Sunday afternoon rest
The Kenwood plays
soft soothing instrumental music
and three dogs,
lies stretched out in front of the fireplace.
Tongs of fire lick hungry orange
on pieces of yellow and brown firewood,
while at the bottom
the coals are glowing red.
You paint a white Greek marble statue
of Aphrodite
and I see your painter’s pencil,
giving brush stroke upon brush stroke
of magic.
The afternoon drags on nicely
and red Barberton daisies,
on long green stems
hang out of a glass vase above the fireplace.
The dark painting
of the holy girl with the red garment
against the wall,
watch me amused
and the golden spaniel
sleeps with her head
on my lap.
I will forever
be able to enjoy
the pleasure,
of being with you.
a Hot cup of tea
steals me a kiss or two
and a DVD with the antics of Monk,
makes us laugh at dusk.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
With the smell of turpentine
With the smell of turpentine
and paint in front of the fireplace
you paint magical lines
with blue, green and gold
and I look at you
while brush strokes
like magic make abstract images appear.
The Creator must have looked like this
while He looked at the world
while building it
and I see your golden eyes
looking carefully at the painting
and at times you frown
while you try to draw perfect lines
and light and colour
create magical feelings
and flow into each other
and you build shade and depth.
Gasping for breath lovely are you
while your fingers play with the brush
and there are more than curves and lines
from which your beauty comes.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Canvas
Before my eyes brilliant colour, perfection
Dancing gracefully in every direction,
The world of trees, the art of nature
Are simple reasons for a painter.
The power mother nature can release
Could make a painting, a masterpiece
A gallery of natures finest hues,
Enough to stir the most reluctant muse.
Should mother nature tutor me in art
My tree would show a living beating heart,
And should I save one single living tree
My canvas would inspire the world to see.
Red, orange, yellow, green and brown
Colours of beauty my brush would put down
Bright and vibrant Maple Red and Golden Oak
Living, breathing felt with every brush stroke..
©2011
poem by Hazel Connelly
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The guardian of the flames
Always there have been
something holy to me,
about flames
that comes alive suddenly.
It’s a great thing
to see flames spread
and to see yellow licking tongs,
consume wood
and to get heat, energy
and comfort from it.
At a time human existence
surely depended on
keeping the secret
of flames
and to make sure,
that the last glowing coals
do not die.
When I was a child,
my brother and me
almost burnt a hillock
and some residences down
by misadventure.
The more I tried to kill
the small fire,
that I started in the long brown winter grass,
the more the fire spread.
It’s a fact that my behind
also burnt on that occasion
from a hiding
with a old fan belt
and I learned quickly,
what the power of fire is
and how to act responsibly with matches.
Tonight I am the guardian of the flames
at the fireplace in the lounge
and I take care of the hot coals
and have to put wood on
before the fire dies.
poem by Gert Strydom
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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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Cloud Dreaming
I remember it so well...
Almost, as if it were yesterday
Laying out in the backyard
of my parent's white,
clapboard house on Main Street
Stretched out, on the soft, cool, green grass
Feelng the warm, golden, afternoon sun
Shining down on my small, child's face
Just hoping...
It would paint light, brown freckles
On my tiny, little girl's upturned nose
Oh, I could lie there for hours and hours
Gazing up at those soft, candy cotton clouds
Trying to decide which one looked like a kitten
An elephant, or perhaps a fairy princess
Riding off on a white, thundering pony
Into 'Nowhere land'...
The land of angels and magic
Fairies, with long, golden tresses
Bewitching elves and fairy tales
Memories can be very wonderful
Makes us wish we were kids again...
Doesn't it?
~
poem by ANNE P LadeeAnne MURRAY
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Choose Your Color
I will paint the walls blue
Blue is calm, blue is power
Blue is the color of tranquility
Do you see my colors yet?
I will paint the ceiling green
Green is healthy, green is peace
Green makes time move faster
Do you see my colors yet?
I will paint the floor red
Red is fire, red is danger
Red is the symbol of passion
Do you see my colors yet?
I will paint the sky purple
Purple is sad, purple is gloomy
Purple is the color of romance
Do you see my colors yet?
I will paint the tree black
Black is fear, black is death
Black is the symbol of grief
Do you see my colors yet?
I will paint the street yellow
Yellow is happy, yellow is fresh
Yellow is the color of sunshine
Do you see my colors yet?
I will paint the fence orange
orange is wisdom, orange is wealth
Orange is the color of success
Do you see my colors yet?
I will paint everything white
White is good, white is pure
White is the color of faith
Have you seen my colors yet?
(August 16th,2006)
poem by Christopher G. Turner
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Painting
Painting calmed you,
brought tranquillity to your soul
more that a cup of tea could do
and with every brush stroke
of the painter’s pencil
faces got form
and character and soul,
eyes got colour
and followed me anywhere
in that room.
Tuscan streets came to life
with little cafés,
people sitting at tables,
selling bread and arranging
lavender flowers
against the backdrop
of the sky, the sea
and villas on a hill.
Abstract paintings reminded me
of scenes under the sea,
or rural villages
with people in front
of a old TV-set,
black girls smiled charming,
carrying pots on their heads
or children piggyback
looking cute
in a comic character way
and with every painting
I saw your skills grow
and pictures stroked
to the finest detail.
I watch your measuring eye,
you confident hand,
colours being mixed
on a palette board
and part of your soul
became part of me
and we shared
long moments together.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Like Alice Does.
Alice sits brushing her hair,
stroke following stroke,
her husband sitting
on the edge of the bed
watching, studying her
hand and brush going
downward and out and
downward and out, and
as he watches he suddenly
remembers his mother
doing likewise and he
standing by the doorframe
of her bedroom, sees her
hand pull the brush through
her tight black hair, and
hears her sobbing voice
over the old white radio
playing some country song,
and senses an uneasiness
fill him like a wetting of pants,
and his mother gazing at him
in the mirror before her with
her red rimmed eyes and he
knowing as she lifts the brush
threateningly, that that way
pain comes and danger lies.
poem by Terry Collett
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Mable
As I eternalize her on a virgin white canvas
She gazes at me sans a murmur, in a vanilla hush
The cinnamon blends in the tea pot on the mahogany table
As I capture her stroke by stroke, my adoring Mable
She is a bundle of joy to mold, to behold
In her luscious peacock blue as the palms grip and hold
As she struts her hips on the homely cat walk
I stare at her naked curves with a gaze of a sea hawk
She opens her lips as silence partakes
She dazzles in the presence of lavender stakes
In her velvet hat flowing in the breeze
She adorns her blue sans a single crease
As the brush head kisses the canvas floor
She smells like an angel in a jasmine flow
As the nostrils waltz as they embrace the jasmine white
The night is still beginning, ominously bathing in moon light
As the velvet explodes on to the canvas white
Lavenders bloom in to lofty heights
As her head glows in the soft serene breeze
The strokes run amok to capture, even her least
As the blue in her runs lazily on to the fabric wall
The peacocks eyes steal a stare at the glorious hall
The hall of her body, that glitters like sapphires in queue
She a roman goddess, Selene dancing in the dew
The dew that sips the lavenders on top
The dew that bathes the jasmines on her frock
She a beauty like no other on heaven on earth
As she gazes at me from her heavenly perch
As the last stroke is captured from now to an eternity
She lazily smiles, the velvet, the white and the blue shimmering in pretty
My voracious self runs towards her to feel her luscious presence
The paint brush laments the final strokes, in their abject absence
I clasp her too tight with my eager sweat-laden palms
As I kiss her navel with flattering snuggles bathing in my charms
In my haste, she slips from her perch, as free fell her bough
The vase tore in to pieces, my Mable in her last bow
poem by Dilantha Gunawardana
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Lust or love?
If it’s lust or love
nobody will ever know
and the night in front of the hot fireplace
I cannot forget easily
and still both are at times
part of what is in a relationship
between two people.
Strangely the lust eats me
were I stand almost naked
at the fireplace
and small john,
tries to stand just as upright
and big as big john.
There are flames from the fireplace
flashing in your eyes
when I take my underpants off
and your white face
is suddenly strangely pure,
while the inner fire
eats both of us
and the nipples of your big breasts
erect and prominent
almost magically draws my fingers.
Your mouth is hot,
soft and sweet
and your body
better to play with
that the strings of a guitar
and there are passion that abate in us
and when I disappear in your depths
there’s pleasure that at times
builds and subsides
and later we both
hit the right chord
poem by Gert Strydom
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Musso
Musso my ginger Persian cat
lies stretched out
and sleeping
on the box of my computer.
Every now and then
he opens his golden eyes
and yawns and stretches out
his golden-yellow striped
left foot.
When I stroke his head
he stretches it back
and there’s a smile
of pleasure
with two tiny protruding white teeth.
At times this beautiful golden monster
brings his presents to me
and any big grasshopper,
mouse, rat, bird
or snake
that he finds
surprises me at times.
poem by Gert Strydom
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If I could make the big orange sun
If I could make the big orange sun
hang forever
over the horizon
and the magic colours
that is light yellow, golden
and goes from orange to red
touch some clouds
and could also get
the blue of the sky,
it would have been
a beautiful painting
and I would want it like
Vincent van Gogh’s
starry night.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Artiste
If I were a painter!
I would paint a picture of you,
If I were a songwriter!
I would sing of my love for you,
If I were an author!
I would write a story of love,
But I am only me
as you can see.
If I were a painter!
I would paint a picture of you,
I brush your hair,
with gentle strokes,
with a touch of brown,
and of you on your bed.
I'll make you blush and glow,
With a single stroke I can
make you smile again,
But I am only me
as you can see.
If I were a songwriter!
I would sing of my love for you,
I would write the words,
to tell you how I feel,
And maybe make this real,
But I am only me
as you can see.
If I were an author!
I would write a story of love,
a love that would bind
our two hearts,
write words of love for your voice,
as I let it wash over me,
of kissing your lips and the taste of you,
But I am only me,
as you can see.
RG/RR
poem by Robert Green
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An Abstract painting
My eyes fall on an abstract painting
of which my girlfriend,
wants to paint a series
that may hang in board halls
and offices.
There’s something hot and alive
in the background
that changes from golden yellow,
to flame orange
and flows into black red
and a green line
runs from the foreground
into the horizon.
With strong straight lines wood,
and sink plate shacks appear
with horizontal and vertical lines
and it looks like a squatter camp,
or the houses of a headman
in the country.
To me it looks like drums and large tin cans
that lies around in the front
and a big old TV set
with sitting places round it
and at the back,
there are two wooden pens
to keep in sheep and goats.
Maybe there’s red sand
on the one side
and yellow and green grass
for grazing on the other side,
but honestly I do not want to stay
in such a place.
[Reference: Abstract painting by Mandi. Look at the painting on my mabooki webpage: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1416_An_Abstract_ painting.htm]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Garden Wall
The ivy 'tis climbing the Olde Garden Wall...
Leaving green memory not too far behind--
While the later zephyrs of Summer dance ever near...
'Tis a perfect picture out of days past time;
Oh-the Golden of memories-sweetest...
How it plays iteself in my minds eye...
Gentle surrender-in Loves Garden-tender...
'Neath a canopy of Summer Blue sky;
Paint me a picture again won't you?
Make it verdant and blossomed anew--
Give it the peace and serenity so needed--
Brush stroke perfect again-my loving moments with you;
The Essence
July,2010
poem by Theodora Onken
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We Tried To Paint A Fire In The Snow
Red and orange, yellow
Maybe a touch of blue
Paint the sky with fire
And the snow with a barren hue
Can we catch these shadows with our hands
Or will the dusk refuse to play our game
I think the streetlamps want to breathe awhile
Before we fit them with a starry frame
The people pass and nod their vacant eyes
We paint them with a dash of loneliness
The keys for home sit anchored in their pockets
And all the words are written on their breath
The snow is whiter than the stone I found
That summer day in august at the shore
We said it looked just like a tiny moon
You held it till the daylight closed its door
But now the snow is growing cold as dawn
And all its left is pictures we could paint
That show two lovers with a broken brush
You paint a sky that I describe as faint
Red and orange, yellow
Maybe a touch of blue
I’ve painted love with fire
And the snow with a barren hue
poem by Ben Paynter
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Early one afternoon
Early one afternoon
I walked through the streets
of a small village
and it had to be in Italy
and was probably in Corona
or Tuscany.
a Baker with a white overcoat
and white hat on his head
rang on his bike’s bell for me
and pedalled pass,
with an old green bike
at the Pizza Palour.
There were long white breads
and green wine bottles,
in the baskets of his bicycle
and he had a big bush
of red blue lanvender flowers in one hand.
Across from me there were three small tables
with white table-covers,
at the Villa Toscana
and I could read some dishes
from the menu on the wall.
At the wall a young woman
with dark hair and an indigo dress
laughed sharp and bright,
while she waited
that a well built waitress
pour some more wine.
The image of the beautiful waitress
with black hair and deep dark eyes,
that bends forward
still stays with me.
In front of me at Le Art
there were a row of paintings,
depicting nudes to the finest detail
on painter’s easels.
I walked nearer
and I could see rows of violet lavender bushes
against the ridge in the distance
and Villa’s, that stand yellow gold
up on the hill
and looked impressive
against the deep blue sky.
When I got back to myself
I was at the fountain
in front of the mural
in our garden
and the golden Persian cat,
watched me from the top of the wall
with a woolly tail that curled down
and it looked with golden eyes at me.
[Reference: Tuscan mural by Mandi. See the painting at my webpage: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1417_Early_one_af ternoon.htm]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Kiss and make love
Touching lips like a butterfly
Gentle caress, gentle embrace
An endearment lifetime long
Brush the breast like a butterfly
Cuddle so softly with embrace
Endearment felt with a hug
Kiss and snuggle slowly done
Stroke to caress to embrace
Bear hug and brushing lips
Feel and fondle, rub hips
Graze and handle with care
Massage neck and nuzzle
Play around, squeeze, stroke
Hug and kiss, make love
Caress, curl up and enfold
Fondle, huddle and hug
Kiss with love and nestle
Nuzzle snug and soft to touch
Stroking, tasting, touching
Shy away for a moment
Feeling, caressing, fondling
Come together and massage
Brush and caress, collision
Cuddling with a loving touch
poem by Char Pattrick
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A walk along the beach
I see a ship
passing beyond the breakers
white on the top
and red at the bottom
and the sea is calm
and a light wind
is blowing on the beach.
Alone I walk
on the hot soft sand
looking for shells
but here and there
I find one that’s not broken
and walk on further
and further
almost as if following a track
that’s just out of reach.
Climbing down
a small cliff
I am suddenly on a seclude beach
and in the blinding light
shells are everywhere
and I know
that no one else
has been here.
Some are brittle
like the leaves of flowers
and others hard as rock
with orange and pink embouchures,
a scope of blues,
hazing mother of pearl
shimmering like a rainbow,
brittle green circles
with holes in the middle
and some are more pure white
than snow.
I pick a ransom up at dusk
and lay down on my back
and watch the sun
setting above the sea
and time trail from me.
I must have been stuck
in my own thoughts
and caught by the serenity
when suddenly I noticed
a beautiful naked girl
looking at me
with a kiss in her eyes
that penetrates into my soul.
Her eyes shining
with shivering iridescence
(just like mother of pearl)
and her teeth gleaming
whiter than anything.
The second kiss
is on my lips
and hot and sweet.
Some perfume
almost dazes my head
and her nipples brush
protruding against my cheek.
“You have beautiful shells, ”
a husky voice says
and no words can express
my thoughts
while I kiss her back.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Beautiful Morning Begins
I must paint this scene a surely pleasure for all to see,
My pallet full and canvas white let me think of what’s so bright,
I’ll crown the hills mauve’n’white with yellow gleam,
Thru triple shades of dancing green
Sketching silhouettes gliding so high in the sky,
Who sing and call a new day is nigh as,
An owl’s eye’s blink, close and settle to sleep,
As the distant cock crows to earn his keep.
A dash of dew on petals of a rose,
To twinkle joy to dry that grows,
My brush for wind instills natures
glow
Helping footless tree’s sway too and frow.
A master stroke to portray nature’s potent night worker still,
As he leaves his web to a leafy hill,
I’ll thin this early morning mist as deer emerge,
From the deep forest glades to the grassland verge,
Now to catch this blazing golden yellow dawn,
For the sun is slowly showing his shining face,
Well I’ll be, it’s shaming the moon to hide the morn,
Radiating now, warmth and life for all the new born.
poem by Ken e Hall
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