art

Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.

Digging in the Dirt
I am the dirt. I am the leaves. I am the tiny mushrooms growing on branches and trees. You explore me and are satisfied.
By Barbara D Pyndus, galaxybabs, SerendipitySpeaksArt3 years ago in Poets
BED OF ROSES
I was the waves and pull of the moon. You were always tired. I wrote apologies in braille, and buried them in the foundation of your sleepy house.
By Ashleigh Bartlett3 years ago in Poets
The Omnichromiter
The Omnichromiter Man in my dreams You've shown me the sights You've shown me the seams Of perfection are sewn With the silk of flaws
By The Omnichromiter3 years ago in Poets
Drifting into vessel
The blurred lines of eyelash transformed into Layers of Skys, lathered in their own color accompanied, by the busy beneath.
By Deliyah3 years ago in Poets
Angst
the house my own green the air summer clean
By Barbara D Pyndus, galaxybabs, SerendipitySpeaksArt3 years ago in Poets
Bare and Tender
Behind the bar I was poised and Heads and shoulders above the noise and Awaiting their selection of poisons But no one seemed surprised
By Michael Wheat3 years ago in Poets
Old longing.
A soft, old man, with a prickled chin that sticks out like a crescent moon, green twinkling eyes, a whisper of a voice, across from an old woman, red lipstick, a plain hardness about her. I don’t know their story, but to me they are lovers from long lost years, and they met again, here, in front of my eyes. It is the way he asks for the bill and she wipes her hands over nothing, attempts to pay herself, while he says nothing, just quietly holds that twinkle in his eyes.
By Jamie Ramsay3 years ago in Poets
The Moon is Falling
I’m on the highway and the sky lights up, A star is falling, No. It’s the moon, a bowling ball flare, a sound I’ve never heard before, like blade against blade in slow time.
By Jamie Ramsay3 years ago in Poets
JENNY HOLZER 1991
JENNY HOLZER 1991 in a dream you fucked my revived corpse and you were full of empty. rigor mortis tender, no recognition, no regard. face down and wishing on dead stars that i could return to the soil that gathers neath my fingernails. how are these yellowing calcium crescents, so delicate, so fragile, a reminder of something so solid as death. is death solid? no, the ether’s veil doesn’t last. i resurrect every time. yes, lucid i’m here again with your dry palm on my deaf ear holding me down to the filthy sheet in a musty room full and empty. full and empty. full and empty. lovelessness.
By K. Smith3 years ago in Poets
The Creatures of Torment
Inception, Resurrection I lay me down to sleep Trickle de trot Counting lost sheep. Where is this, I ask Sleep solid shifting forms Mattress to city A nightmare is born.
By Lakrisha Raymond3 years ago in Poets
Dream the dream
I had a dream so strange and wild A world unlike any I had seen Where colors swirled and shapes defied And logic seemed to cease to be
By Shamz 4203 years ago in Poets
Water your mind
Water, a fluid force, A source of life and growth, Nurtures the mind and body, A source of endless flow. It fills the oceans,
By Shamz 4203 years ago in Poets