Artist, please yourself above all others ~
for the sin of praise, the truth is smothered
TRADITION WITH PRECISION
A poem celebrating art and the artist…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ancient hands weave the threads of time
each brushstroke a heartbeat,
each hue a memory etched in silence.
brushes dip in pools of pigments,
the clay shimmers like the first light,
each stroke deliberate.
every whisk echoes the practiced grace of learned fingers,
as if the brush speaks a language long forgotten,
revealing stories layered in texture and hue.
in chambers of solemnity,
the old master gazes down,
his eyes a reflection of trials and triumphs,
his art is more than mere creation;
it is an inheritance, a sacred dialogue across ages,
a tapestry of tradition and precision.
contemporary Persian ancient
blending intro-imagery with peach
vulnerability
identity a Khoisan outpouring on fields of Skukuza healings
whilst township dancers make their rites
to bite presence on platform sites
so will Gen Z’s make their
vibrant scratches on our rock walls
for Galactics to visit tall
courage was torn with rosemary bushes like
biltong shreds
¥
he pierced her teenage framework newly
smoothed with rosemary
galaxies watched in horror
scratched her legs with longing paws
Gen Z’s roared their rage across
the continent
she bit her presence into his poverty
townships waited in mourning
her virginity ripped
identity equals Acturian
vulnerability is paintbrush memories
seven shadowy children
are to arrive crystal
not through her uterus
she is alive
limbs like entangled serpents
an embryonic adult on canvas
who escaped a naked bed
her art stolen into law school
his arm resigned decorates her shoulder
blind geckos scamper
¥
scamper open lidded lizards
they decorate her shoulder
stolen are all her paintings
her naked bed cold
canvasses half complete
entangled her limbs ache
alive she has her hat and black cat
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Letting the artist in me shine through
Each day a blank canvas
I am the artist brandishing the brush
~ my life an art exhibit
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 3rd place 2025
For sparks of joy to which our hearts have hold,
Like fireflies which the flows of time ignore,
And soon forgot, the moment we are cold,
The artist said, "Of this, I shall know more."
For vast unkindness which shall often come,
For not of justice is life's vessel full,
Which those afflicted would of it be numb,
The artist said, "I'll wear this on my soul."
For all the dreams of what the world might be,
The flowers of hope and industry we sow,
And little know what sun or snow they'll see,
The artist said, "This garden shall I grow."
The beauty, and the burden, artists bear,
Is that, for all of life, their hearts must care.
Is my writing only good when I’m drowning?
When I’m down to my knees and my soul shouts heal
Is my happiness on only when I’m socializing?
When I cry of laughter only so my sad tears can be sealed
Is my depression the only motive of my paintings?
When I pour into a canvas only so my ideas can be cleared
Are those same ideas present with my happy self?
If not, who am I when I’m happy?
Is my tongue only flexible when I’m faking?
When I play with sweet words only so that my façade can be shielded?
Is this double sword personality of mine the only way to be acceptable?
If it is, is this fair to my heart? To my brain? To my body?
Is it fair to me? Or even to them?
Or is it the hidden rule played by the elite?
An Amazing Artist
Keen eye for detail.
With light and dark tones.
Shaded hues.
With endless detail.
Abstract to a perfectionist.
Many hours spent.
Sharpest illustrations.
With clean lines, truly an artist.
Always drawing.
Pencils and pens are always working.
A masterpiece.
Pictures with detail are moving.
With great talent.
You are your own biggest critic.
Room to improve.
A wonderful gift to prevail.
Creative through your perspective.
Wide eyes cast their gaze upward
‘Today’s Spider Web’ mocks him
Eight spindly filaments weave a web
Are these hands not as delicately bred
haiku : van Gogh
sunflower souls speak
we hail our genius, true sight ~
lucid mind coloured
I want to be an artist.
I want to create a piece if be proud of for the rest of my life.
Id peel back the skin, cutting the fat away until it was the perfect size.
then id mold it - shape it until it was just right.
Pulling muscles like clay, threading through blood vessels and veins like string, digging through the mess of myself and scraping away every inch until i loved what i saw.
every flaw,
carved out of my body until all the was left was absolute perfection
when im finished, id stitch the skin back over in a beautiful mess, - tight, trembling
and standing in the mirror, ill know -
i made the greatest art piece id ever see
they say, an artist greatest masterpiece is themselves.
To draw is something …
I could never do well,
The joy a picture can bring
The stories it can tell
I could never do well
Drawing freely on my own,
The stories it can tell
Remains for me unknown
Drawing freely on my own
Pencil, paint and line,
Remains for me unknown
A skill that is not mine
Pencil, paint and line
An artist with a brush,
A skill that is not mine
A talent you cannot rush
An artist with a brush
The joy a picture can bring,
A talent you cannot rush
To draw is something …
A colorblind artist?
Yes
One of the best I have ever seen
He has no problem seeing red as green and green as red
Choosing pencil and charcoal
His magnificent drawings grayscale
Within every writer's soul
is an untold role,
rolling along the shadows,
secretly, desperately seeking
the glow above the darkness
that gave it life in the first place
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