art

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

Easy Money Recall
In an age of easy money, you eat only gold and honey. You hear it go boom, and then flee from the room because your bowels got all runny.
By A Byrd3 years ago in Poets
Stab Me With a Pen
Stab me with a fountain pen and I will bleed ink. My black embryonic fluid will splatter into letters, words, and sentences on sheets of creamy, white paper and pool at my feet when I fall asleep, head on the desk, clutching the pen in my stiff hand.
By Tina D'Angelo3 years ago in Poets
Oil Spill
“Simply recycle your caps!” Stated the Company chap. But while he waxed on, The spill from Chevron Smothered and covered the map.
By Billy G. James 3 years ago in Poets
Word Count!
So there was one time when I wanted to write a poem to make a lot of money and retire. But when I put pen to paper and my thoughts expelled, I was often told I needed more words in order to go higher.
By E. C. Gabriel3 years ago in Poets
Taxidermist
Tremoring, the tall tanned taxidermist took the tool to task. Taking time to tell them that this task twasn’t to tame the timid thoughts that take time to trivial thoughts.
By Jack Wayne Arnett3 years ago in Poets
Boomer vs. Zoomer
There was an Old Man with a beard Who said, “It is just as I feared!” A destitute Zoomer Exploited a Boomer And built their damn home in my beard!
By Billy G. James 3 years ago in Poets
I am…
Nature leans inwards beneath the pull of a hundred intricate lines of silken wonder, capturing water droplets in the morning dew. Scintillating the lush green surrounding, the spider's lavish residence exists beneath the chilly Southern Georgian sun, rising into another day of intricate beauty. This is a spider's world, dazzling and magnetic, I am in awe of it's effortless design.
By Veronica 3 years ago in Poets
Days of Our Lives
Of the soap operas, there are few. That are as long running and true. As Days of Our Lives, With its love, hate, and lies,
By Steffany Pope3 years ago in Poets
Instrument of Perfection
They may call it addiction Some would call it obsession But when the pen is in my hand And the ink takes me away to a new land
By Mary Young3 years ago in Poets
Artist Among Asters
Aching among amber Asters, Aureate allure, all abloom and afire, An artist agonizes at aimless alabaster. Adrift amid absent affirmation,
By Mollie McGurk3 years ago in Poets
I Wish I Was Batman
I really wish I was Batman But sadly, I’m just a fat man The training would be quite intense So let’s just drop the pretense
By Kevin McMechan3 years ago in Poets
Best Plans
I've thought of a plan that's so smart to finally finish my art but while running around all these ideas abound that I've hardly had time just to start.
By Ellen Stedfeld3 years ago in Poets