I also paint and enjoy acrylic medium; some of my close friends have paintings I did for them.
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I Will Not Paint Those Paintings
I used to see paintings in my mind's eyes
I used to dream scenes amazing paintings
I used to dream paintings in sleep sight
paintings in details I had never seen before
paintings which stopped heart in sight shock
I knew canvases were awkward hard to carry
to travel with poems is only paper and pen
paint your paintings inspiring I write poems
I will not soul carry paint those paintings
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Medium
Medium, medium.
Waking up I smell the scent of coffee on the brew,
And I think about the amount of the sweet,
Id like to have in my cup today.
One for the two lump, three lump, four.
No half of one, no less no more.
Just give me a chance, let me make it mine.
Id like a medium blend of that piece of pie.
Not too bitter, not too sweet... medium.
Just enough to ? ? ? ... medium.
Not too bitter, not too sweet... medium.
Just enough to ? ? ? ... medium.
Dinner time just rolls around,
And I think I crave a steak but,
Im not too partial to the meat,
When its cooked too long and Im made to wait.
Not too much of the parsony,
And just enough of the spice.
I think Id enjoy a medium-rare dish with a side of fries.
Not too tender, not too tough... medium.
Not too little, just enough... medium.
Not too tender, not too tough... medium.
Not too little, just enough... medium.
Medium. medium. medium. medium. just a medium. medium.
? ? ? and I smell the pits but ? ? ? ? ? .
I couldve sworn a ? ? ? last week and scrubbed like ? ? ? .
I like to stink just a little bit,
Just to keep you on your toes yes.
The more I stink the more I think,
That you smell like a rose.
Not too pleasant, not too bad... medium.
Just enough to hold my ? ? ? ... medium.
Not too pleasant, not too bad... medium.
Just enough to hold my ? ? ? ... medium.
Medium. medium. medium. medium. medium. medium.
song performed by by Incubus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Thigh Ignition
Ms Grimslee?
Have you had too much to drink?
When I said I enjoy the fresh approach,
You use to deliver realism to your artwork.
I meant that.
Did you misunderstand me?
I said, 'I enjoy sniffing your paintings! '
Not your 'panties'.
Is this the private viewing you wanted to show me?
Would you put them back on.
Let's join the others where your paintings are on exhibit!
~Forgive me!
Will you please keep this between us!
This is most embarrassing.~
I am still interested in purchasing, 'Thigh Ignition'
What scent is that did you use?
It reminds me of tuna!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Painter Named William
WILLIAM THE PAINTER
With a great smile that always shines,
he is a great painter, he paints art real fine.
William makes paintings with acrylic, oils and pastels,
he is a realistic painter, muralist and cartoonist as well.
I went to William’s art event,
it was at a church is where I went.
He did a mural on their wall,
it was huge, it wasn’t small.
William has a great eye for shape and form,
he is an original artist, not in the norm.
Now I just saw William today,
he was happy to see me and we talked away.
I will do a mural with him in Lake Worth soon,
we will paint a wall with some cartoons.
Looking forward William to see more of your art,
your art is unique, it sets you apart.
poem by Christina Sunrise
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A Moments Harmonic Creativity
hope to write
beautiful
meaningful
poems painted
into vibrant
neurons emotive
mysteries life
we vision friends
shall remain friends
when we need images
of creative art
to lift low ebb soul
we shall walk
through landscapes
of living paintings
enjoying familiar
to surprising scenes
which artistically
please sensory minds
delight
imaginative
symmetry
appreciation
in creation soul
paint not merely
for a moment
of harmonic
creativity
paint for all hearts
souls rise uplifted
in arms breath art
Dedicated to the painter poet Hosney Soliman.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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It is something to be able to paint a particular picture, or to carve a statue, and so to make a few objects beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look, which morally we can do. To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of arts.
Henry David Thoreau in Where I Live
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Invite
Come and paint for your friends
Show your passion for the colors
The vibrancy of colors for everyone to see
The Orange and blue combination, maybe.
You will be enthralled by a master wizard
Irrespective of heavy rain or a blizzard
You can learn a trick or two!
And maybe show a few of them too.
It is the anniversary week at our office
Where you will be entertained with a new code
Joy, fun and laughter for each and everyone
And you can get a lot of work done
You have an opportunity to paint a wall
Your paintings shall be standing tall
For all the staff and customers for ever
The vibrancy retained will be our endeavour.
Lots of work to be done
Lots of prizes to be won
Don’t forget to remind your mother\father
Or the prizes will go to some other.
poem by Hariharans Sundaram
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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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The amount of sophistication varies according to the quality of the medium, and to the state of the same medium at different times; it must be attributed in the best cases physiologically to the medium, intellectually to the control.
quote by Oliver Joseph Lodge
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If I could have a lodge at the sea somewhere
If I could have a lodge
at the sea somewhere
preferably at the south coast,
could lie in the sun
would you come along
and drive into my dreams
and paint the walls like a castle
where only you and I can stay?
We would make fruit salad
from our own bananas,
mangoes and papaws
and would fish every day,
fry barracouta on the coals
and there we might
fall madly in love
and you would paint and hang up paintings
while I try to catch a few words
on paper.
If I could have a lodge
at the sea somewhere
would you come along
come on... what do you say?
poem by Gert Strydom
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When is a Painting Finished?
I paint.
On my easel
pictures in oil and acrylic grow
like stalagmites in limestone caves.
I think that painting is a magical act
that transforms invisible thoughts
and feelings into visible colors
and forms.
But I never can tell
when is the work finished.
After all it is always possible
to change a line, a hue, or a color
or even the whole composition.
Painters have different opinions
about this.
Some say that when the artist
successfully planted
all the details onto the canvas
the image expresses itself
as a severed autonomous entity,
which frees the painter from
the task of continuing to paint.
From then on the painting gains
an independent inner life of its own.
However, abandoning a work of art
involves a moral decision
ripened by the stiffening tension
between skill, creativity and integrity.
At what point does the polished image
meet the artist’s expectations?
And then, even if it does,
no single image can express
all that an artist wants to show,
and consequently his muses
compel him to carry on with his work
and create more paintings.
Hence the oeuvre of the artist
evolves as a set of different images
of the same single thrust and grind.
Many years ago I was wandering
through the countryside
of southern France in Provence.
Once I stopped to look at the road
where the village met the meadow.
A sturdy artist stood there
in front of his easel
painting the landscape
with skilful brushstrokes
on a well-stretched canvas.
I stared for a while
at the burgeoning picture
and then asked him:
“How do you know
when is the composition complete? ”
He gave me a piercing glance.
“Well”, he said,
“if you take a hammer
and hit me on the head
I know that the painting is finished.”
poem by Paul Hartal
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I don't very much enjoy looking at paintings in general. I know too much about them. I take them apart.
quote by Georgia O'Keeffe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cartooning at its best is a fine art. I'm a cartoonist who works in the medium of animation, which also allows me to paint my cartoons.
quote by Ralph Bakshi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Paint my eyes in flowers
paint my hands in dragons
paint my back in windings
paint my arms in lightening
paint my neck in anks
my forehead intricate lines
paint my shoulder butterflies
paint my heart in henna
in henna of red in henna of black
body paint my heart
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Next In Line, Please
You see,
I think you and I are not communica...
'Will that be light, medium or dark roast? '
...ting!
You see,
I am not like the others.
And I am see...
'Would you like light, medium or dark roast? '
...king something not so tart.
Less bitter with a more swee...
'Light! Medium or...
Dark roast.
That's it!
No if's ands or others.'
...tened taste. I don't like your attitude one bit.
I demand to see your supervisor.
Immediately.
'No problem.
Would you like 'your' truth...
Dark, light or medium? '
You did absolutely nothing but change hats.
'And guess what?
You either take that truth light, medium OR dark.
And...
Where is your authorization to stand in this line? '
I need no 'authorization'.
My name is...
'Next in line, please.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Solitude I &II
Joined in blood and ancestry to the
absurdity of your impetuous absence
are the cryptic crisscrossing lines
or the eddies of your detached dandelion
your way of seeing conceiving solitude
but that was 2002 and you bore me in 2007
so its not me it’s the other guy
we never talked about
adding to the ravages of your wasteland
this reptile! gnawing at your innards
at right angles -you know I hate maths! !
but then I remember something
that you never told me
its about that absence
the mauves, the grays and blues
all of me and none of you
* A narration of paintings by my Muskroot in acrylic and collage on luan panel presently hung somewhere in the solitude of University of Connecticut, USA. Poem is incomplete without the painting! !
poem by Frank Lisa IndiRa Francesca Roger Platt Cornish Ma
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0021 Under the bridge of time
Oui, c'est beaux, le jardin... at this time of year;
mais... for myself,
a little too overgrown – but Monsieur
prefers it that way… you see him down there
by the lily pond, the nymphées?
He’s nearly blind now, yet he’s out all day
and nearly every day. He draws life from the garden,
je crois; and though there are some who laugh
and say, his paintings are now
mere daubs, when I see them
and then go out into the garden,
there’s a truth there, beyond what we see…
what passes, what floats serene and unaffected...
what floats on time itself...
You may find this fanciful, but I’ve watched Monsieur
over the years: first he had the garden made,
when he could afford it, and the bridge and then the pool
that slows the river… then he painted the lilies which we planted,
floating on the water, all the colours
of sunshine as you see it through a prism…then he painted
the sunlight on the water… then
he seemed to paint the flow of the water
as it passed… and then he seemed to be painting
time itself, passing under the bridge
where we’re standing here, as if
outside time… and now,
qu’est-ce qu’on dit? I think
he’s painting the philosophy of time –
Monsieur Bergson le philosophe
agrees with me – in paint; perhaps
one might say, painting
the future of painting…
yet, the flow of time and death came first, they say:
Monsieur began to paint his water-lilies
after he had seen the photos of the solemn river
of corpses in the trenches
in that terrible war; even, it's said,
the same colours of the unburied dead who putrify
are the same colours that he sees
in the water-lilies...c'est étrange, n'est-ce-pas?
a sort of redemption in the painter's palette...
this, I feel, gives these pretty paintings
the vision that drives Monsieur
to find beauty in its opposite...
but it’s cooling now; Monsieur
likes to enjoy that glowing light of early evening,
the precious departing of the light…
the light of life itself...
I’ll fetch his rug…these artists seem to
lose themselves in what they see…
they don’t seem to notice passing time,
it’s as if they think they live where time is space;
or perhaps, time’s so precious for Monsieur
that he paints it running out…
but I mustn’t keep you, M’sieur Proust –
it was so kind of you to find the time
to visit, and you too, M’sieur Debussy –
it has been quite a day to remember, n’est-ce pas? …
and now for Monsieur’s rug…
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Friendship: The Warm Blanket of Happiness
Friends are the chocolate chip
in every warm chocolate chip cookie
who sweetness is as sweet
as shamrock shakes and love
is as hard as rocks themselves
for with every friendship
comes love and hate and warmth
for close friends of ours
who make us laugh and smile
and enjoy ourselves
even when life rains down
drops of blue which makes us cry and rejoice
at every weak moments in our lives
but knowing there is a warm blanket
of happiness in your friends in knowing
that friends are like family and friends
are forever which makes life
all the much sweeter in saying these four words
I love my friends!
poem by Brett Strotman
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I believe that the great painters with their intellect as master have attempted to force this unwilling medium of paint and canvas into a record of their emotions.
quote by Edward Hopper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I enjoy all aspects of it, I don't have a preference for any medium. I think each of them has its attractions and I would hope they each inform the other in some way.
quote by Cillian Murphy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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