painting
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Every art movement has become home decor, even abstract expressionism, which in it's beginning had life.
This is the only way the public could make sense of it,
as something to fill space, otherwise not much else.
Once there stood a wanderer
Above a sea of fog;
A silhouette on alpine perch
Built of jumbled rock.
He watched the wispy vaspor spray,
Like cresting waves,
Caressing ships of stone,
Were I to write a starry, Starry Night
Or a perfect Degas ballerina set to rhyme
If poetry from me flowed like Monet’s water lilies glowed
I would have happily stayed theresleeping in my airless candreaming in the silent darknesswith not a concern in the world
Look at all the rainbows in the water
She said
As she stared
Look at all the blues held in the skyline
She said
As she dreamed
Here let all my visions fly
Let me just paint the sky
A Joan Mitchell painting
a "lady painter"
splashes of color fly across the canvas
a fearless slash of cadmium red
against a meditating field of frosty blue
created by a woman
overshadowed by men
When the rain falls on to the asphalt
And petrichor smells erupt,
I'll remember the cloudy days spent in my room,
My mind full of inspirations and ambition
To create a beautiful painting.
Every petal painted pink and prime,Green leaves arranged with perfect symmetry,A few bright shades with which to tell a life,And yet a yearning in the purity. Structure formed and inside wholly planned,Meticulously minding every speck,Ideal distri
It moves, it watches;
lays plastered on the wall;
it mesmerizes the audience;
from there, it envokes many meanings;
from critics, who hate it;
to fans who adore it;
for in itself it is just a painting;
The cold whirled into the room,
The breeze freezing the poor mans toes.
A sigh rattles in his chest,
His fingers strum the strings of his guitar.
Inner folded
prematurely molded
time is tempted
to be bolded
small strokes of gentle wires to the face
The frame evokes a forecful fire
at waters pace
The endless pages of my sketchbook are filled with ducks
Big ducks
Small ducks
White ducks
Purple ducks
And eerily incomplete ducks
Decay in the earth of all living things.
Just not here,
where the cold keeps the flesh safe,
maybe not from those ravenous beings,
I walked ruthlessly through the hall with a slight ringing in my ears
It was as if I was being pushed and pushed to meet my final destination
My muse, my mentor was reaching near
The warm and stiff Summer air,
The gentle dance of the golden stems,
And the blue home placed on the horizon
Are beaming in the sunlight.
Mr. Sean,
you are the coolest person I know.
When I met you, your hair had a streak of electric blue
and it was the most badass thing I’d ever seen,
If a picture is worth a thousand words
A poem is worth a thousand pictures
A thousand realities lie in carefully crafted lines
To some, the word alone brings feelings of peace
a pristine splotch of fuschia / a flawless splatter
of ruby / the radiant smudges of sunlight pure as
a virgin / the poignant aroma of rose petals /
At Mark’s Painters Adelaide we fully offer comprehensive domestic painting to all our clients needing the service in Adelaide and its environs.
'Twas mid-day when I sat
Ready with paint and brush and all that.
Upon the stool I sat brush in hand
But like a bowl of lentils plain, my mind 'twas bland.
Minute after minute, hour after hour
Go to a museum and look at a painting
Observe it carefully…you got it? Good
Now close your eyes and describe the painting
Did it have meaning? How was the technique?
Was the artist famous? Did you feel any emotions?
She painted a picture
Charcoal on her hands
caressing the lines of his back.
The curves
Water to her brush
Over the white canvas
Blank and patient
Quiet
Waiting
An empty canvas,
Is as a book with blank pages;
So what use are these colours?
If it's as a reader yearns for more chapters.
Your favorite medium was painting.Your favorite paint, my bloodBecause it came from the very heart beating for you.I always knew you had thorns,I just always assumed that they were for protecting me.
Wiser hands with more experience mold younger ones into shapes
positions designed to mimic their own
The paintbrush between my hands is not angled quite like hers
She makes a single, long stroke across the white page
I knew a boy who liked to paint,
each piece a tessselation,
a labyrinth
of color and jagged edges.
Some so loud
I cowered, hands over ears,
others hushed
like petals on a flower
falling.
I’ve traced the veins up your arms
The angles of your jaw
The slope of your cheekbones
The basin of your forehead
The curves of your sides
The length of your limbs
Over and over
Again and again
Looking upon the white void before me
An infinite field of endless possibility
A blank slate to build any kind of world of my desire
I run my hand over the blank sheet of paper that makes me feel free
I am the illustrator
The masterpiece creator
The doodler
Subjective art form translator
Visionary artist
Paint
Smooth and shiny
Vibrant colors, make me happy
The way it easily stains the canvas
Expresses my inner emotions and thoughts
Calming me, and yet firing me up
I love paint, and paint loves me
An exhale of relief when the brush hits the paper
How the paint flows about like the blood in my veins
Connected we are through things unseen
Tension release is now the pop art theme
A painter knows it's love
When they see the art in everything you do.
When they know you're a masterpiece
And they want to study every inch of you.
When they want to feel your every edge
i can feel it
in a place in me there isn't a name for yet
somewhere between my heart and diaphragm.
sort of takes up this space that’s otherwise lightless.
something happens without me knowing
Tall, stone and gray,
We walk into the dull box-shaped building.
Inside looks the same.
Where is the color? Where is the art?
A sign reads “Monet”.
Your eyes remind me of Monet'sImpression, sunrise. Like standing by the water,At five o'clock in the morning,Sea breeze and an oversized sweater. Full of promise and new beginnings.Like rays of light dancing on the harbor.Salty air and messy hair
Without painting I would be
Stranded in a world
Without color.
Without drawing
I am nothing
but a segment
on a timeline.
Without crafting
Time is wasted
Art;
the (blood rushing through
my veins, painting me with color in this
gray, flavorless world)
ability to
take your brok-
en, s e n s e l e s s,
s
c
a
I am slowly changing like a painting manipulated and altered by multiple artists. The artists and I grow old together. My tattered corners must add some character to me, right?
When the canvas is done,
My heart has won
All the paint consumes me,
Can they just let me be
Wishing to follow my own path,
But they want me to pursue in math
I know I carry potential,
She lies on a colorless bed, remaining silent
Her chest rises and falls softly, the rest of her body motionless
Strange, bulky machines occasionally beep, randomly stirring the silence
So young, so innocent
Time.
It has grown
these knarreled
and misshapen oaks.
It has ravaged
and swelled
these grey grey graveyards.
And it faded
the once
great abbey into
Sometimes I wish
I was a Painter.
To play God in my
Own little world.
To create the colors
Of a Universe only
I have been to.
That only I know.
Sometimes I wish
He noticed me and picked up a brush;
he is his canvas.
He was missing a few stripes
and wanted to fill them in.
Black streaks fly across the painting;
the strokes looked almost skin like.
It was there,
Always there.
In the long studio,
In the one room apartment,
In the new house,
In the green living room.
It was always there.
In the second spring
The Old Masters paint ladies with rough horsehair brushes
and treat them with noxious turpentine.
Palette of gray starts the scene,
Hinting white, but never leaving black.
Find a section, add more white.
Now a drop of yellow, a touch of blue
Blending and dabbing, and then lastly,
We men have painted in blood a small, disproportionate portrait of our God.
Predestination of life and damnation,
One trail but two gates for the will-less cattle, and
Segregation by herds
She tried drawing herself as a lover on the canvas of his mind
He erased all her sketches when her called her just a friend
With one innocent word, she knew it was over then
I think far too often
There's no room for all of it in my bone skull
Some get pushed out into words
Mostly the shallow, people pleasing, floating on the surface things that human conversation lives off of
Life is like a painting,
we add more to it each day.
Forming different stories,
in many different ways.
Life is like a pianting,
for problems we'll defeat.
Adding definition and value,
Now that summer washed away,
and school is in full swing,
I realized there's no time to play,
or warmth until this spring.
I must look beyond the gray,
and look for all that's good,
I found my long lost twin in France. Hanging in an art museum.
She is pale with long curly red hair. Like me.
She is a goddess, born out of a shell from the sea.
Not like me.
The world is a canvas
And nature is the painting
All the colors flow together
To create a beautiful picture
The location determines the temperature
While the seasons pick the colors
Why do we need to do what the teacher tells us to draw?
Aslong as I put effort and make an art like creation,
I should get an A in art.
I touched brush to paint,
Paint to canvas.
Poured thoughts, feelings and emotions,
At every dab,
At every stroke.
Permeate it with life!
Saturate with color!
Drench it in richness!
My mother of Resolution
A mother of hope
A listener of wisdom
My detective of crime
Understanding of all imperfections
Loving, caring, compassionate
I have two hands and a brush
And a silver palette filled
With many colors lush
That I swirl and I swill.
My brush I drag across and down.
Black drips into white
I couldn't help it, I couldn't.The colors wouldnt workYou couldn't get along with the others.You thrashed without movingI could not keep you.
Cold, chilly, windy, wet,
I watch as the rain flies by.
Quiet, calm, warm, cozy,
I sit in my room and sigh.
Wafting tendrils of clove,
The scent reaches my nostrils,
Enticing me to sit.
A vacated room
With nothing at all
Except one painting
That hung on the wall
A beautiful painting
Very well done
A perfect landscape,
I vibrant sun
The room was bright
Why don't you paint me like I am?
Dancing and singing
Full of life
Always looking for adventure, never looking for trouble
With close family and friends by my side
Why don't you paint me
Like I am
Violent reds swirling
Drowning the pitiful fading white tint
Vibrant crimson clouds shrouding the canvas
Angst
Self loathing
Fear
A tainted brownish purple explodes and shatters inner thoughts
I could say I write because it is an outlet, a way to release anger from a broken past and broken family.
I could say I write because my mom was not there, because sometimes I write to convince myself that I don't hate her.
With each stroke and drip of paint there is emotion ...
There is a message
By seducing the canvas with paint I am portraying some presage
I want to be seen, I want to be heard
I want people to think
I shuffle through canvases, looking for the right size.
Through tall and short, rectangle or square, til one catches my eyes.
I pull it out, place it on my easel, then turn to my paint.
You were like a painting I couldn’t finishA mural in my mind, how I planned to love youYou were my canvas,Each day you made me smile,A streak of golden yellow I’d paintEach day I woke up thinking of you,
Look up at the sky, what do you see?
I see a bird looking down at me.
What does it see when it looks at me?
Nothing, as I see nothing in me.
Why do you not have any hope?
The relaxing of souls after someone has spoken. The ceasing of anger after love has spread. The rekindling of broken hearts after showing your other side. These are the results of poetry, so when I grow up, I want to be a poet.
Away in her room, the little maiden sits,
Sent there for throwing too many fits.
Her brunette locks rest on her broad shoulders and cascade down,
Sketching the world in a little black notebook;
preferably the kind that highlights the light.
Walk by and find that your figure has danced on my paper.
I fail to see the reflecting light subside.
A brush of color through silvered night air,
Paints a dragon’s false shape, starlit shining
Majesty with which no one can compare.
Aurous beast, streak through the wind like lightning
A garden of white, bouquets of black and purple.
Black and purple
flowers that resemble her bruised memories.
A garden created of pathways,
interconnected,
confused,
and dizzy.
A garden of mazes,
There’s something about how the color grey,
Can become an entity in and of itself.
How it can overtake a scene and infect its people.
A whole community of people,
Hearts heavy with responsibility and need
Paint falls to canvas
carrying with it the
imagination of time.
Landscapes,
made of strokes
miniscule and
bold.
Buildings,
made of the sun’s shades,
struggle not to melt in darkness.
A streak of red,
Anguish.
A splash of blue,
Tears.
Yellows and oranges blossom,
Bringing happiness.
Swirls of green
And black
Lurk
Eager to introduce