Quotes about canvass, page 7
My Mornings Here
in this sleepy town
where there is always rain
i thrive on the songs
of little birds
their notes chirping inside
my mind
i feed them grains of poetry
and they appear healthy
i grow some trees where
they nest and lay eggs of ideas
in this sleepy town
my burdens are light
my canvass is the darkness of the night
my hope is a star
hanging on the tree without leaves
a cocoon opens and gives birth
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Fingers
I see your fingers
touching tenderly,
reaching out in love
and with great care
plucking at strings and chords
strumming with great skill
and sometimes setting fire
to a tune on your guitar
floating over the piano keys
touching here and there
like a butterfly drifting in the air
tapping keys on the computer keyboard
writing poetry, sometimes songs
singing them along
brushing strokes on a canvass or board
mixing colours to the exact hue
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poem by Gert Strydom
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Portrait of life...
Awakened to the rough sketch of another morning,
The birth of this new day but a canvass of new creation,
The pallette of life felt in every breath and sense I feel,
My portrait slowly takes shape as the day unfolds,
I am the artist painting life upon another days canvas,
The beauty I preceive has influence on those around me,
For I possess a power within known to all true poets,
The power to paint a beautiful landscape of hope,
Or to darken man's reality with visions of despair,
What picture of eternity shall you paint upon life's journey? ...
Spread the love... The peace will follow...
poem by Cosmic Dreamer
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A Certain Happening
the hours come to you like a train
you are not any of those passengers
waiting to be taken somewhere else
you are upon a different situation
as the train loses its body from its tracks
rams its existence upon a mountain
on some sparks of surprises creating fire
and explosion that shocks the city
with all of them dead
you are not one of them but you are
the one who watches the scene without any emotion
the hours come to you like a body completely numb
there are no more feelings except that peace
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A painter
A painter on study
sketched two nudes
In canvass, a nude
Man & woman
The man in hard
Solid lines his torso
His thighs his legs
Well chiseled by
The dark colors
Of his brush, and
The woman in
Smooth lines, her
Fragile hands, her
Soft breasts, her
Thin lines in light
Feminine colors,
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Have Seen Autumn
I have never felt the chill of winter
Nor the birth of spring
Only the two faces of Nature
The golden sun shining
Or the heavens openly weeping.
But I have seen autumn
As I looked at her
No cold winter in her smile
A promise of summer in her eyes
Her hair of autumn leaves.
I have never felt autumn
But I have seen it
It’s the canvass of Rembrandt
Dark, red, crimson, gold
But I have never felt it.
Is the autumn breeze damp and soft like her lips?
Is the autumn sky naked and warm like her skin?
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poem by Shogunoka Ledesma III
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Sonnet XVIII. To The Earl Of Egremont
WYNDHAM! 'tis not thy blood, though pure it runs
Through a long line of glorious ancestry,
Percys and Seymours, Britain's boasted sons,
Who trust the honours of their race to thee:
'Tis not thy splendid domes, where science loves
To touch the canvass, and the bust to raise;
Thy rich domains, fair fields, and spreading groves;
'Tis not all these the Muse delights to praise:
In birth, and wealth, and honours, great thou art!
But nobler in thy independent mind;
And in that liberal hand and feeling heart
Given thee by Heaven--a blessing to mankind!
Unworthy oft may titled fortune be;
A soul like thine--is true Nobility!
poem by Charlotte Smith
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Sonnet III
THE FORNARINA.
AND bless'd was she thou lovedst, for whose sake
Thy wit did veil in fanciful disguise
The answer which thou wert compell'd to make
To Rome's High Priest, and call'd her then 'Thine Eyes;'
Tho' of her life obscure there is no trace,
Save where its thread with THY bright history twines,--
Tho' all we know of her be that sweet face
Whose nameless beauty from thy canvass shines,--
Dependent still upon her Raphael's fame,
And but recorded by her low degree,
As one who had in life no higher claim
Than to be painted and be loved by thee;--
Yet would I be forgot, as she is now,
Once to have press'd my lips on that seraphic brow!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Sonnet XLVI.
Written at Penhurst, in Autumn 1788.
YE towers sublime! deserted now and drear!
Ye woods! deep sighing to the hollow blast,
The musing wanderer loves to linger near,
While History points to all your glories past:
And startling from their haunts the timid deer,
To trace the walks obscured by matted fern,
Which Waller's soothing lyre were wont to hear,
But where now clamours the discordant hern!
The spoiling hand of Time may overturn
These lofty battlements, and quite deface
The fading canvass whence we love to learn
Sydney's keen look, and Sacharissa's grace;
But fame and beauty still defy decay,
Saved by the historic page--the poet's tender lay!
poem by Charlotte Smith
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Something Found in the Night
Breezy brush strokes
Ink blotch tree tops
slick oil spill foliage
surreal nightsky canvass
abandoned cricket chirp haze
luminary midnight
phosphorescent corner street light
silver-back vagabond
bitter brown bag delight
swaying strands of electric sable
high-wire communication circus
tire track tentacles of rubber eels
Commercial patriot; silver signals from above
piloting visions in the clouds
sweet sky cabin dreams
oh woe,
I lose so many things during the night:
words, stanzas, hours,
time, sleep, thoughts,
memories, worries, consciousness
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poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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