Key West 2004
Year was 2004
went to Key West,
not a bore like before.
I posed next to a gold man,
with cool planet painting in hand.
Then posed with a parrot,
while owner holds a carrot.
Went to strip club up the stairs,
all the soldiers where there who stared.
Went to restaurant wearing a pink hat
next to an artist at bar is where I sat.
Artist painted me in my pink hat,
really quick and really fast.
Took photos with him and my friend,
still have painting, needs no stand.
Then went to beach to get a tan,
It was warm I layed on sand.
Then I ate at pancake place,
It was fun, I ate and ate.
Have to go back at later date,
I hear Fantasy Fest is great.
(August 30, 2011)
poem by Christina Sunrise
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Key West 2004
Year was 2004
went to Key West,
not a bore like before.
I posed next to a gold man,
with cool planet painting in hand.
Then posed with a parrot,
while owner holds a carrot.
Went to strip club up the stairs,
all the soldiers where there who stared.
Went to restaurant wearing a pink hat
next to an artist at bar is where I sat.
Artist painted me in my pink hat,
really quick and really fast.
Took photos with him and my friend,
still have painting, needs no stand.
Then went to beach to get a tan,
It was warm I layed on sand.
Then I ate at pancake place,
It was fun, I ate and ate.
Have to go back at later date,
I hear Fantasy Fest is great.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on August 30,2011)
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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Photography Is Kin’s Thing
At the Lake Street Painting festival I did meet,
a photographer named Kin who is really sweet.
He shot photos of my princess on sidewalk not street.
being a rogue artist the sidewalk was the place,
that I decided to use my chalk to paint.
Paint a small square by the Hummingbird hotel,
Kin shot great photos of Sarah Star not Mel.
Since then Kin shot photos of my painting 3x5,
also castle scene painting this year with keen eye.
We went to wildlife Wakodahatchee Wetlands by Jog,
we photographed birds, alligators and frogs.
Kin visited me at the Royal Art & Music Fest,
photos he took turned out best above all the rest.
Kin says he’s my fan, and never charges a fee,
he supports all artists like cartoonist like me.
Thank you Kin
for being a great photographer and friend.
poem by Christina Sunrise
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How It was
That is how it was that is how
The painting got painted with
You in it and the artist telling
You how to sit and where and
How to have the hat positioned
On your head and at what angle
And don’t smile too much girl he
Said or look too dour and so you
Sat there in that antique chair with
Your hands held together on your
Knees and your legs crossed ladylike
And your feet on a small stool with
The shawl wrapped about you to
Keep out the cold you felt that day
You posed and looking back years later
You think what a hat to wear and what
A bored expression to have upon your
Face and you note he painted that small
Glass vase of flowers and that round
Mirror on the wall to capture the others
Who stood across the room posing in their
Childhood play only now you recall that
It all was fiction on the artist’s part there
Were no others there across the room
To play their games that cold spring day.
poem by Terry Collett
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Pink Pink
pink pink
Confirmed that it was armed
pink pink
Was right to be alarmed
pink pink
Ensured that nought was harmed
pnk pink
Steady hand and mind
pink pink
Micro-chip designed
pink pink
The password was declined
pink pink
Another course to take
pink pink
Caution not to shake
pink pink
Captivity a mistake
pink pink
Beads upon the brow
pink pink
Experience the how
pink pink
No chance to turn back now
pink pink
Be certain not to slip
pink pink
One last wire to snip
pink pink
Two hearts that skip a beat
penk penk
The sound that gives a lift
penk penk
Time to collect the gift
penk penk
The robbery will be swift
poem by Chris Dawson
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If I Were A Painting
If I were a painting
Captured on canvas
Alone in the portriat I would stand
And brush strokes bold
Yet soft as a whisper
The work of a feminine hand.
Caught in a still life
Surrounded by shadows
And lost in a background of blue
If I were a painting
My price would be pain
And the artist would have to be you.
I imagine the colors
Would all run together
If you ever allowed me to cry
So don't paint the tears
Just let me remember me
Without you in my eyes.
It's only the frame
That holds me together
Or else I would be falling apart
If I were a painting
I wouldn't feel
And you wouldnt be breaking my heart...
song performed by by Kenny Rogers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Posing
She ignores the oil painting, pretends to read,
she knows she's there, of course
flaunting herself, naked,
but the fat lady's posing days are over.
There were times, years ago
when she'd posed, secretly of course.
Oh yes, by herself in her boudoir, pouting,
hoping someone might walk in!
She'd pretend she was an artist's model
laying draped across her bed,
careful not to wobble
just in case somebody did.
Now of course she's far too big
she wouldn't even dream
but likes to show her stocking tops
when she's lounging, reading books.
As for her up on the wall,
she's a beauty, such a doll!
An oil painting of a queen,
above us all majestically.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Unpainted Painting
Unpainted Painting.
I found a painting on the dump by the road, heads of many colours
seeking shelter, under a colourful umbrella, against coming storm.
It is an original painting signed and dated 2052, who threw it away?
A black fly walks across the computer screen, when I shush it away
it only indolently moves and settles on the edge of the virtual page.
I look for a newspaper to swat it the devious fly reads my thought,
take lift and disappear Into the painting. Now I can read the name:
FEMA. I got, it the date, the work is not yet made by an artist not yet
born; I’m seeing into a future and if the sad faces are anything to go
by, it doesn’t look too promising. Before the darkness swirled into
the village I put the picture back on the dump, as it wasn’t painted
yet and not for me to see. The black fly was buzzing around my head
whispering words in a in a future language I shall never comprehend
In the morning dustmen came and took away the trash.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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There’s a big painting
There’s a big painting of a girl
with a light pink skin
that lies on a white skin cloak
in front of a dark pool,
where snow white water lilies drifts
and I can see into her soul.
I have felt like taking the fan
next to her
and to wave her cool
yet she looks fragile
and self-possessed and calm,
where she lies with her peach pink dress
looking at me
and I wonder for whom she is waiting
and why the door behind her
of which the steps goes into the pool
are always locked?
[Reference: Painting of a girl at a pool by Mandi. See the painting at my webpage: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1412_There_is_a_b ig_painting.htm]
poem by Gert Strydom
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A man with a pink umbrella
Pink day
Pink hedge
Pink porch
Pink balcony
Pink woman
Pink ghost on a pink road!
Pink door
Pink hello
Pink dream
Pink sparrow
Pink night
poem by Framarz Bagheri
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Pink Coat
The pink coat
She put on when it was cold
The pink coat
That was hung up when she was home
The pink coat
That kept her warm
The pink coat
That witnessed her first cut
The pink coat
She wore when she was crying
The pink coat
That knew her plans
The pink coat
That saw what happened
The pink coat
She had on when she walked in front of that truck
The pink coat
That witnessed it all
The pink coat
Had no one to keep warm, now
The pink coat
That wanted to tell everyone the truth about her
Just;
The pink coat
poem by Alyssa Ray
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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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A wold made of pink
It's just a new obsession
A color which makes me go insane
Pink is not any kind of fiction
Pink always helps me gain
Faith, confidence and everything I need
Trust, joy and a bit of laughter
This color helps me succeed
Pink is the color of my eyes
Only when I look at you
Pink makes me an angel in disguise
It's the color which brings joy to me and my crew
Pink is a color so mighty, so great
Pink is the color my face
Turns when I'm late
Pink is the color which nothing can replace
It's the color which I can't stop thinking of
Neither day nor night
Pink symbolizes my love
Pink is the color of the light
Which shines in my heart for you
It's the color of a wonderland
This color shouldn't be withdrew
It's the color of my imaginary sand
Pink is the color my cat wants to be
Pink is the color of the sun which shines
Pink is the color the world can see
Pink is the color which gives me signs
poem by Mia Peterson
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A vase of flowers
I saw a vase of purple-pink roses
lying on your dark brown buffet
and simply had to have it.
“Who painted this, ” I immediately enquired
loving the picture more with each look
that I took of it
as it’s not your thing
to paint still life’s with flowers.
“I painted it. It’s like painting pillow slips, ”
you replied and astonished
I looked at it again
and this was on board
and not in water colours
but done with oil paint.
The folds of the cups were edged
in ridges along their lines
using the techniques
of your abstract paintings
and one smaller unopened bud
laid next to the bowl
almost running into your name.
Little pink flowers was in the background
where the transparent vase with green stems
was against the wall on a tiled floor.
[Reference: Vase with roses by Mandi Engelbrecht. (This painting belongs to me.) ]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The First Artist and Author.
The first artist painted the sky with colors, such beauty,
Look at those sunsets, and the mountains, such reality;
The mountains, have shadows, of splendor that only the Master can do,
Yes! It's God who was the first Artist, and He also taught me too.
The first great artist painted the colors on the sea,
Blues, greens, aquas, Only one could do this you see;
And when there is a storm near, the sea goes so dark blue,
Yes! God is the first great artist, to paint it for me and you.
The first great Artist, loved to teach David to write poetry,
And also king Solomon, writing words of such beauty;
Oh such magnificent works, of color and in each word,
Yes! There is only one who could do this it is the Lord.
Then. We see in every rainbow, and in each shell as well,
Look at the colored sands, and in every bird, it does tell;
Then look at each animal, and also the petals of each flower too
Then as you look at these, , give Thanks for doing it for me and you.
poem by Margaret Haig
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Pink Pussycat
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Pink pussycat
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Pink pussycat
Where are you
Pink pussycat
Im looking for you
Pink pussycat
Meow meow meow
Pink pussycat
Where ya hiding puss
Pink pussycat
Im coming after you
Im gonna mix yer meow-meows
Pink pussycat
Got you in the car
Pink pussycat
Got you in the backseat
Pink pussycat
I wanna touch yer fur
Pink pussycat
Im gonna see you dance
Pink pussycat
Im gonna stand yer fur on end
Pink pussycat
Sleep inside you
Pink pussycat
Lick you clean
Pink pussycat
Gonna mess you up
Pink pussycat
Im a dog
Pink pussycat
Bow wow wow
Pink pussycat
Gonna chase you
Pink pussycat
Gonna catch you
Pink pussycat
Gonna bite you
Pink pussycat
Tear yer little ears off
Pink pussycat
Meow meow meow
Pink pussycat
Im so stroft
song performed by by Devo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Painter In You!
who has painted your picture in my thoughts,
without a brush, the paints and the pallet,
not even sketched using a pencil and a knife,
the picture is perfect with the colors mixed,
your smiling is great with a thin line at the edges,
your eyes are wide open, sprinkling the cheerful messages,
every time the happy visuals of you pop out in the mind,
I couldn't have drawn such a beautiful portrait,
of you in my heart, who has done this painting?
You are the one who posed and painted on your own,
you are a great painter who can paint your pictures,
on everyone's heart whom you know, love and respect.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Pink
A blush of pink:
She'd caught a roving eye -
He gave a wink.
Her smile had played a shy
And quaint florescence;
The siren of pubescence
Drew him in.
She bade him touch her hair,
Suggesting that he dare
To kiss her pulsing lips!
E'er the fool a man, he did:
The drips of blood began to cheer -
And so, another rid:
Tips of fangs are sharp, you know -
Dancing ivory feeds her soul -
See her claim a howl upon a chilling wind!
Slain, he lay across a crimson floor:
She grinned in her repletion.
A blush of pink;
Beneath a glowering sky
Her savoured drink
Was done.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
pink pink pink pink pink pink her blush
pink pink pink pink pink pink her blush
pink pink pink pink pink pink her blush
pink pink pink pink pink pink
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Pink
Pink handkerchief
'Pink' username
Pink bag
Pink eyeglasses
Pink earrings
A girl in all-pink walking
A girl in all-pink talking
A girl in all-pink eating
A girl in all-pink hurting
A girl in all-pink crying
But a girl in all-pink, dazzling
A boy in a pink t-shirt, bedazzled
by a girl in all-pink
A girl with a Pink Soul.
poem by Mary Jesusa Villegas
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401
this summer she wears her pink kimono
and she will walk under the pink blossoms of the pink sakura
she will carry a pink umbrella
and she will cross the pink bridge of kokoma
pink leaves on her feet
pink fingernails on her pink wooden shoes
in honor of her love
that never bloomed to complete red
she will sit on a pink bench
praying for pink clouds to drift
on the pink skies.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Without The Chase
August 31,2009
Pink to blue, to yellow,
to monstrous purple clouds looming on the horizon;
My horizon, layed out before me.
I step out, look up and it flies away.
You fly away. I jump for you
and I am leaping, bounding,
stretchng beyond my limits into pink and blue,
and pink and blue.
But you're gone.
I settle again, shrug, and look
to the monstrous purple clouds.
I could fly away without the chase,
theres just no desire for me to have it any other way.
I blink, and look up again to purple,
lavender, yellow, clouds of the deepest grey.
Dusk settles.
All of a sudden, I can hear everything.
Crickets, every far off chirp in trees.
I smile as I step back in.
Back into sheltered silence.
poem by Monica O'Connor
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