En.Citatepedia^®.ro

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Green Green Grass Of Home

The old hometown looks the same
As I step down from the train
And there to meet me is my mama and papa
And down the road I look and there runs Mary
Her golden lips like cherries
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, they've all come to meet me
Arms reaching, smiling sweetly
It's so good to touch the
Green, green grass of home.
The old house is still standing
Though the paint is cracked and dry
And there's that old oak tree that I used to play on
Down the lane I'd walk with my sweet Mary
Her golden lips like cherries
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home.
Yesm they've all come
Arms reaching, smiling sweetly
It's so good to touch the
Green, green grass of home.
Then I awake and look around me
At the gray walls that surround me
And I realized that I was only dreaming
For there's a guard and there's a sad old padre
Arm in arm, we'll walk at daybreak
Again I'll touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes they'll all come to see me
In the shade of that old oak tree
As they lay me neath the
Green, green grass of home...

song performed by by Kenny Rogers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Greeen Green Grass Of Home

The old home town looks the same,
As I step down from the train
And there to greet me is my mamma and my poppa
Down the road I look, and there runs Mary,
Hair of gold, lips like cherries,
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home
Yes, they'll all come to meet me, Arms a-reachin', smilin' sweetly,
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home
The old house is still standin,'Though the paint is cracked and dry
And there's that old oak tree, That I used to play on.
Down the lane I'll walk with my sweet Mary,
Hair of gold and lips like cherries
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home.
Then I awake and look around me,
At the four gray walls that surround me,
And I realize .Yes I was only dreaming,
For there's a guard and a sad old padre,
Arm in arm we'll walk at daybreak,
And at last I'll touch the green green grass of home

song performed by by Tom Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Green Green Grass Of Home

The old home town looks the same as I step down from the train,
And there to meet me is my mama and papa.
Down the road I look and there runs mary hair of gold and lips like cherries.
Its good to touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, theyll all come to meet me, arms reaching, smiling sweetly.
Its good to touch the green, green grass of home.
The old house is still standing tho the paint is cracked and dry,
And theres that old oak tree I used to play on.
Down the lane I walk with my sweet mary, hair of gold and lips like cherries.
Its good to touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, theyll all come to meet me, arms reaching, smiling sweetly.
Its good to touch the green, green grass of home.
[spoken:]
Then I awake and look around me, at four grey wall surround me
And I realize that I was only dreaming.
For theres a guard and theres a sad old padre -
Arm in arm well walk at daybreak.
Again I touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, theyll all come to see me in the shade of that old oak tree
As they lay me neath the green, green grass of home

song performed by by Tom Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Paint my eyes in flowers

paint my hands in dragons
paint my back in windings
paint my arms in lightening
paint my neck in anks
my forehead intricate lines
paint my shoulder butterflies
paint my heart in henna
in henna of red in henna of black
body paint my heart

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Portrait of Rachel Fayne

She glided into the studio
And dropped her clothes on the floor,
Gave the artist a pirouette,
And said: 'Do you want any more? '
He shrugged, and told her to take a seat
While he etched the background in,
'I'll paint you draped on the canapé,
I'll tell you, when I begin! '

She wandered naked around the room,
At home in the artist's den,
Rachel Fayne was the model's name,
She'd modelled since she was ten.
From auburn hair to her shapely calves
She'd stared from a hundred scenes,
That hung in frames under different names
As a slave, or a Gypsy Queen.

Her lips were full and her eyes were green,
They'd startled men in the past,
Staring from frames in the galleries,
In the windows of shops they passed,
So haughty and so beautiful,
And beyond the reach of men,
Yet here she'd bare, for all to share
Through the brush in the artist's den!

She hadn't sat for John Durrell
Before, but she knew his work,
The famous 'Woman of Paddington',
The 'Girl by the Friendly Kirk, '
His 'Venus under the Waterfall' -
Her heart had skipped a bit,
As she stared green-eyed in her wounded pride,
Would he never ask her to sit?

The summons came through a friend of hers,
'Be there, first thing in the morn! '
She'd bathed, and powdered her body well
By the light of the breaking dawn,
For John Durrell was a master, skilled
And she knew it would seal her fame,
To be tied to an R.A. masterpiece,
And the famous Durrell name.

'Don't ask too many questions, he's
Intense, and immersed in paint,
He's hard and cold, and inclined to scold
If you don't sit still, or faint,
He'll look at you like a curlicue,
An enigma of line and form,
His passion is brushed in his pictures,
So, it won't keep your body warm! '

He laid her out on the canapé
And took up his sable brush,
Mixed the tint on his palette there,
For the flesh tones, and the blush,
He worked with a growing intensity
And he frowned, as if in pain,
As he brought the features to life within
The portrait of Rachel Fayne.

She wasn't to see the canvas, he
Would cover it, out of sight,
Before she dressed, and took her fee,
Was bundled into the night,
Each day she lay on the canapé,
Each day he'd frown and paint,
'There's something isn't quite right, ' he'd say,
In a tone of quiet constraint.

While Rachel felt there was something wrong
With her, a cold or flu,
Perhaps it was her complexion,
It had taken a lighter hue,
She felt quite sick to her stomach,
Couldn't eat, and her sight was dim,
But he'd continued on painting, so
She held her sickness in.

While there on the painted canvas was
A beauty, so profound,
Her eyes of the deepest green, that seemed
To follow him around,
The lips were a pouting marvel,
Breathing life to the easel there,
Durrell becoming excited with
Each brush stroke through her hair.

His heart was beating much faster with
Each stroke applied anew,
The love that cozened, eluded him
Began to seep on through,
While Rachel gasped to take each breath
And couldn't speak, or think,
As the woman within the picture, well...
Her eyes, they seemed to blink!

The canvas facing the furthest wall
Belongs to John Durrell,
The first and the only portrait that
He swears he'll never sell,
For where the woman had been, is white,
No paint was left behind,
And Rachel Fayne, before she died,
They say that she was blind!

22 January 2010

poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Canvas

Oh how she loves her canvas,
The stories that it tells.
Oh how she loves to paint her thoughts,
And etch a perfect spell.

Oh how she loves her canvas,
The memories that it holds.
Oh how she loves to trace the lines,
And tell if new or old.

Oh how she loves her canvas,
Her stability in an unstable world.
Oh how she loves to fret away,
At all of her unfurled.

Oh how she loves her canvas,
A standstill of art and truth.
Oh how she loves the feel of it,
To reminisce her youth.

Oh how she loves her canvas,
A long work of her life.
Oh how she loves the twisted colors,
Splashes of red upon white.

Oh how she loves her canvas,
She crafts each inch with care.
She hides her canvas well away,
Though she often earns a stare.

Do not tell of her canvas,
Keep the secret- she insists.
But perhaps some time take a second glance,
For her canvas is her wrist.

poem by Dayna Mortimore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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Last Man Standing

Come see a living, breathing spectacle only seen right here
It's your last chance in this lifetime, the line forms to the rear
You won't believe your eyes
Your eyes will not believe your ears
Get your money out, get ready
Step right up, yeah you, come here
You ain't seen nothing like him, the last one of his breed
You better hold on to your money, honey
Honeys, don't forget to breathe
Enter at your own risk, mister
It might change the way you think
There's no dancers, there's no diamonds
No, this boy don't lip synch
Chorus:
Here's the last man standing
Step right up, here's the real thing
The last chance of a lifetime
Come and see, hear, feel the real thing
See those real live calloused fingers wrapped around those guitar strings
Kiss the kips where hurt has lingered
It breaks your heart to hear him sing
The songs were more than music, they were pictures from his soul
So keep your pseudo-punk, hip-hop, pop-rock junk
And your digital downloads
Chorus:
Here's the last man standing
Step right up, here's the real thing
The last chance of a lifetime
Come and see, hear, feel the real thing
Take your seats, now folks - it's showtime
Hey, Patrick, hit the lights
There's something in the air, there's magic in the night
Now here's the band, the really play
I'll count the first one in
I don't know where it's going
We all know where it's been
Chorus:
The last man standing
Step right up, here's the real thing
The last chance of a lifetime
To come and see, hear, feel
The last man standing
Step right up, here's the real thing
The last chance of a lifetime
Come and see, hear, feel the real thing, the real thing, the real thing

song performed by by Bon Jovi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Green, Green Grass Of Home

(words & music by claude putman, jr.)
The old home town looks the same,
As I step down from the train,
And there to meet me is my mama and papa
Down the road I look and there runs mary
Hair of gold and lips like cherries
Its good to touch the green, green grass of home
Yes, theyll all be there to meet me,
All creatures smiling sweetly
Its good to touch the green, green grass of home
The old house is still standing,
Though the paint is cracked and dry
And theres an old oak tree that I used to play on
Down the lane Ill walk with my sweet mary
Hair of gold and lips like cherries
Its good to touch the green, green grass of home
Then I awake and look around me
Cold gray walls surround me
And I realize that I was only dreamin
Theres a guard and theres a sad old padre
Arm and arm well walk at daybreak
Again Ill touch the green, green grass of home
Yes, theyll all be there to meet me
In the shadow of that old oak tree
As they lay me beneath the green, green grass of home

song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Paper Thin

There could be this kiss between us
you and I too
would want it to be memorable
but how to make it so
or predict soft lip outcomes?

I would want the feel of you against me
and you?
I would want deep ocean eyes
to skinny dip in
and you?

It is the giving I crave
the willingness
and the lostness of you

within me
and within you.

Perhaps you would like to feel
the hardness I'd give.

Perhaps you would like to feel the power and
a shared sense of powerlessness we'd generate
and mutually melting hearts.

You could step one step closer here.

I'll not move
because that would prick the mesmorizingh
I'll not speak
since words distract from our body talking
which is dominant here.

So here we have the who is kissing who
I you,
or you I,
or we;
the taking and the savoring
the giving and the needing
the breathing and the breathless
the indefinable mix.

Mystery here
is paper thin
a heart away
and mixing
panting hearts and destiny
mine
and yours.
But thought is the least of it
because your lips
stroke my kiss
and I am lost
and the reach of it
is here on paper
paper thin.
Should one kiss
poetry?

poem by Lonnie Hicks
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Famous Movie Poem - Citizen Kane

rosebud, how much
secret can you hide
away in a rosebud?
your muse, his
exquisite eyes, lips,
hands and fingers?
an unrequited
relationship?
taking a friend's
dear one for an
afternoon of
sensual ride shoving
and turning between
an ocean of pleasure
and a torn conscience
hard as a 20-year lie
tossed between words
in a newspaper run
by a megalomaniac?

rosebud how much love
can you hold in a rosebud?
all the night fantasies rolled
up tight, kept warm between
heart racing bossoms, entertwined
desires that blend like fragrance and
scents to drive up yearnings for
physical adventures and the fluid
and stimulating verses pouring
out of your systems

rosebuds, where would you
find them most appealing?
a virgin pink at her lips
soft and shy at heart
and a longing held tight
as petals waiting for the
perfect moment to unveil
its charm, splendour
a heart waiting for the
right moment to leap
into another

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Pink

A blush of pink:
She'd caught a roving eye -
He gave a wink.
Her smile had played a shy
And quaint florescence;
The siren of pubescence
Drew him in.

She bade him touch her hair,
Suggesting that he dare
To kiss her pulsing lips!
E'er the fool a man, he did:
The drips of blood began to cheer -
And so, another rid:

Tips of fangs are sharp, you know -
Dancing ivory feeds her soul -
See her claim a howl upon a chilling wind!

Slain, he lay across a crimson floor:
She grinned in her repletion.

A blush of pink;
Beneath a glowering sky
Her savoured drink
Was done.

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010

pink pink pink pink pink pink her blush
pink pink pink pink pink pink her blush
pink pink pink pink pink pink her blush
pink pink pink pink pink pink

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Author's Inspiration

My fingers do not type the words on the page; they do not draw delusions on a thin piece of white lined paper. They are not meant for the works of art to be used and unworthy for. My fingers are worthy enough to paint pictures inside your cognizance, more than painting a paintless sheet that means nothing to me. My fingers work as if every picture I paint in my mind, inspires them to write the unwritten page, to make it a master piece. But not every inspiration inside my mind, will take merely a second to create. It takes time, patience, and art to smear the writings onto a page. Author inspiration is from what comes from the heart; deep and dark, inspring and light - it's as if it was left inside its cage. No freedom, no light, no darkness, no being of a creature that the render of the paper, simply gave up on inspiring the little ones'. It's as if this mere creature was left within a white blank world. No colors to paint, no words to express. An author inspiration is formed when they see or hear other works of art, whether it's music to their ears, movies they wish to be in, life and feelings that they feel or positioned in, or other writings that they write something else about - but as an inspiration from them. An inspiration can be from anything from the outside world, from what happens inside one's life, to what creates such imagination within one's thoughts that coats the page with color and creativity. Anyone can be talented. Anyone can have an inspiration. You just have to feel and be it.

poem by Alicia Meyers
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Step Into These Shoes

Step into these shoes feel this heart
Step into these shoes they might fit you
See through these eyes might be the same view
If Id lived through the same things as you
Id share the laughs, and cry the tears that you do
Chorus
Step into these shoes and feel this heart
Step into these shoes no reason to fight
Look into m mind it might fit you
Act out this part is it so different to you
Even if we dont ever agree
The only difference is cosmetically
Step into these shoes no reason to fight
Step in step into these shoes and feel this heart
Just feel my heart it beats with you
We float downstream in the same canoe
You might find the ocean faster than me
But Ill see it eventually
Step into these shoes and feel this heart
Step into these shoes no reason to fight
Step into these shoes and feel this heart
Oh feel this heart please feel it
Step into these shoes and feel this heart oh feel
This heart please feel it
Step into these shoes and feel this heart
Step in step into these shoes no reason to fight
Step in step into these shoes and feel this heart
Step in step into these shoes no reason to fight anymore
Feel this heart oh feel it
Step in step into these shoes no reason to fight

song performed by by Howard Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ocean Blue

Your eyes, blue like the ocean.
Our love, as big as the ocean.
My fingers run through your hair like fish through water.
When you touch me, a serge runs through me, like a jelly-fish sting.
When your lips close on mine, its like being in the jaws of a Great White Shark.
Your hair blows in the brezze like waves in the ocean.
But it all leads back to your eyes- blue like the ocean.

poem by Jessica Popham
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Putting in the seed

Your body is soft and hot
where you lie,
stretched out on the bed.

Every part of your body
draws my eyes
and somehow there’s more,
than just need and lust
that awakes between us.

Two mounts with tipped peaks
rise up and down
and respond to soft touch
and your neck is slender
and slim under my lips.

You shiver as I touch your ears
and something in your eyes
make my manhood raise
and your soft fingers
lingers magically over me.

A curling patch
with tuffs of black hair
draws my fingers,
down to the hot and soft intensity
of becoming part of you.

a Hallowed moment hangs
between us
and when I enter you
there’s magic,
that envelops me
and we twist and rise
and sway
and your cries and moans
drives me wild
and I feel you shudder
under me
and the seed frizzes out.

Moments drag on and on
and I am putting the seed
into fertile ground
and I hear you breathe
and feel your heart beat
as part of me
and I am yours
and your hair brushes
soft and tickling
over my cheek
and there’s sparks
deep down in your golden eyes
and somehow I can feel God
in the love between us.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Pink Pink

pink pink
Confirmed that it was armed
pink pink
Was right to be alarmed
pink pink
Ensured that nought was harmed
pnk pink
Steady hand and mind
pink pink
Micro-chip designed
pink pink
The password was declined
pink pink
Another course to take
pink pink
Caution not to shake
pink pink
Captivity a mistake
pink pink
Beads upon the brow
pink pink
Experience the how
pink pink
No chance to turn back now
pink pink
Be certain not to slip
pink pink
One last wire to snip
pink pink
Two hearts that skip a beat
penk penk
The sound that gives a lift
penk penk
Time to collect the gift
penk penk
The robbery will be swift

poem by Chris Dawson
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Like An Animal

One mile in the air that's where she lives
Her body looks so thin and pink and small
Dropping eggs from nervous shaking hands
And swallowing her fingers as they fall
Two people dance on the edge:three of us push them away
There's nowhere to go we're all in this
But nothing can hurt us at all
Fight her all you want you'll never win
Couldn't we just once leave her in bed
Let the dry air cut her happy throat
Hide her heart and lose her happy head
First i was a murderer then i was a saint
Now i live on stolen time twist and run like paint
Like an animal
Tuesday in the sun nothing could be worse
Not now not ever not anymore....

song performed by by Cure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Marriage Ceremony

i know even for the very first time that i have seen them.
when the groom lifted the white veil to kiss
her lips
she hesitated to close her eyes
his lips did not tremble in
excitement
at the last second when his lips touched
hers
he closed his eyes but very briefly
the touch was minimal
and then he took away love
back into his mouth
reverberating to his heart
where
indifference is beginning to
seed.

how i wish i could understand this ritual
this institution
of fusion where energy can not
and can never
be stored
potential at all.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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