the Boss's promise the expensive coffin
I never see while I am going
And if he shows when I am alive
I could have polished it well than others?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Rainbow drizzle
I seldom see
those like you or me
that is why
we're meant to be
Playing our banjos
on the roof
Putting nail varnish
on a horses hoof
Rainbow drizzle
Red green and blue
I like me
I like you
Let's always stay young
having fun
we'll fly away
we'll touch the sun
When the snow falls
We'll make snowmen
Take the day off work
We'll stay out till ten
Rainbow drizzle
Red green and blue
I like me
I like you
Let's do cartwheels
In the rain
I'll pick some daisies
I'll make you a chain
Hold my hands and we'll spin
around and around
We'll get so dizzy
Fall to the ground
Rainbow drizzle
Red green and blue
I like me
I like you
poem by Frances May
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In a Spring Grove
Here the white-ray'd anemone is born,
Wood-sorrel, and the varnish'd buttercup;
And primrose in its purfled green swathed up,
Pallid and sweet round every budding thorn,
Gray ash, and beech with rusty leaves outworn.
Here, too the darting linnet hath her nest
In the blue-lustred holly, never shorn,
Whose partner cheers her little brooding breast,
Piping from some near bough. O simple song!
O cistern deep of that harmonious rillet,
And these fair juicy stems that climb and throng
The vernal world, and unexhausted seas
Of flowing life, and soul that asks to fill it,
Each and all of these,--and more, and more than these!
poem by William Allingham
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The summer song
Miss summer please smile
Mr summer please smile
It won't harm you just to smile
Other wise it will varnish like a water bubble - giving colourful white bubble
Please smile Miss summer
Please smile Mr. summer
Please smile Miss summer
Please smile Mr summer
Oh smile
Ha Ha Ha HAHA - Please smile Miss summer
Please smile Mr summer
poem by Mthokozisi Ntokozo Maphumulo
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My passport photo is one of the most remarkable photographs I have ever seen --- no retouching, no shadows, no flattery --- just stark me.
quote by Anne Morrow Lindbergh
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Ventriloquist
An angry roar from the cheaper seats
Had followed them both outside,
Out of the rear, by the actor’s door
They looked for a place to hide,
Lord Jimmy’s coat had seen better days,
His shoes were muddy and dull,
And Bodger’s hat was crushed and dismayed
As he held it close to his skull!
‘Look what you’ve brought us to, sir, ’ he said,
Flapping his wooden jaw,
‘Out in the cold on a Saturday night;
It never does rain, but it pours! ’
Jimmy had tucked him right under his arm
And kept to the brickworks wall,
The shadows were long on the Old Kent Road
As the rain had begun to fall!
‘Oh Great! ’ the Bodger had spat in the dark,
As he scraped his head on a brick,
Taking a layer of varnish off,
And making him feel quite sick!
‘It’s cold and wet, and my head will swell
If the rain gets into my wood…’
‘If you don’t shut up, I’ll brain you first!
Let that be understood! ’
So off they marched, on into the night
To look for a place to sleep,
A laundry, stables, a bed of straw,
A station, hotel, or keep.
The rain set in as a drizzle out there
And soaked to the skin and bone,
Soaked through their coats to the varnish and wood
If the truth of the case be known.
‘I told you that ‘Bodger’s’ a lousy name,
You know you can’t mention a ‘B’,
The audience knew you were moving your lips,
Every ‘b’, every ‘v’, every ‘p’.’
‘You think you’re so smart, ’ Lord Jimmy replied,
‘I’m sick of you flapping your jaw,
If you can do better…’ - he stopped and he sighed,
His gaze cast down to the floor.
They walked and they walked through Bermondsey
Where the might of the Thames still flows,
While Bodger had wriggled his eyebrows once,
And sniffed through his dripping red nose.
‘I hope that you’re planning to dry me out,
My clothes are starting to shrink! ’
‘I’ll turn you into a scarecrow, then;
They’ll be laughing at that, I think! ’
The Dummy had flung him about at that,
And clocked Jimmy under the jaw,
Who fell in a heap like a worthless rat,
While Bodger stood tall, and swore,
He kicked and he rolled him over the bank
And into the swirling Thames,
The universe spun at the horror he’d done,
They’d always been known as ‘friends’.
Lord Jimmy just floated out under a bridge,
His face to the evening sky,
A look of surprise on the lids of his eyes
As his overcoat drifted by,
His body of walnut, his fingers of pine
And his head, finely chiselled in teak,
While Bodger awoke in the skin of a bloke,
Broke his heart for the rest of the week!
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Pictures At An Exhibition
the picture of the past
the touch of a thought
the perfume of a present
the sound of a symphony
everything
could be
unexpectedly
the mystification
of a latent memory
onward
when the moment reveals
it's time
intuitive
you'll sense
you'll see
what's to be divulged
this moment only
for those being privileged
and present
time
with its unique varnish
fades
strong colors
loud noises
intense images
into pictures of an exhibition
exclusively behind closed doors
only for the happy few
wealthy enough
facing unique perspectives
in expanded revolutionary views
gained ground
exploding in color
and sound
exposing a new world
leaving a stairway
following a sign
choosing that direction
feeling so immensely meaningful
just fine
poem by Ellie Daphne van Stralen
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You wore this crown of thorns
Form of this night, approaches in narrow aisles
My impiety upon your valor, my tuning falsity
of a brass bugle, a sound coarse, for miles
A foolishness! I welcome my solitude's asperity.
Do I have some time? Maybe of this, or of another
bright celebration, of a four dimensional space
a costume any customer of odds will wear in order,
my insight on any defined routes to only trace.
Do I have some varnish? To use upon my buttons
of nautilus blue jacket as to exit, a visitor of bars
or soul betrayal; A parallelism to faded blossoms
my old friends wear, an emblem of internal scars.
Can I forget my crimson? My wound, my odd incision
of my swaying abolished soul, a thorn maybe to blunt
as if my quill instates an idol on foolish mission?
As if you wore this crown of thorns, of my stand?
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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