Related quotes: Upon this faraway of a...

Obstructive red wine spill

Upon this faraway of a Sunday's Shine
we left our apostasy on the altar's line,
a small perfection of old adoration still,
a memory's obstructive red wine spill.

Beacon ghost flashes of dusk will enjoin
an offer of surmises, a tossed-up coin,
images we have left, airy ghostly twine,
for a second principle, you were mine..

I shall depart far oceans of our Holiday,
cast of remembrances never dismay,
my adorned garland time will surpass,
my image and your kind remembrance.

Beguiled will be Charon's aimless gain,
dimensions' adoration of worlds vain,
esteem a honeycomb sweet beehive,
never end this dream's allegory strive.

Our images of two kids in asymptotes,
trajectories of souls on laced shores,
far are my calls of apocopy tangents,
two forms embraced, in tidal advents.

poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Sheffield knife

On equinox coastal unguarded brims,
forever far spent beacon's life,
small imperfection, a riddance still,
moon-flash on a Sheffield knife.

I hear his voices in this mauve dawn,
a resolution of his life's altruism,
the images he left before gone,
of odd Styx rife adventism..

One instant of hypothesis his glance,
a tragic wilt, distance of stare,
it was a never equation to solve,
a wine's spill, dim marquee of despair.

I 'll go away from that coastal of Aden,
assuming earth will be mine,
Sunday's sweet, mane of a maiden's mist
and a recall of a wilted sign..

An image of a kid in Sundays feasts,
with my voice of our friendship's skies,
of those that escaped in high mists,
sad advent will be, our shipmate's eyes.

poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Her Small, Proud Breasts

The gorgeous nymph is gone,
She has left our simple island
Where we played in the sun
And drank sweet wine.
She has taken her delicate wrists
And golden bracelets,
Imparted her last kisses;
But in future nights
When we dream
Of the rhythmic swaying of her hips
And how her small, proud breasts
Left us mesmerized and breathless,
She will also dream
Of our child-like smile
Lost in wondrous adoration.

poem by Uriah Hamilton
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Remembrances Not To Obviate

Memories as encounters that distant Easter morning!
Remembrances not vain
With your bicycle! The sun would rise - east enthralling
an adoration of ancient temples, of years just sixteen!

Of roads you were holding tight, marginally in a hurry
of your primal time
your attained route of solsticial will be a horizon's sway
aloof principles will encounter yours of persisting mind

removal of your imagery, and northern winds of edge
so close to away
with a companion of whiff, where upon a tear's pledge
and icons within your glance abundantly to only astray

Up to the point you were ahead to alter all the bounds
a feast or Sunday
Companion invulnerable of all, non-dimensional surrounds
remembrances of foreign lands, the winds blow and stay

Trajectories you encountered reasons and midday travels
old games to play!
You elevated your thoughts, as when a mind streams unravels
All the mistakes were right, inner celebrations not to obviate

solsticial = solar

poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Airy you were

Airy you were in my dream, I felt you;
you had a bluish ribbon to twine,
my souls' ocean drops in cold truth,
the stars above ironically to shine;

.......................

I beckon; winds wave in worlds lost;
my glance to fair trails in home field,
a chorus of lost Angels foremost,
singing a monody of my soul's grief.

So there she talks; from far beyond,
the heights of glassy domes, of stars,
wishing - coins thrown in a pond,
a fantasy dreamer I am, behind bars.

Oceanic vastness, memories voiced,
- teary depths prohibited, I sail to only
caliginous, danger links of moist
foam on lips as my Siren smiles lonely

from darker faraway to care softly,
so as to touch my lips, singing a note,
a poem for my lone death to ghostly,
of irreversible Hades links that float.

.......................

Our steadfast sails to horizons gray,
the years we passed will there shine,
your low voice in the wind will betray
my soul's Siren song to end my twine..

poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Padlocked In A Box To Stop Further Production

No,
I would not say I could ever be an image maker.
That kind of responsibility should require tact.
At least 'some' of it with no holding back.

However,
I can say I am an observer of those images made.
With a wish I had been consulted,
Prior to their creations.

Since many rear-ends seen today seem on purpose to offend.
And it is impossible for me to be the only one insulted by them.
With the brimming to the rim to spill such disgusting 'butts'.
And a freedom given to have some of them I've seen,
Exposed like they are to parade publicly on the streets.
My vision increasingly has become demeaned.

No,
I would not say I could ever be an image maker.
However,
I can say I am an observer of those images made.
With a wish I had been consulted,
Prior to their creations.

Padlocked in a box to stop further production.
With a key to bury never to be found.
That's how I would have handled...
Many of today's images that have gotten out of hand.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Eighth of May

Of windy spaces ancestry, form resurrected
in colors of that prime spring, response kind to me
because of me, adoring feast, befell, you felt it
of islands shore foam whiffs, Olympian offspring.

First I was, a celebration visitor, my vows redeemed
glances that searched for you, of our oceans offer
I stayed there, crowned of hymns, blue roses breed
as you descended, of dreams wind, another present.

A distribution of windy forms, upon my souls nod
a visitor of solitude, deities, Eighth of May reign
to be a companion of dew drops, of mornings mode
to see you as my falling drops, of a colossal rain.

Rain drops convene for me, embrace this proposal
your hands upon your facial, for me they wander,
when you recall all of this dusk, our line coastal
for every May of the eighths, your staring to offer.

May you face me of else, the eighth of my winds
days that stayed there for you, along with my heart,
there you lived of words sanctuary, along a start,
that May you will always feel, your stare is of mead.

My gaze returns to the winds, mountain scent of dill
of prime recalled apostasy, faith of rainy oceans
abiding in my inner forms, and absent in a still
my silences recall of you retain of May emotions.

poem by Giorgio Veneto
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A Fisher Of Men Jesus Said To Be

In the name of my Lord and Saviour
Jesus Christ I offer any passerby who thirsts

the living waters the bread of Christ
wide I cast my nets as a fisher of men
I walk the lake shore I walk the rivers
oceans storms of seas bear witness

fishing foreign shores for shipwrecked souls
even long line will I fisher of men use cast
behind fishing for any lost souls to bite hooks
offer hope eternal piercing into lost life souls.

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Images Presented

The image that's presented,
Determines how impressive...
Those pretentious rush to protect.
And the image that's presented,
Has less to do with intellect.
Or competence and its effect,
Upon those expecting...
Much more than an image projected to accept.

Images old have molded.
Although repeatedly they have been sold!

Those images presented,
Represent times gone.
Those images presented,
Have been rusted so long.
Those images presented,
Do not feed!
Those images presented,
No one needs now!

Those images presented represent a decadence.
And they represent with evidence pretentions that are meant.
Those images presented do not feed.
Those images presented no one needs,
Now.

Those images presented,
Represent times gone.
Those images presented,
Have been rusted so long.
Those images presented do not feed.
Those images presented no one needs,
Now.

Those images presented represent a decadence.
And they represent with evidence pretentions that are meant.
Images old have molded.
Although repeatedly they have been sold!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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First Day Of My Holiday

Standing looking out at the valley below
with its small tidal bay.
The tall mast lie drunkenly on angles
as their boats are left stranded
after the tide retreated,
back to its roving wanderings.
The calls of the seagulls
bark in the evening air
as the sunset enriches
the surrounding hills in red and gold.
Little birds take their last flights
before dusk and roosting.
A serene scene to greet my eyes
in a laid-back day,
the first day of my holiday.
Away from the clamouring pace
of a life left behind for two weeks.
Just standing and watching for what joys
my life must prepare for
as the evening clouds begin to gather.
Waiting for the hour
when night decides to descend
and bring a quiet close
to the first day of my holiday.

13 September 2008

poem by David Harris
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The First Day Of My Holiday

Standing looking out at the valley below
with its small tidal bay.
The tall masts lie drunkenly on angles
as their boats are left stranded
after the tide retreated,
back to its roving wanderings.
The calls of the seagulls
bark in the evening air
as the sunset enriches
the surrounding hills in red and gold.
Little birds take their last flights
before dusk and roosting.
A serene scene to greet my eyes
in a laid-back day,
the first day of my holiday.
Away from the clamouring pace
of a life left behind for two weeks.
Just standing and watching for what joys
my life must prepare for
as the evening clouds begin to gather.
Waiting for the hour
when night decides to descend
and bring a quiet close
to the first day of my holiday.

13 September 2008

poem by David Harris
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Although images of perfection in people's personal lives can cause unhappiness, images of perfect societies - utopian images - can cause monstrous evil. In fact, forcefully changing society to conform to societal images was the greatest cause of evil in the twentieth century.

quote by Dennis Prager
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Images of Time

The images in my mind is like my thoughts.
Expressing my thoughts is like expressing my feelings.
Words are spoken.All my images are broken.
Broken down into pieces, which can never be made into new dishes.

Those images of past.It takes time to last.
It will last forever for met to take over.
All those images wore my past life.
But it has nothing to do with my past life.

Those images can be forgotten.But not those people.
Those people who are in your images.Can be in a real image.
When you see those people in front of you.
You like to say 'How are you'?
If they say I am fine.Then you will think of those time.

poem by Yash Pradhan
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Images

I think images are worth repeating
Images repeated from a painting
Images taken from a painting
From a photo worth re-seeing
I love images worth repeating
Project them upon the ceiling
Multiply them with silk screening
See them with a different feeling
Images, oh, images
Images, oh, images
Some say images have no feeling
I think theres a deeper meaning
Mechanical precision or so its seeming
Instigates a cooler feeling
I love multiplicity of screenings
Things born anew display new meanings
I think images are worth repeating
And repeating and repeating
Images, oh, images
Images, images
Im no urban idiot savant
Spewing paint without any order
Im no sphinx, no mystery enigma
What I paint is very ordinary
I dont think Im old or modern
I dont think I think Im thinking
It doesnt matter what Im thinking
Its the images that are worth repeating
And repeating, oh, images
Images
If youre looking for a deeper meaning
Im as deep as this high ceiling
If you think technique is meaning
You might find me very simple
You might think that images boring
Cars and cans and chairs and flowers
You might find me personally boring
Hammer, sickle, mao tse tong
Mao tse tong
Ooohhh, images, images
Images
I think that it bears repeating
The images upon the ceiling
I love images worth repeating
And repeating and repeating
Images, images
Oh, images, oh, images

song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ghosts of War

Within the fog of did you see?
An old woman, made up to the nines
Can be seen in the corner of the non-believers eye
Purse in hand and a glass of wine
Waiting for a lover who never comes

Just shadows on the wall
Whispering names, through
Spiders silk, the inheritors
Of this forgotten, debutants ball

While Portraits glare at vacant laughter
An echoed waltz swirls
The embrace of loves decay,
Images now jailed within the Crystal shards
Of a fallen chandelier

A tear of Woman wears mourning face well,
This vigil Mask hiding mortality lost
Now broken and marking time,

Love lies lost in the barbed wire of war
Fallen stars to shine no more
Their Remembrance merging into darkness
Behind a cloudless unforgiving sky

Alone is the corpse in cratered field
Covered by poppies blood
Walked on by ghosts to come

Another Whispered soul is roaming
The guns have left their post
And Peace is just an illusion
For yet another Flanders ghost

This cruel winter’s night
The withered rose has lost its fragrance
The champagne has all gone flat
And love calls without an answer
For silence is the memory
And it is we
Who walk hand in hand
With our ghosts of War?

poem by Steven Cooke
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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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Indelible Images

Idelible Images
That first day of school
That first friend
Indelible Images
That first play
That first fight
Idelible Images
That first graduation
That first car
Idelible Images
That first drunk
That first sober
Idelible Images
That first love
That first forget
Idelible Images
That first death
That first realization
Indelible Images

poem by Scott Tetreault
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Word Obsession

I tossed and tossed upon my bed.
I could not sleep at all.
I watched the shadows outside my pane
and saw the leaves of fall
fluttering past in quicker flight
then all the minutes of my night.

The thoughts and images in my mind
kept me wide-awake.
They all took form and impatiently waited
for a brand new day to break.
They needed to come alive on a page,
the need to flee their cage.

And when I saw the first feint light
and all the shadows depart,
I left my bed with tired body,
but with happy heart.
For God had granted me another day
to pen my words and have my say.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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