Smooth textured portrait
Impressionistic landscape
Diffuse radiance
Polished glass distillation
Optical disillusion
tanka by Diane Hine
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Optical Contusion
“I wanna divorce, get out you S.O.B.
Or I’ll give to you an optical contusion
Take the cat, the house you leave to me
You’re sordid affair was no optical illusion! ”
poem by Ray Lucero
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Disillusion
Changing, moving, in a circle
I can see your face in all of my dreams
Smiling, laughing, from the shadows
When I hear your voice I know what it means
I know it doesnt matter just how hard I try
Youre all the reason for my life
Disillusion, disillusions all you left for me
How can I forget you when my world is breaking down
Youre all I had, youre all I want
Disillusion, disillusions now, thats all I have
Wishing, hoping, chasing shadows
Did I see your face somewhere in the crowd
Thinking, wondering, what youre doing
I can stop myself from crying out loud
They say my wound will heal and only leave a scar
But then, theyd never shared our love
Disillusion, disillusions all you left for me
How can I forget you when my world is breaking down
Youre all I had, youre all I want
Disillusion, disillusions now, thats all I have
Disillusion, disillusions now, thats all I have
song performed by by ABBA
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Portrait of a heart
Portrait of a heart
~
A portrait piece by piece
built through the heart
presents a romantic world
memories tell a moving tale
the full beauty of a loving heart
where the artist knows no end
and feels the strain of pride
still the picture takes its shape
to present a landscape of a life
touched by the words of love
scarred by the losses felt
the heart speaks and draws
from the uncharted depths
there in the eye of its picture
a romance reveals
a portrait of a world
built through the heart
poem by Matthew Holloway
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A Picture Of Me
i can easily draw
myself
if i have a pencil and a paper
i could have easily given you a picture of me,
i have the eyes of a Chinese immigrant
my eyelids thicker than the bush that
you always trim along the fence
my lips are thin like the petals
of a rose
some men mistake them
for that of a woman's
but that will be so much of a misleading
fact like the direction of the road
that they changed days ago
some visitors have gone astray.
i am still in the middle of this journey
so my cheeks are smooth with only a few
scratches like the one that you see
when the cat scratches the wall
of the kitchen when it gets hungry
and shouts and yet you do not really mind at all.
my face is black and white
nothing gray
there is no color like a landscape of
fields and pathways.
you have seen me once but you never recognize
me because you relied more on the picture i had
on the poems that you read.
i like to see myself
less the distortions of the modern abstract art.
But i am more of the Gothic
Grecian-roman eclectic type.
You see you want to put me as a portrait in the canvass
like what everyone wants.
Look, look carefully, finally this is the portrait of me.
A river.You dip your finger in my eyes.
It is cold and it is passing like the ordinary wind
one boring day.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Following the Recipe of Ancient Syrio-Greek Magicians
Said an aesthete: "What distillation from magic herbs
can I find—what distillation, following the recipe
of ancient Greco-Syrian magicians—
that will bring back to me for one day (if its power
doesn't last longer) or even for a few hours,
my twenty-third year,
bring back to me my friend of twenty-two,
his beauty, his love.
What distillation, following the recipe
of ancient Greco-Syrian magicians, can be found
to bring back also—as part of this return of things past—
even the little room we shared."
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Alliteration Anonymous
Optical illusions
Distortions and diffusions
Detrimental depression
Ominous oppression
Severe suppression
Impervious impression
Chaotic compression
Retributive repression
Overbearing obsession
Sickly succession
Optical orifices
poem by Lauren Joy
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The landscape is like being there with a powerful personality and I'm searching for just the right angles to make that portrait come across as meaningfully as possible.
quote by Galen Rowell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Time
I saw Time in his workshop carving faces;
Scattered around his tools lay, blunting griefs,
Sharp cares that cut out deeply in reliefs
Of light and shade; sorrows that smooth the traces
Of what were smiles. Nor yet without fresh graces
His handiwork, for ofttimes rough were ground
And polished, oft the pinched made smooth and round;
The calm look, too, the impetuous fire replaces.
Long time I stood and watched; with hideous grin
He took each heedless face between his knees,
And graved and scarred and bleached with boiling tears.
I wondering turned to go, when, lo! my skin
Feels crumpled, and in glass my own face sees
Itself all changed, scarred, careworn, white with years.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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My hands are tied
my hands are tied
i paint with fingers
safely stored in
my heart chambers
and an ever ready canvas
at the back of my mind
to dribble you down
into surreal, realist,
impressionistic and
modernist lines
there are so many
parts of you that inspire
your soft lips are
a tube of pastel pink
it dissolves and
runs through my body
an engaging spasmodic
touch and shade
your eyes are apples
gleaming dew on grass
glittering diamonds
your round shapely fingers
to put magic into them
is to work the bristles
the way lips would run through them
your ears are celestial drums
reverberating through
a landscape of creation
that revels in a world of art
your gait is a realist's fetish
it works step by step
inch by inch
a savoir faire
my heart pines to pour
into everybody's cup of tea
such blurry fiery
simmering
dreamlike night
who would i paint but you?
the fireworks bursts in
blue, pink and green
over an ocean of
longings and fantasies
stroke and stroke of red
trail thick and thin
over an insurmountable field
that eventually spirals
and spills into an
impressionistic ecstacy
i die to commit them all
onto a masterpiece
for a lifetime of memory
of youth trailblazing at its prime
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Optical Illusion
Now an optical illusion
is when your eyes
play tricks on you.
It shows you things
that are not really there.
The old saying of only
half believe what you see
has more truth in it
than you would believe,
as we don’t always see things
the way they really are.
Take an abstract painting,
take a closer look at it
and see how many things
your mind can make there.
Watch the clouds
roll by overhead
and look at the different shapes
that are created there.
The next time you look at something,
just be aware
it could well be
an optical illusion there.
21-22 February 2008
poem by David Harris
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Glass War
Glass war, glass war, glass war, glass war, it's a glass war
Glass war, glass war, it's a glass war
Glass war, glass war
It's a glass war
Cause you can see right through the poisen
It's a glass war
Cause we all know the activeties
It's a glass war
Cause it's made of smoke and mirrors
It's a glass war
It's a glass war
It's a glass war
Cause only poor men are dyin in the
Gas war
Cause we know why it was started
It's an ass war
Cause the president's an asshole
It's an ass war
It's a glass war
It's a gas war
Cause the starters are all victims of the
Glass war
The slogan men were starters of the
Last war
Now the southern men are starters of the
Glass war
It's a Glass War
It's a Glass war
And the shards are gunna start another glass war
And the shards are gunna start another glass war
And the shards are gunna start another glass war
And the shards are gunna start another glass war
And the shards are gunna start another glass war
It's a glass war
It's a glass war
song performed by by NOFX
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Explorations: XXXI
Skin morphs into
A vulnerable leaf
In the face of passion
And paralyzing fever
Skin feels a textured
Piece of unique art
Tempting one to touch
When just bathed
There's no difference
Between the landscape
And the skin when
Both are fresh
Skin,
Potent communicator
Of the subtle body language
Ah, the skin!
The treasure
Skin hides like
The deep ocean blue
What's skin deep?
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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The Poet’s Prayer
Lord forgive me
That I have chosen to become a poet
Forgive me for what I write
The poems of my life
Grant me such devotion
To write the poems that I love
Grant me the love of poetry
That must not distract me
From tenderness
Make my desire last long
Make my disillusion short
Uproot from me these impure desires
From those poems that trouble me
Let not some images confuse me
Let not some metaphors numb me
Let not my dullness sadden me
Let your radiance descend upon
The modesty of my poems
As you once gave radiance
To the prophets who cannot speak
For themselves
Let me be a strong poet
Able to love and defend
the poems for the
women and children and land
Grant me the talent to make
The poems that they may still
Recite and remember
Even when I am gone
In my weakness as a poet
Make me strong
To scorn the poems that are not pure
To shy away from the fires
And flames that do not light
The lives of other men
And women too.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Darkness And A Rod Of Light
darkness shall part like the legs of a woman
and i shall enter like a strong rod of light
like light i also bring the property of warmth
and you shall filter me like a prism and glass
we see a spreading rainbow of colors
we are amazed in the dance of silence
we dare not think of the magnifications
the usual refractions the optical illusions
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Aubade
As I would free the white almond from the green husk
So I would strip your trappings off,
Beloved.
And fingering the smooth and polished kernel
I should see that in my hands glittered a gem beyond counting.
poem by Amy Lowell
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The Glass On The Bar
Three bushmen one morning rode up to an inn,
And one of them called for the drinks with a grin;
They'd only returned from a trip to the North,
And, eager to greet them, the landlord came forth.
He absently poured out a glass of Three Star.
And set down that drink with the rest on the bar.
`There, that is for Harry,' he said, `and it's queer,
'Tis the very same glass that he drank from last year;
His name's on the glass, you can read it like print,
He scratched it himself with an old piece of flint;
I remember his drink -- it was always Three Star' --
And the landlord looked out through the door of the bar.
He looked at the horses, and counted but three:
`You were always together -- where's Harry?' cried he.
Oh, sadly they looked at the glass as they said,
`You may put it away, for our old mate is dead;'
But one, gazing out o'er the ridges afar,
Said, `We owe him a shout -- leave the glass on the bar.'
They thought of the far-away grave on the plain,
They thought of the comrade who came not again,
They lifted their glasses, and sadly they said:
`We drink to the name of the mate who is dead.'
And the sunlight streamed in, and a light like a star
Seemed to glow in the depth of the glass on the bar.
And still in that shanty a tumbler is seen,
It stands by the clock, ever polished and clean;
And often the strangers will read as they pass
The name of a bushman engraved on the glass;
And though on the shelf but a dozen there are,
That glass never stands with the rest on the bar.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Gliding In The Air
A bird is wrestling the wind with its feathers,
Even then the flight is smooth, as smooth as the air.
Best of the eagles are against the flight of others,
Eventually they look like a mouth, as smooth as the air.
A strange spectacle has been captured in the rain,
After a bird, not reptile, does fly south, as smooth as the air.
When strangers bespeak a multifarious journey through the air,
I gather it is more than just levitation or youth, as smooth as the air.
I love the young journey to the east,
A happy rhythm up north, as smooth as the air.
Why do we hesitate to look powerful?
When we glide in the sky, as smooth as the air.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Portrait
As I gaze blink-less
At the bare beauty of your persona
Behind the thin satin coat
Your portrait steps out alive
Out of the golden frame.
Your portrait generates
A multitude of elemental emotions,
Some romantically elusive like fluttering butterflies,
Others tangible like love-making,
Yet some others audible like the dying cadence
Of a stringed music played on my lyre.
Am churned by the immaculate portrait
Like the ocean
And I deliver nectar and parijat
From the dark womb of my private secrecy.
I owe it to your portrait timeless,
As I take the yet-to-be christened
Eleventh incarnation of Indian pantheon
Embodying love and truth
With an assured confidence.
Quicksand Polished Mirror
Mirror, mirror,
Rotating around earth's gravity
Upon quicktime changing reflective pools.
Grains of time being tossed on a surface
Forming an abrasive acidic covering
That reigns with tears full of polishes.
Rain ripples the surface of tides
In seas washing ashore see shore visions.
Landscape views teleporting time continuum,
Telescopic analysis within microscopic details.
Mirror, mirror with full length focal dimensions
In polished presence of a living poetic existence,
Temporal rhyming Uni-Verse of introspection.
Looking eyes universe of outside perceptions
Polished with imperfections that distorts light.
Shadows and shades shifting characters around,
Torn ‘n tattered cloth in a woven weave finish.
Picking up light waves in evolving distortions
Upon wiping a quicksand polished aging mirror.
David Lester Young (Franklin Doppelganger) 10/07/12 ©
poem by David Lester Young
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I do not paint a portrait to look like the subject, rather does the person grow to look like his portrait.
quote by Salvador Dali
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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