En.Citatepedia^®.ro

My Poor King In His Shanties Who Applies For A Coffin Maker?

No need a scaffolding, a studio
for my new painting and a paint brush
paint or a big canvas?
I use my thumb for shading,
on a throw away news paper
with few pastels that belongs to my grandson
I draw my new king with a big moustache
and a dead fly on his chin as a birth mark?
A cigarette butt fitted to his mouth
tittled as 'My poor King in his shanties
who applies for a coffin maker? '
He reads of Picasso, George Braque
Modiglianni & Van Gogh?
I was not influenced by Cubism or Surrealism
Capitalism or Socialism
But only Humanism with a mug of cheap Milwaukee bitter Beer?

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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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‘Cubism’ Picasso

‘cubism’ picasso
‘cubism’ unique
‘cubism’ genius

‘cubism’ creativity
‘cubism’ individuality
‘cubism’ spontaneity

generating
provoking
ani mating

impulses
internalizes
influen ces

it is us?
or it is trying too hard?
or a mind merges?

poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This Picasso Imaginable Thing...

two faces of a woman 7: 32 AM

ah 7: 32 AM






picasso 7: 32 AM

mooo 7: 32 AM
ah 7: 33 AM
is that what it is 7: 33 AM
pain and happiness? 7: 33 AM
wa ko kabalo ana 7: 33 AM






picasso has a painting of a woman with two faces 7: 33 AM

i hav seen picasso's work 7: 33 AM






havent you seen it? 7: 33 AM

never realized that 7: 33 AM
yes cubism 7: 33 AM






he explained that to me while we were in barcelona spain 7: 34 AM
(har har har) 7: 34 AM

hahahha 7: 34 AM
good one 7: 34 AM






poor bald picasso 7: 34 AM

travel jud ang mind 7: 34 AM






still having lots of erections despite his ugly legs 7: 34 AM

mao ba? 7: 35 AM
hoe did u know that/ 7: 35 AM
how 7: 35 AM






the indefatigable picasso 7: 35 AM

wow 7: 35 AM






we were in the brothels of paris with alexander pope 7: 35 AM

hahaah 7: 35 AM
mahilig jud ang artist no 7: 35 AM






honestly, i have the book 7: 35 AM

good 7: 36 AM






the writers in europe sometimes find themselved in reunion and communion with whores and drink red whores beer together 7: 36 AM

yes! Edgar Degas too 7: 37 AM
my fav

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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Paint The Town Redneck

(richard fagan/steve obrien)
All week long I been workin that nine to five
Dreamin in color but livin in black and white
Monday to friday aint nothing but shades of gray
But tonight Im gonna party
All my blue collar blues away
Im a paint the town redneck when I get my paycheck
You ought to see my chevy van go
Headin for the bright lights, Ill be painting all night
Im a honky tonkin michelangelo
Picasso with a pool stick
Too loose with a two step
Rollin till my greens all gone
Im a paint the town redneck
Honey wanna come along
We can get there early
And draw us a pitcher of beer
Do a little dancin and make the blues disappear
Brushin up against each other in the neon light
You can be my mona lisa and Ill make you smile tonight
Im a paint the town redneck when I get my paycheck
You ought to see my chevy van go
Headin for the bright lights, Ill be painting all night
Im a honky tonkin michelangelo
Picasso with a pool stick
Too loose with a two step
Rollin till my greens all gone
Im a paint the town redneck
Honey wanna come along
Im a paint the town redneck
Honey wanna come along

song performed by by John Michael Montgomery
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sunflowers After Sex.

After the sex she stood
In front of the Van Gogh
Painting and gazed. Never
Saw that last night, she said.
It was dark, Max replied.
She touched the painting
With her fingers. Why have
A painting of flowers when
You can go out and buy some?
She asked. They last longer this
Way, he replied. So did you
Paint this? She asked in a state
Of semi undress, her eyes sleepy,
Her hair in a mess. No, Van Gogh
Did, he replied. Is he a friend of
Yours? She asked rubbing her breasts.
He sighed and shook his head. No,
Van Gogh painted that many years
Ago, now he’s dead. It’s a bit yellow,
She said, looking at the painting
Closer, what are those yellow flowers
Supposed to be? Sunflowers, he said,
They’re big flowers; people grow them
For real. She raised her eyebrows and
Pulled a face. What about that drink?
She asked. Sure, Max replied pouring
Her gin in a tall glass. She took, sipped
And winked an eye. What about more
Sex? She sighed. Sure, Max, looking at
Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, boringly replied.

poem by Terry Collett
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You Only Paint The Picture Once

(Teddy Gentry/Randy Owen/Ronnie Rogers/Greg Fowler)
Look at those evening shadows
Casting a peaceful light
The sun is disappearing
It's a beautiful sight
Moments caught forever
By the master's touch
A lasting reminder
To us
You only paint the picture once
(And) you only get one chance
Take the time to do your best
While the brush is in your hand
Make sure it's just right
Before the colors dry
You can't change it once it's done
You only paint the picture once
Love is the canvas
That's where it all starts
A lifetime together
Becomes a work of art
Just look what's been created
Between your heart and mine
Oh I believe that we're one of a kind
You only paint the picture once
(And) you only get one chance
Take the time to do your best
While the brush is in your hand
Make sure it's just right
Before the colors dry
You can't change it once it's done
You only paint the picture once
It's a portrait of life
You can't live it twice
You only paint the picture once

song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cubic Picasso Cubism

'Cubism quanta measureless'
is another reality perception phrase
reality surreal continues voyages
was not ‘'Cubism' Picasso’ written
reflecting upon our earlier conversation?
does not our regular discussion upon art
all realities before between after
not enrich perceptive worlds thoughts art
does not Picasso emotion inflict our souls?

poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A poor artist who wants to hide

He wants to express his grievances and inner feelings
on a torn canvas piece.
He owns a hairless brush and few stuck paint tubes with him
and he mix them with sweat and tears.
This incomplete abstract painting
(A toothless man cries and a ballistic missile enters to his opened mouth) .
he named as 'Poverty stricken'.
He search for a place to hide on the exhibition day.

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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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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A Canvas For A Crust

Aye, Montecelli, that's the name.
You may have heard of him perhaps.
Yet though he never savoured fame,
Of those impressionistic chaps,
Monet and Manet and Renoir
He was the avatar.

He festered in a Marseilles slum,
A starving genius, god-inspired.
You'd take him for a lousy bum,
Tho' poetry of paint he lyred,
In dreamy pastels each a gem: . . .
How people laughed at them!

He peddled paint from bar to bar;
From sordid rags a jewel shone,
A glow of joy and colour far
From filth of fortune woe-begone.
'Just twenty francs,' he shyly said,
'To take me drunk to bed.'

Of Van Gogh and Cezanne a peer;
In dreams of ecstasy enskied,
A genius and a pioneer,
Poor, paralysed and mad he died:
Yet by all who hold Beauty dear
May he be glorified!

poem by Robert William Service
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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La Guernica '33 Dais

title international headlines
wait for Blitzkrieg lightning war billing
music is city-busting pounding...

at chaos echo empty wall standing
Pablo Picasso is impaled screams hearing
dictatorship carpet bombing falling...

'Antonio Banderas
Is Going To Be One
Sexy Pablo Picasso'

maybe an Oscar win
in dramatic movie '33 Dais'
(33 Days) ? Antonio

will act staged part
swear blood dripping paint
perhaps even realize

a sexy Picasso
in grasped psyche
mind strokes

but as for impaled painting
La Guernica other artists
have already soul possessed

protest painting
in mind spaces
war illuminating

poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Signboard

I will paint you a sign, rumseller,
And hang it above your door;
A truer and better signboard
Than ever you had before.
I will paint with the skill of a master,
And many shall pause to see
This wonderful piece of painting,
So like the reality.

I will paint yourself, rumseller,
As you wait for that fair young boy,
Just in the morning of manhood,
A mother’s pride and joy.
He has no thought of stopping,
But you greet him with a smile
And you seem so blithe and friendly,
That he pauses a chat awhile.

I will paint you again, rumseller,
I will paint you as you stand,
With a foaming glass of liquor
Extended in your hand.
He wavers, but you urge him –
Drink, pledge me just this one!
And he takes the glass and drains it,
And the hellish work is done.

And next I will paint a drunkard –
Only a year has flown,
But into that loathesome creature
The fair young boy has grown.
The work was sure and rapid.
I will paint him as he lies
In a torpid, drunken slumber,
Under the wintry skies.

I will paint the form of the mother
As she kneels at her darling’s side,
Her beautiful boy that was dearer
Than all the world beside.
I will paint the shape of a coffin
Labelled with one word – ‘Lost’
I will paint all this, rumseller,
And will paint it free of cost.

The sin and the shame and the sorrow,
The crime and the want and the woe
That are born there in your workshop,
No hand can paint, you know
But I’ll paint you a sign, rumseller,
And many shall pause to view
This wonderful swinging signboard,
So terribly, fearfully true.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sign-Board

I will paint you a sign, rumseller,
And hang it above your door;
A truer and better signboard
Than ever you had before.
I will paint with the skill of a master,
And many shall pause to see
This wonderful piece of painting,
So like the reality.

I will paint yourself, rumseller,
As you wait for that fair young boy,
Just in the morning of manhood,
A mother's pride and joy.
He has no thought of stopping,
But you greet him with a smile,
And you seem so blithe and friendly,
That he pauses to chat awhile.

I will paint you again, rumseller,
I will paint you as you stand,
With a foaming glass of liquor
Extended in your hand.
He wavers, but you urge him-
Drink, pledge me just this one!
And he takes the glass and drains it,
And the hellish work is done.

And next I will paint a drunkard-
Only a year has flown,
But into that loathsome creature
The fair young boy has grown.
The work was sure and rapid.
I will paint him as he lies
In a torpid, drunken slumber,
Under the wintry skies.

I will paint the form of the mother
As she kneels at her darling's side,
Her beautiful boy that was dearer
Than all the world beside.
I will paint the shape of a coffin,
Labeled with one word-'lost,'
I will paint all this, rumseller,
And will paint it free of cost.

The sin and the shame and the sorrow,
The crime and the want and the woe
That are born there in your workshop,
No hand can paint, you know.
But I'll paint you a sign, rumseller,
And many shall pause to view
This wonderful swinging signboard,
So terribly, fearfully true.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dream Images

if I painted pictures
I would paint dream images
I would paint visions of inner mind's eye
I would paint life in veils swirling kaleidoscopic moods
I would paint canvasses imprinting fabric expanding universes

poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Symbolist Blood Cubism's

tone deaf paint strokes
powerfully counting skeletons
symbolist blood cubism's

poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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