En.Citatepedia^®.ro

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Colour Of My Love

I'll paint my mood in shades of blue
Paint my soul to be with you
I'll sketch your lips in shaded tones
Draw your mouth to my own

I'll draw your arms around my waist
Then all doubt I shall erase
I'll paint the rain that softly lands on your wind-blown hair

I'll trace a hand to wipe out your tears
A look to calm your fears
A silhouette of dark and light
While we hold each other oh so tight

I'll paint a sun to warm your heart
Swearing that we'll never part
That's the colour of my love

I'll paint the truth
Show how I feel
Try to make you completely real
I'll use a brush so light and fine
To draw you close and make you mine

I'll paint the truth
Show how I feel
Try to make you completely real
I'll use a brush so light and fine
To draw you close and make you mine

I'll paint a sun to warm your heart
Swearing that we'll never part
That's the colour of my love

I'll draw the years all passing by
So much to learn so much to try

And with this ring our lives will start
Swearing that we'll never part
I offer what you cannot buy
Devoted love until we die

song performed by by Celine Dion from The Colour Of My Love
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Golden Memory

When I was a young child
about five to seven years of age.
I noticed the neighbour's trees
were dirty and sooty and black.
Black with smoke chimney coal dust.

The bark was ugly dirty and black
the leaves were ugly dirty and black.
And barely green if at all in most places,
except a little on the side facing the sun.
The sun I saw as a beautiful yellow light.

Next to my father's garage grew these trees.
They were really tall shrubs, but I was but still
a young child, with much to learn in this world,
ruled by mean men. Magic and the elfin language,
still danced like sparkling stardust in my eyes.

Next to my father's garage grew these trees.
They were so sad dull black lifeless and ugly.
I took a bright yellow lively house paint.
And painted the trees yellow bright golden yellow,
in all sad places I could short armed easily reach.

But I also got paint on my hands face clothes.
In my wonderful joy I got paint on my clothes.
My apparently best going to town best clothes.
My mother punished me for painting the trees.
And the leaves a bright joyous yellow colour.

For making a small part
of this dull adult world.
A golden magical shinning
bright fairy glade place.

For painting making a small part
of this dull adult fading world.
A golden orb magical shinning
bright mystical fairy glade place.

For trying to make the tired
world a better magical place.
Thus were childhood dreamers
often beaten into submission.

By those who failed to see
the divine presence in dreams.
By those who failed to see
the magical sparkle in dreams.

poem by Terence George Craddock
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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You colour my life

You colour my life
with new thoughts, with music
with poems that your write

and paint brush strokes, like magical signs
right across my body
and now I miss you
while I remember all the beautiful things

and we are far apart
as if you are lost
and we now live in to different worlds
and still there is a special place
where I find you in my thoughts
and I wonder if you are missing me?

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Am I a master

I am the master, master of art
have painted true pictures,
of rising sun, mountain, sea
through jungles flowing rivers,
shining stars, birds, cloudy sky,
can paint anything and everything.
insects, lions, bear and deer.
just like the living things.

I am the master, master of art,
can make my own paint and brush
Alas! but cannot create raw material
of any of paint, brush or canvas.
Oh! can not paint these seven
which are made only in heaven:
smell, touch, look, hear and taste,
emotions, thought and breathe.

No, I am not the master, master of art
can paint uncountable things yet not.
Not possible to paint love and laugh
I have to go again and again to learn
to the supreme master, who painted
the universe, stars, moon and sun

(C) S. D. Tiwari

poem by S.D. Tiwari
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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Night workers..

Night is frozen and full of dust,
Nocturnal creatures are out on lust,
Trainee painters colored the earth,
Using the shades of grey at the brush,
A few take the paint in the bucket,
Splatter the darker grey on the forest,
They think to color the rivers of blue,
Adding the grey to the blue, make it dark,
How hard they paint the civilization black,
The lights of men make it bright,
Bored of painting on the roads,
back alleys are pained with what they have,
Forgotten the painting of the sea,
They throw their balance paint and brush into it,
Before they finish the job and get paid,
The cleaner of the earth arrives from the Vacuum,
Sucked in all the dust from the horizon,
The perfectly visible earth emerges,
After the thawing of its all nightly desires.

poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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The Flat Horizon

(wang chung)
I wanna paint your portrait in bright color
I wanna paint the lines in red and blue
I wanna make your eyes appear like starlings
Saying, darling, I love you!
I wanna set your face upon a landscape
I wanna show the love and toil and sweat
I wanna show your beauty like a crystal
In an all-night launderette
Chorus:
Oh this line is the flat horizon
And you are the shape on the left
Oh this line is the flat horizon
And this is the sun in the sky
Oh this line is the flat horizon
And makes the great divide
Between heaven and angels
And earth and men
I wanna show what lies beneath the surface
In little squares of purple, green and gold
So everyone can see their own reflection
In the mirror of your soul
I wanna paint your arrogance and beauty
I wanna paint the way you laugh at me
I wanna paint the world in which I see you
Fixed for all eternity
Repeat chorus
I wanna paint your portrait in bright color
I wanna paint your personality
I wanna show the world just how I see you
I wanna show the world just how I see you
You know that only I can guarantee you
Precious immortality
Precious immortality
Repeat chorus

song performed by by Wang Chung
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dedication

In youth I longed to paint
The loveliness I saw;
And yet by dire constraint
I had to study Law.
But now all that is past,
And I have no regret,
For I am free at last
Law to forget.

To beauty newly born
With brush and tube I play;
And though my daubs you scorn,
I'll learn to paint some day.
When I am eighty old,
Maybe I'll better them,
And you may yet behold
A gem.

Old Renoir used to paint,
Brush strapped to palsied hand;
His fervour of a saint
How I can understand.
My joy is my reward,
And though you gently smile,
Grant me to fumble, Lord,
A little while!

poem by Robert William Service
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The Pose

He looked at the painting,
his lover in the nude.
And as he stared
it always changed his mood.

Young and frail
but still a delight.
He looked at the painting
on every night.

He remembered the pose
as if yesterday,
provocative it was,
her eyes far away.

Were they remembering
the brush strokes used
or the feel of his hand
and how they fused

together as one
when the pose was over.
Now all that was left
was the painting,
not the lover.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ugly Paint

crack
in the brush,
slice the line and tamper
the bold corner,
waste of time, comes
no regret of it fingers tips,
swollen thumb
with tailing nails of broken pieces
of color

folded
join together
and faded brightness of
Red and Green,
scattered Indigo pamper
the shape and form,
ugly as the skin touches the smooth
face of beautiful picture
of tomorrow's gone,
the guided stream of lines, blacken by its
careless hands of
touch

Yes!
a lasting way of just
an ugly paint,
pattern on me, cover and let the rain
of adoration of search for
an easily hurt get
of deception of hope; something
smarter than
a little boy and girl stand and push
beyond the paint of gain and grain of
whole

pieces of sweat,
pattern makes every paint seems ugly,
yet! it makes sense in me;
sphere revealing
painting you have been long leads
my home,
of what is today and the future
of my day paint goes on,
as the color
printed with its style and let
every passers-bye
says a sweet
good bye …..

poem by Antonio Liao
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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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Time Lines

i have said nothing for time wont allow me.
time lines... time lines... time lines, what i felt for you has turned to confusion.
as time lines up our times together worry overshadows my 'influenced' judgement.
time lines..

our future perfectly sealed for i filled my heart with your promises.
time outlined your feelings for me..
times we spent together seem so far away like the times of the early bud.

our love has lost its will to florish like juliets rose.
time has outlined my affection for you.
time lines.. time lines..

the memories we once cherished together, the lines that have been put between us by time have destroyed the love once shared by you and me.
time has been thought to mend broken hearts ALAS, it has made matters worse.
time lines me and you. time lined our fate through spectatr critiques.
we possess souls joint together by time, YET its time that divides us.
time took its tole on our love.

is this forbidden love? that time has outlined

time lines my emotions of love for you..

time lines my emtions.
time lines.... time lines

poem by Njube Nangamso
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Well, I am not interested in the kind of expression that you have when you paint a painting with brush strokes. It's all right, but it's already done and I want to do something new.

quote by Donald Judd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Painting Words

IMAGES SPRING FROM NOWHERE,
BUT BEAR A KNOWN DESIGN.
NO BRUSH OR PAINT IS MY WARE
THOUGH PAINTINGS DO SEEM MINE.

MY CANVAS BREATHES ALIVE
AS WORD AND IMAGE MERGE.
FROM NOTHINGNESS I STRIVE
TO CAPTURE EACH NEW SURGE.

PEN SWATHES, LIKE BRUSH STROKES,
FASHION WORDS, ONE-BY-ONE,
UNTIL MIND’S EYE EVOKES
IMAGES CLEAR AS THE SUN.

ALL WHO VIEW THESE WORKS
WILL FIND IT’S NOT ABSURD
TO FEEL THE POWER THAT LURKS
BEHIND EACH PAINTED WORD.

poem by Gregory Huyette
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New Light New Colour

An old man
welcomes
his four day old
grandson

white stillness pure gold purple wonder gold strength pink joy
pink infinity navy blue now strong indigo blue light blue fountain
the green first reason endless yellow compassionate orange
royal red

single red free orange free yellow
green depth as clear as crystal all attractive light blue
strong indigo blue strong navy blue pink wishes gold compassion
compassionate purple gold of golds of creativity

who is quiet
and naturally very small and delicate

red inspirer orange giver yellow help dazzling green
light blue of the delicate with indigo blue eyes navy blue good
with pink kind eyes golden hair
golden complexion purple complexion
gold warmth of white space

white of whites
gold truth purple mentor funny gold pink friend of children
navy blue of nature indigo blue knowledge light blue song of nature
green creation yellow in senses orange guide red way

white and gold love
of all purple knowledge gold presence pink in thunder and storms
navy blue pleasure indigo blue beauty light blue lines
all attractive green of yellow stirring music of orange red refuge

clear red orange orange yellow yellow with green giving hands
of green light blue truth indigo blue essence navy blue sparkle
pink with gold purple guide gold here here white

His feet are curled
His fingers as small as tiny magic wands
His eyes large
Some skin is peeling off his small face
Everything is perfectly formed

white
is the sun with penetrating vision purple and golden constant winner
gold reach of all pink infinite navy blue indigo blue knowledge
light blue care
deep green in greens dedicated to yellow
orange truth
red peace

This perfect body was in his mother only a week ago
thinks the old man
He places his hand on the boys stomach

red glory orange beauty yellow
of green and light blue evenings handsome indigo blue
intelligent navy blue pink of pinks of gold golds purple purple
gold friend openness formless

white and gold
prevailing purple efficient purple purple origin purple form
gold and permanent pink navy blue belief indigo blue blue
dense green yellow orange red friend red

The boy almost gasps at this touch
He yawns
His eyes remain anxiously focused on the window
eager to understand the Australian light

poem by Bhupen Thakker
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Paint

Don't paint me red,
Red is for bold women that use cheap scent

Don't paint me blue
Blue is for sadness and regret

Don't paint me green
Green is for envy and not to be seen

Don't paint me black
black is for the night and I love the light

Don't paint me white
White is for virgins and me, I love a flirtin'

Don't paint me orange
Orange is vile and I have some style

Don't paint me brown or grey or cream
these colours are boring and really not me.

Paint me in silver, platinum or gold
so I remain precious as I grow old.

poem by Ruth Walters
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