Home And Love
sweetie swishy doggie
a meowing cat
black as charcoal
under a rickety house
spraying elephant
its trunk perpendicular
to its bulbous head
tiger and all the lines
that spread like reeds
bright red apple,
golden banana
a child's exaggerated world
that outshines ours
blazes through ours
mom and dad
in crazy crayon
where their lips
are bright red as chillies
faces palsy yellow
with tiny white blurry space
that one smoothens
skiing the crayon
over the white paper
the family's theatre
opens immediately
as boy's burst of art is complete
mom and dad
colour their own
home sweet home
- injecting life into all son's caricatures
good or bad with sweet rhymes
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Related quotes
Utencils
Pencil, pen, charcoal, graphite, i can use whatever utencil
I want to write ' rhymes so slick'
I could write a lymric in skilcraft or a sonnet with bic
And if you want to learn how come close, Ill show ya
This is the beginners lesson, grab yourself a #2 ticonderoga
get your piece of paper, some lines to lay on
Maybe at the end draw a picture with your favorite colour crayon
You see im an artist, what i do is compose art
My first set of colored pencils: 12 pack of roseart
But no matter the tool, graphite charcoal pen or pencil
Ill try to make art with any utencil
poem by Jason Murak
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Miss Home and My Sweet Sweetie
Every morning I wake up in this place
I think of home, familiar home
At home I would wake up to the sound of birds
Then do familiar things during the day
I miss home and my sweet Sweetie
Every morning I wake up in a strange bed
From breakfast on through all the day
I remember my sweet Sweetie
Wondering what she could be doing
I miss home and miss sweet Sweetie
Yesterday morning I went to the lake
I touched the water without excitement
I wished I was touching my sweet Sweetie
Or even bathing her
I miss home and my sweet Sweetie
This night I am late to sleep
I am thinking of my children
But I desire my sweet Sweetie more
Because touching her is my desire
I miss home and my sweet Sweetie
I will wake up in the morning
Having dreamt of my sweet Sweetie
Because she is on my mind even now at night!
I know I think of her day and night
I miss home and my sweet Sweetie
poem by Nyota Yasulwe
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Crayons
Can you
Crayon my soul
With colours bright.
From a rainbow
That bled sunlight
After the rain.
As the sky blushed red
With pain.
When the sun
That it loved,
Sank again,
In the west.
Here's a test.
Crayon
The clours of love.
And don't forget
Deep blue.
A kaleidoscope
To choose.
A combination
That will always lose.
Whatever hues
You trust.
Jet black
Really is a must.
Can you
Colour my heart
With gladness and joy.
Invisible crayons
You will need to employ.
So no one
Can erase
That forever kiss.
With the spectrum ablaze
To burn to ashes.
Madness,
As the moon
Counts down the days.
In shades of sadness.
poem by Kevin East
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Sweet Home
My home is calling
And my heart; responding
The abode of pleasures and exhilaration
Where my mind prepares for some missions
My home, my home
My sweet, lovely home
I call on thee
Give me a space to sleep
Am not among those who cry
Seeking for hope, but it's dry
Am a free man
Facing difficulties which is so hard
My home, my home
My sweet, lovely home
I call on thee
Give me a space to sleep
Do i look like a convict?
The one who cries in the prison
Or like the bee that flies
And returns with joy to it hive
No! But no! I am not
I don't crave for the monastery, I'm not a monk
All i want is to return back home
To stay with folks but not alone
My home, my home
My sweet, lovely home
I call on thee
Give me a space to sleep
I traveled abroad
I had much fun
I visited the queen
She offered me a tea
With all these pleasures
Without doubt cos am so sure
The home holds lot in hand
Treasures, happiness, so much to count
My home, my home
My sweet, lovely home
I call on thee
Give me a space to sleep
I went to Brazil
I saw their windmills
I ate their food
Which made me cool
Delicious was it their fried fish
The one i ate which made me wishing
Then i remember the panla which we eat at home
So delicious and irresistible for the hungry throat
My home, my home
My sweet, lovely home
I call on thee
Give me a space to sleep
I journeyed to Kenya
I saw a tiger
Its eyes scared me
Its claws; waiting for a meal
I rode on an elephant
So huge; so large
I saw lot of things
The zoo, the views
But still i craved
For my home; for my space
My home, my home
My sweet, lovely home
I call on thee
Give me a space to sleep
I traveled all around the world
And everything seemed so bored
My eyes craved only for my beautiful home
My hands, my mouth and my little nose
They are all wishing to see
My house, my room, my folks in the street
All i have to do is go back home
To stay with folks and sleep on their foams
For wherever you are meant to be
Your home provides a beautiful space to sleep
My home, my home
My sweet, lovely home
I call on thee
Give me a space to sleep.
poem by Yahaya Habeeb Jprof Kayode
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Blues In Black And White
the writing is on the wall, baby
We're different as day and night
But I guess that I refused to face it
The blues in black and white
When I got home I knew, baby
Something was wrong tonight
When I found the note you wrote ,it gave
The blues in black and white
CHORUS
Color my world without you in it
And the future dont look too bright
Darlin' its not a pretty picture
The blues in black and white
Since you've been gone I'm going crazy
I've got to get on with my life
Maybe I'll write a book and call it
The blues in black and white
repeat chorus
song performed by by Randy Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Incantation
A white well
In a black cave;
A bright shell
In a dark wave.
A white rose
Black brambles hood;
Smooth bright snows
In a dark wood.
A flung white glove
In a dark fight;
A white dove
On a wild black night.
A white door
In a dark lane;
A bright core
To bitter black pain.
A white hand
Waved from dark walls;
In a burnt black land
Bright waterfalls.
A bright spark
Where black ashes are;
In the smothering dark
One white star.
poem by Elinor Morton Wylie
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The Mother of Three
Oh, to have a little farm,
A little hearth so warm and bright,
And three little boys all safe from harm
In from the winter night!
A little house with white-washed wall,
And thatched like any golden rick,
And the little boys within my call,
And they running so quick.
A garden and an apple tree,
And me so busy all the day,
And the little boys at home with me,
Merry out at their play.
There was a woman I've heard tell,
Whose three fine sons were killed. For sure
'Tis good to have them little and well
And just beyond your door.
This while back there is something wrong --
It may be that I miss the boys
Who filled the house the whole day long
With happy laughter and noise!
And often when I sit my lone
The sadness comes and lies on me
For the poor soul that has no son.
And me having the three!
And it's oh, to have the little farm
Under the golden thatch so bright,
And the little boys safe home from harm
Shut in with me at night!
poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Colour of Warmth
You cannot spin the suns rays
For they are golden light
Clothing earth with warmth
Encompassing, coloured green
A rainbow of colour so bright
Growing the flowers, the smell
Seeing the sweet taste
Tasting the colours on your fingers
Bright as a bird in flight
White as a gulls feathered wings
Blue as the flooding tides
Gray as the ebbing, yellow as the sand
You cannot spin the suns rays
For they are golden light
Clothing the earth with warmth
A rainbow colour of sight.
poem by Andrew Shiston
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I Used To Be But Now I Am
Suicide secured a place somewhere in my mind
Suicide stomped right out when God took a stand in my mind
Confussion cramped my thought process making it unuseable
Confussion crawled right out when God untangled my thoughts
Lonliness lurked in the bottom of my soul
Lonliness left when God grabbed hold of my soul
Tears tortured my eyes everyday and my pillow everynight
Tears trembled away when God filled my eyes with himself
What I used to be is a broken black crayon in a box of white
What I am now is the crayon with which God colors the world.
poem by Cheyenne Ashley
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I'm Going Home
When my work here is oer
And trials come no more
On that great day I'm going home
To live forever more, just oer on heaven's shore
When my life here is oer I'm going home
Chorus
I'm going home, I'm going home
When my life here is oer I'm going home
Won't it be so sweet, to rest at Jesus feet
When my life here is oer I'm going home
I'm travelling in the light
And my way is clear and bright
Some glad day I'm going home
Heading for the pearly gates for there my savior waits
When my life here is oer I'm going home
As I travel down lifes road
So heavy is my load
But some glad day I'm going home
I'll meet my loved ones there, in that land so bright and fair
When my life here is oer I'm going home
Chorus
song performed by by Hank Williams, music by Hank Williams (1950)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Morning on the Beach and wish I was with Sweetie
Morning on the beach and wish I was with Sweetie
Wind whines and whines the moments away
The crazy sea keeps moving and groaning
Oh.. how I wish it was me moving and groaning with Sweetie
From the far end, white sands of the beach
Grey sea comes to the shore and back
Some old tourists touch and play with the water
Oh.. how I wish it was me touching and playing with Sweetie
From the east the sun rises over the beach
Red big, bright and mighty rays
The Sun promises to be happy and hot as always
Oh.. how I wish I was happy and hot with Sweetie always
From the grounds plants waking up to a bright day on the beach
Darkness disappearing as the sun rises
Just like fear disappears when love and joy comes
Oh.. how I wish, my joy and love remove fear from Sweetie
poem by Nyota Yasulwe
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Home Sweet Home
Met this girl called josephine and took her up on my machine
We had a little fun and now we got a little one
Had to get married, being chased out of town
Found ourselves a place to live, we put all our money down
Call it home sweet home, home sweet home
Eleven floors up in a tower block
Happy just to have a home
Ive gone and changed the lock on our home
Nothing really worked out right, things got broke,
They stayed that way
None of our friends came around at night and little sam got
No place to play
Weve got to get out of here, bill she said Ive been telling
You all the while
When I came home from work that night shed jumped out the
Window with our chiled
From our home sweet home, home sweet home
Just a place to take a rest, just a place ot make our nest
-- we call it our home
When the insurance money came through seemed dirty didnt
Know what to do
Took the cash went down the casino, down on the wheel
On the double
And I won, oh yes I won, like I never won before
Bought myself a country house with an antique carved
Oak door
It was home sweet home, home sweet home
Just a place to lay our head think of all those things we said
About in our home sweet home.
song performed by by Peter Gabriel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Conspicuous by its Absence
While tending to the garden one balmy November,
Helping my mother wash the leaves of the dust,
And gently cut off the dead branches and flowers,
Spraying the ones still seeming bright and robust…
She picked some reeds lying by her side,
Puzzled, I asked what are these for mother.
They are for the infants of the garden my child,
They need support to grow and are called climbers.
Sweet pea is one garden flower of such a family,
So I am going to use these reeds to make a trellis.
By January, despite chill the flowers will be smiling gaily,
Soft hues, translucent, capricious and sweet scented...
They are really my favourite as they have no flamboyance,
Growing them is like meditation and needs a lot of patience.
Now, in gardens, they are conspicuous by their absence,
Perhaps because we like things with zero maintenance...
To thrive, plants or relationships need love and nurture
No wonder, they wilt and have an uncertain future....
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Home, Sweet Home
Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home;
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!
An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;
Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
The birds singing gayly, that come at my call --
Give me them -- and the peace of mind, dearer than all!
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!
I gaze on the moon as I tread the drear wild,
And feel that my mother now thinks of her child,
As she looks on that moon from our own cottage door
Thro' the woodbine, whose fragrance shall cheer me no more.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!
How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile,
And the caress of a mother to soothe and beguile!
Let others delight mid new pleasures to roam,
But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!
To thee I'll return, overburdened with care;
The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there;
No more from that cottage again will I roam;
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.
Home, home, sweet, sweet, home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!
poem by John Howard Payne
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2008: When You Let Sunlight Work On Your First Draft
We know why the old piece of paper is yellow
It's not because of overuse
With very little written on it
It's been set aside for so long
Not that anyone expected this page
To do anything by itself
He may have had high hopes
When he added a few black lines on white
If he had valued his work
Safely put it away
But it was left exposed
In a corner of the room
Right where the bright morning sun
Not slowed down by the thin glass
Did what he didn' t do
Finished turning the color of the paper
copyright 05-02-08
poem by Tom J. Mariani
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The Rover
Oh, how good it is to be
Foot-loose and heart-free!
Just my dog and pipe and I, underneath the vast sky;
Trail to try and goal to win, white road and cool inn;
Fields to lure a lad afar, clear spring and still star;
Lilting feet that never tire, green dingle, fagot fire;
None to hurry, none to hold, heather hill and hushed fold;
Nature like a picture book, laughing leaf and bright brook;
Every day a jewel bright, set serenely in the night;
Every night a holy shrine, radiant for a day divine.
Weathered cheek and kindly eye, let the wanderer go by.
Woman-love and wistful heart, let the gipsy one depart.
For the farness and the road are his glory and his goad.
Oh, the lilt of youth and Spring! Eyes laugh and lips sing.
Yea, but it is good to be
Foot-loose and heart-free!
II
Yet how good it is to come
Home at last, home, home!
On the clover swings the bee, overhead's the hale tree;
Sky of turquoise gleams through, yonder glints the lake's blue.
In a hammock let's swing, weary of wandering;
Tired of wild, uncertain lands, strange faces, faint hands.
Has the wondrous world gone cold? Am I growing old, old?
Grey and weary . . . let me dream, glide on the tranquil stream.
Oh, what joyous days I've had, full, fervid, gay, glad!
Yet there comes a subtile change, let the stripling rove, range.
From sweet roving comes sweet rest, after all, home's best.
And if there's a little bit of woman-love with it,
I will count my life content, God-blest and well spent. . . .
Oh but it is good to be
Foot-loose and heart-free!
Yet how good it is to come
Home at last, home, home!
poem by Robert William Service
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Fly home
Fly home there will be shine
with bright orange light
Fly home there will be sweet
with bright orange light
Fly home there will be caring
with bright orange light
Fly home there will be lovely
with bright orange light
Fly home there will be comfort
with bright orange light
Fly home there will be fortune
with bright orange light
Fly home there will be future
with bright orange light
Fly home Fly home to your nest
with bright orange light
poem by See Fee Lee
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Eye of the Tiger
Tiger, Tiger burning bright
hunts his prey by neon light
Real or bleached, you know the kind
big up front with a sweet behind..
Tiger, tiger, none too bright
Left his cell phone in plain sight
When Elin saw his contact list
She grabbed his driver in her fist.
Four hundred yards straight off the tee
Tiger drives that easily
But when his little wife went clubbing
His face and lawn both took a drubbing
Tiger Tiger burning bright
Doesn’t like the bright spotlight
Yet on his off days he’d resort
To pros who play a different sport
Tiger Tiger made a tape
of Tiger 'eagaling' his date
It came into the hands of 'Vivid'
If they release it he'll be Livid
Tiger, tiger lost Gillette
And Gatorade sent their regrets
Now he’s hawking Trojan’s Wares
and lady Clairol for Blonde hair.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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On occasion I have drawn as a release from painting. The economy in using paper, pencil, charcoal and crayon can help towards a greater gamble and higher rewards. I also find that drawing can generate ideas more rapidly than painting.
quote by William Scott
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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