A Wall For The Dead
Waiting with dread
for when
no longer a work in progress
the finished canvas
hangs on the wall
of the dead.
poem by Vince Gullaci
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
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
Vote! | Copy!
Work!
Work or no luck
If you don't have work
You get killed sitting still
Work or no luck
If you have too much work
You get killed struggling still
Work or no luck
If you finish fast
You get killed killing time
Work or no luck
If you don't finish on time
You get finished on time
Work or no luck
If you do well
You get recognized well
Work or no luck
If you do not do well
You get the pink paper wall
Work or no luck
If you are organized
You finish it on time
Work or no luck
If you are disorganized
You get finished on time
Work or no luck
If you are interested
Toughest becomes easy
Work or no luck
If you are not interested
Easiest thing becomes toughest
Work or no luck
If you are carving
You keep doing it great
Work or no luck
If you are not carving
You keep doing it a trait
Work or no luck
If you have work
You have luck
Work or no luck
If you have work
Still nothing to do
You have no luck
That's the fate of
Work or luck! ! ! !
poem by Umasree Raghunath
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Man Or Machine
Auto, bus, walking and sweating dermis,
somehow on time I reach my office.
work needs to be finished on time so I sit infront of computer.
breakfast time, toast, butter and tea glass,
hurriedly I eat, unaware it may appear boorish and crass.
work needs to be finished on time so I sit infront of computer.
lunch time, dosa containing rice, dal and yeast,
the way I eat can put to shame any wild beast.
work needs to be finished on time so I sit infront of computer.
till evening, I am tired, drowsy and dozy
but I skip the plan to go outside to have some tea.
work needs to be finished on time so I sit infront of computer.
My head aches, my eye burns
but I continue work amidst yawns.
work needs to be finished on time so I sit infront of computer.
Just before logout, I work with great pace,
with time I contest, compete and race.
work needs to be finished on time so a computer sits infront of computer.
Copyright reserved by the author
poem by Md. Asadullah
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To Talk And Not To 'Do
Show me the goal told.
Reveal this work in progress meant.
And I will be there...
With an intent to arrive,
Before your final touch has finished.
Show me the goal told...
And I will be there prepared,
Not to express critique.
But to share with you relief and pleasure.
A struggle to keep up,
Explanations to define a difference between delay...
And hesitation,
Has kept your ears hearing doubting from me.
I'm the one that wishes to see determination...
Not attitude.
I'd be proud and happy to see,
Anything completed that you set out to do.
I would if I were you!
Show me the goal told.
Reveal this work in progress meant.
And I will be there...
With an intent to arrive,
Before your final touch has finished.
I have a need to witness and believe it!
To talk and not to 'do' from you...
Is all that I've seen you show to tell.
And well.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Painted House Is Like A Poem.
In a way-A house painter is like a poet...
The house painter or average person just might not know it.
A lot of cleaning, sanding and preparation of the surface takes care and time...
Compositions, editing and thought polishes the rhyme.
When finished, they both are a work of art...
A lot of sweat and work is done by the artist's own part.
In the end, a finished polished piece...
Makes the artist, happy and at peace.
The work is finally done...
What hard work, finished-Now
feelings of enjoyed fun.
poem by Michael Gale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To the accountants, a true work of art is an investment that hangs on the wall.
Hilary Alexander in Sunday Telegraph (1993)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
If Heaven Were To Fall
I'm going crazy my world is turning hazy
I never realized how close it
was until this day
So changes, I missed them all believe me
I'll take the fall but damn it,
wish I could pray for you to stay
Aaah...
Why so suddenly, it sure took
time to see
Aaah...
Why should I believe, that you are
there for me
I see the writing on the wall and know
the way I want to go
And even if the heaven were to fall,
I'll still be waiting
I see the writing on the wall and
I just wanna let you know
That even if the heaven were to fall
I'll still be waiting
I'm waiting, I'm waiting, I'm gonna be waiting waiting...
This time I'm standning, I'm coming
in for landing
I wanna see if all the dreams
we have can be for real
No chances, I want you to believe me
I know it isn't easy, wish I could show you
how I feel
Aaah...
Why so suddenly, it sure took
time to see
Aaah...
Why should I believe
that you are there for me
I see the writing on the wall
and know the way I want to go
And even if the heaven were to fall
I'll still be waiting
I see the writing on the wall and
I just wanna let you to know
That even if the heaven were to fall
I'll still be waiting
I see the writing on the wall and even if heaven were to fall...
song performed by by E-type
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Imagination's Field
Within its bounds, naked canvas stretched.
Before the display, the lad stood.
Adorning the wall, ornate frame hangs.
In concentration, young man observes the void.
Forced by curiosity's command.
for the source of his deliberation.
I searched sans satisfaction,
In despair, I queried the youth.
“Sir, within empty frame you survey,
what do you perceive? ”
Without addressing me, responded.
“I see tall mountains, endless restless seas.”
“I see naught, for this frame's canvas is empty.
How might you see these sights? ”
He turned, facing me and remarked.
“Sir, within the frame, a great deal I see”
Sans the luxury of explanation, pointed at the title plate.
Upon small brass plaque,
beneath the frame, inscribed.
“Imagination’s Field”
29Oct10
poem by Kurt Hearth
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
When is a Painting Finished?
I paint.
On my easel
pictures in oil and acrylic grow
like stalagmites in limestone caves.
I think that painting is a magical act
that transforms invisible thoughts
and feelings into visible colors
and forms.
But I never can tell
when is the work finished.
After all it is always possible
to change a line, a hue, or a color
or even the whole composition.
Painters have different opinions
about this.
Some say that when the artist
successfully planted
all the details onto the canvas
the image expresses itself
as a severed autonomous entity,
which frees the painter from
the task of continuing to paint.
From then on the painting gains
an independent inner life of its own.
However, abandoning a work of art
involves a moral decision
ripened by the stiffening tension
between skill, creativity and integrity.
At what point does the polished image
meet the artist’s expectations?
And then, even if it does,
no single image can express
all that an artist wants to show,
and consequently his muses
compel him to carry on with his work
and create more paintings.
Hence the oeuvre of the artist
evolves as a set of different images
of the same single thrust and grind.
Many years ago I was wandering
through the countryside
of southern France in Provence.
Once I stopped to look at the road
where the village met the meadow.
A sturdy artist stood there
in front of his easel
painting the landscape
with skilful brushstrokes
on a well-stretched canvas.
I stared for a while
at the burgeoning picture
and then asked him:
“How do you know
when is the composition complete? ”
He gave me a piercing glance.
“Well”, he said,
“if you take a hammer
and hit me on the head
I know that the painting is finished.”
poem by Paul Hartal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The canvas
The canvas
~
This blank canvas before me
Laid out in pristine white
Where only the illusion of lines
Break the unparalleled possibility
Dare I take my pen to it
To scare forever its page
To pen the impossible thought
In verse and breath captivated
That only the mention of a word
Touches the heart and soul of man
Painted into eternity
Upon the canvas stained
No longer innocent, pristine
But touched by the mind
Whose eyes looked upon
A world as they chose to see it
poem by Matthew Holloway
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Long Afternoon Became Longer
THE LONG AFTERNOON BECAME LONGER
The long afternoon became longer-
Time had no end and boredom also-
We all know it will eventually pass
But in the middle we are marooned waiting
Without any idea whatsoever of what to do-
I write these lines because I know
Boredom too has its beauty-
And waiting for nothing also its dream-
And out of nowhere there may come
Long into the long afternoon
Far after all the work is done and nothing remains
While waiting is still going on
A small poem to break the monotony
And give meaning back to life.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Waiting For The Worms
Oooo you cannot reach me now,
Oooo no matter how you try.
Goodbye cruel world, its over.
Walk on by.
Sitting in a bunker,
Here behind my wall,
Waiting for the worms to come. ( worms to come. )
In perfect isolation,
Here behind my wall,
Waiting for the worms to come. ( worms to come. )
Waiting, to cut out the deadwood.
Waiting, to clean up the city.
Waiting, to follow the worms.
Waiting, to put on a black shirt.
Waiting, to weed out the weaklings.
Waiting, to smash in their windows and kick in their doors.
Waiting, for the final solution to strengthen the strain.
Waiting, to follow the worms.
Waiting, to turn on the showers and fire the ovens.
Waiting, for the queers and the coons and the reds and the jews.
Waiting, to follow the worms.
Would you like to see britannia,
Rule again, my friend?
All you have to do is follow the worms.
Would you like to send our colored cousins,
Home again, my friend?
All you need to do is follow the worms.
song performed by by Pink Floyd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The 'Art' In Me
They don't understand the 'art' in me.
The part of me that is 'art' creativity.
The process of it can not be explained.
It's not to be intellectualized...
Or minimalized
Because when it occurs,
It is like a birth one endures.
And pampers to insure,
A quality that is right...
Gives it life that excites
The very breath one breathes,
With such a welcoming ease.
~And no talking, coughing or sneezing
in the theater, please! This stuff is 'live'
And for your eyes only.~
'I've never had to pull a sculpture out of my behind,
So I can imagine the pain that artist suffers!
But the joy when the birthing has been completed.
A satisfaction comes and nothing else competes! '
A pen or paintbrush...
Camera or dancing legs!
On a canvas or bookpages,
In exhibition or on a stage.
Art is such a part of life...
The act of it does not go away with age!
Whoever accepts that is crazed!
And unfortunately today...
So many of us can say 'that'!
'That' we are!
Or...
'We are an 'abstract' work-in-progress! '
A progress that is 'art'.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Four Letter 'Work' Song
Work me up, work me out, work me flip side down.
Work me here, work me there, work me with renown.
Work me hot, work me greedy,
work me through and through.
Work me to the very marrow,
work me just like I'd work you.
Work me proud, work me late,
work me do not hesitate.
Won't you let me work for you?
Work me til I'm black and blue.
Work me steady, work me needy, work me to a lather.
Work me til my backbone breaks, and the buzzards gather.
Work me in, work me under, work me til I bleed,
Work me over red hot coals, work me like a boss in need.
Work me nasty, work me silly, work me through the clover.
Up down, 'n' in between, into a slipknot sweet Jehovah.
Work me, work me, go ahead.
Work me, work me, til I'm dead.
Buddy Bee Anthony
poem by Buddy Bee Anthony
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Way it is.....
When you work, work and work all through the weary week,
While waiting for the weekend all the while,
And when it does come slow and meek,
It leaves us soon, with a smile...
Why this injustice, why this state of mind?
'Tis not right, 'Tis not right I say,
when we work, time drags i find...
'Twere my wish, that it were some other way..
'Til I find, on one fine sunny day,
That my hands are now so weak...
While my dreams are scattered afar and astray...
What was once my future is suddenly here, so bleak!
'Tis my sincere wish, as it once was,
that instead of faith in destiny's hands;
I'd painted a little more colour to the canvas
And wrought my own future, like so many on Time's sands....
poem by Aigis Nalian
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Dead End Job
Words and music by The Police
I don't want no dead end job
I don't wanna be no number
I don't want no dead end job
I don't wanna be no number
The queue gets longer everyday
I just ain't no time to stay
I ain't gonna run away
All I want to do is play
Don't wanna be no teacher
I don't wanna be no slave
I don't wanna work no assembly line
A' like my uncle Dave
The queue gets longer everyday
I just ain't got time to stay
I ain't gonna run away
All I wanna do is play
I don't want no dead end job
I don't want no dead end job
I don't want no dead end job
I don't want no dead end job
I don't want no dead end job
I don't wanna be no number
I don't want no dead end job
I don't wanna be no number
The queue gets longer everyday
All I wanna do is play
I just ain't got time to stay
But I ain't gonna run away
Don't wanna be no millionaire
Don't wanna own no mint
I don't wanna be no tax exile
And I don't mind being skint
The queue gets longer every day
I just ain't got time to stay
I ain't gonna run away
All I wanna do is play
I don't want no dead end job
I don't want no dead end job
I don't want no dead end job
I don't want no dead end job
I don't want no dead end job
I don't wanna be no number
I don't want no dead end job
I don't wanna be no number
The queue gets longer everyday
I just ain't no time to stay
I ain't gonna run away
All I want to do is play
Don't wanna be no millionaire
Don't wanna own no mint
I don't wanna be no tax exile
And I don't mind being skint
The queue gets longer every day
I just ain't got time to stay
All I wanna do is play
I ain't gonna run away
I don't want no dead end job
I don't want no dead end job
I don't want no dead end job
I don't want no dead end job
(ad lib to fade
song performed by by Police
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Empty Canvas
the canvas is juxtaposition
images colour movement time
time shifts in thought shifts
empty mind space canvas
is whatever artist declares
canvas is painted to be
empty canvas is whatever
canvas is painted to be
endless pigment possibilities
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Book Mark
I remain
Where she left me
After she had finished reading.
No one leafed through the book of love
Time has coursed its way
Aeons have passed
But I remain entangled
In the inconclusive tale of love
Waiting for her to come back
And once again turn its pages
Get the story going again.
She was keen to progress in life
Desirous of
Glamour, fame, a bright career
How could she find time to read?
Accustomed to decorating shelves
With bric-a-brac and books
She knew
Nothing could be gained from old volumes
Except dried-up flower petals
Dead butterflies
Words, moth-eaten
Letters, hidden as mementoes
Names of some friends.
I remain
Where she left me
After she had finished reading
For I'm a memento too
A forgotten tale of past friendship
A symbol of memories, old and worn out
Sacred remorse of one-sided love
I remain
A peacock feather in a holy book
I do not have the luxury of tears.....!
(1988, Translated from the original Urdu by Satyapal Anand)
poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Desperation
I'm out of work.
There's a boilin' in my head.
I'm out of work.
The time has come I dread
to make a decision
'bout what I'm gonna do.
Shall I jump ship
and leave it all to you?
I've been walkin' the streets
tryin' to find some pay.
But all I ever find
at the end of my day
is tiredness and not one cent
to help me make my way.
I'm out of work.
There's a boilin' in my head.
I'm out of work.
Sometimes
I wish that I were dead.
poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Down in the dark
Down in the dark, it’s all in my head,
The pain the sorrow, all of the dread,
I want it to leave, but it wants to stay,
I try and I try, but he won’t go away,
There by day, there at night,
Saying the things, that fills me with fright,
I’m down in the dark, it fills my head,
The pain the sorrow, all of the dread,
He’s always around, lurking inside,
Watching; waiting, my hands are tied,
In my head, always near,
In my thoughts, building the fear,
Down in the dark, filling my head,
The pain the sorrow, all of the dread,
The pain; it grows, bursting within,
The dark; he’s back, with his terror filled grin,
“I’ll help”; he says, talking to me,
“I know what to do, just come and see, ”
Down in the dark, it filled my head,
The pain the sorrow, all of the dread,
My thoughts are violent, with sorrow in my chest,
I just close my eyes, and hope for the best,
He tells me good job, I’ll find the light,
But my life is ending, with the chill of the night.,
Dead in the dark, lost in my head,
No more pain or sorrow, not even dread….,
poem by Jacob Hill
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!