No rules this time ...... rhyming or not....
as many lines as you like...
The afternoon sun
Inspires the poet in me
In my garden a beautiful butterfly
Sits quiely on my prize rose....
My fluttering heart
Beating its wings
I watch the beautiful creature
For some time
The colours so vivid
Will i reach for my paints
And try to capture the colours
Of your wings........
Beautiful and vibrant
With hues and pastels
I paint a pretty picture:
I see you smiling!
Smiling because of the delicacy of the artwork
The concentration in your face
The butterfly knowing it is being watched...
Seemingly poses for you
A masterful work is about to begin
Pleasing to behold
Let's watch it all unfold...........
or is that a frown my dearest?
like a leaf from a twig unclasped?
fooled by the kiss of the wind again
what are colors for if they fade?
These colours must not fade,
A smile is always a smile...
Unless the beholder
Does see more than she......
The picture is taking on
With the addition
Of just that something
Ah yes it certainly
Is a smile
A feeling of brilliance
Creativity at it's best
The wind can not change it..
but alas! the beholder is but a slave to his eyes
and colors no matter how sad do not make a sound
not an echo, not a drumming, not even a murmur
so take thine eyes and give me hands so i can see
For the moment they are eternal;
They live and last ever-long
They endure when others fail
They right all other wrongs
For even a moment is my eternity,
To live and love this serenity,
This picture perfect portrait,
From the heart's master laureate.
That Sun was a strange mix of many colors..mixed with grey...
I looked for some reason behind the colors of each ray...
and found...whereas...I could've just seen the grey in dismay...
I focused on that which brought color...to this otherwise dull day.
No sound needed
The stillness of the butterfly
The silence of the wind
The coming together of wonderful things
Of new beginnings..
The picture, how is it coming along?
So far so good...
But alas the butterfly takes to flight
The artist produces,
Of the winged creature
Enabling the smiles to continue....
The paint becoming even more vivid
Upon the wings
Of the one now free
The rain starts to fall
The music begins
Reaching a crochendo
Takes a bow,
As the rose
Beautiful now, petals open
the raindrop running slowly down each petal
On the un watered soil
She now dares to peep, for one second at his picture....
I hate to utter that often used common phrase: "You go girl--and boys!" The poetry is flowing slowly and softly like a river moving naturally downstream.
The picture is not of a butterfly,
But of a branch of the tree
A womans tearful face
Within the bark of this tree.
The butterfly flies back
Sits on the shoulder of the artist
As if to admire his creativity
The girl walks away
Puzzled by what she sees
The artist, takes a sip of wine
Continues with his picture
She listens now to the river
Takes out a brush
And just as the vain girl
Bathsheba once did
Brushes her long golden hair
Whilst fixing her gaze in the mirror
Which she holds in her left hand
The artist silently watches.....
Her heart, with longing for the skies;
and the sadness reflected in her eyes,
she woefully comes to realize,
that freedom is for butterflies.
For vanity heavies a longing soul,
and human hearts must pay a toll.
While on air floats the butterfly
against the vast expanse of sky.
for she will never be truly free,
for she pines for the man#
That once set her free
Now he has gone once again
He has escaped from the shore
She feels she will never see
loves dream any more.......
And the artist
He feels her heavy heart
He paints a sweet picture
Of the lover and a dart
he struck her heart with dart so fierce
in plain day after a rivet of fear
she wonders why he tests
and continues to play
there is a bond in soul
unconditional love is feared
shall the artist ever see the strength
within, the dark of nights so cold
she... everlasting warmth to hold
The artists eye is very keen
He moves not an inch from this romantic scene
Watches her now, he takes the finest of brushes
To capture her feelings......
He sips his wine, and head held to one side
Admires the strength of the forlorn maiden
Captures it in his work
Joined once more by the butterfly
Truly a day to remember
He packs away his paints, his brushes too
The maiden retires for the evening
Tomorrow he will finish his piece
He feels it may be one of his best works of art
For she inspires....... How she inspires.
and there within the still of night
when the butterflies are asleep in bed
the only light candlelight and moonlight
the forlorn maiden rests her head
and prays to angels who ignore her calls
and wishes on stars that twinkle for none
and wonders why he won't break down her walls
and she wilts like a flower in the morning Sun.
(sorry to seem so melancholy - that's what came out of my keyboard
sun is here
fresh blooms always near
as heart the heat of sun
where one finds stillness in one
though two may fair
love as thin as air
enfold in one
blessed moon and sun
soul assurance has come
For Spring and sun and hope, you see,
do not behave as fleetingly,
as fluttering butterflies dancing by
against the Spring and Summer sky.
Instead they hide in shadows gray;
forgotten by the mournful heart.
and like fluttering butterflies out to play,
will reappear another day.
each day they re appear
for an hour or so together.....
different corners of the world
They find a way
To come out and play
Under the heat of the sun
In front of everyone
Watched by the fluttering butterfly
The silent eye
Maybe we are being watched you and I
Find a way
Name the day
And gently lovingly flutter this way
Butterfly, of so many vivid colours
I beg of you
The artist now starts his day
He wonders will the butterfly
join him today
His easel placed firlmy on the ground
He sips his wine and looks around
She sees him from afar
Fixes her gaze on the solitary star
Upon his canvas
It's not in the sky
Has he spotted her from the corner of his eye
Choosing the colours
He sets up for the day
Looks up to the sky
The sky looks grey
His many brushes he lays in a row
At last this artist is ready to go.........
upon autumn's crisp carpet he's treading,
under the safety of a few over-ripe leaves.
What was once his guard from
sunshine and heat
lies stale and lifeless underneath
the artist's tired feet.
Together they were his omnipresent umbrella.
He could position himself in such a way,
that nothing could get through,
not the heat from the day,
nor the rain from the sky.
Perhaps he know what that first
drop fell upon his eye,
of cold rain, not warm,
like security mimicking harm...
I cannot help but find it curious
that leaves once held higher than me
lost their strength by a wind perhaps furious
or maybe it was only a regular autumn breeze....
absolutely beautiful, you dried my tears.,..... why oh why do we go in the forums...... you are a poet please keep writing and a friend
Thank you, Brenda. Right back at you. So sorry about what transpired on the other thread. Yikes. I really am so sorry to hear about your sister. It breaks my heart to hear such stories. What a great Aunt you are! Will you be my Auntie in Ireland?
of course i will..... can you believe it i think he has quietened down a bit now...... drink is such a curse isn't it???????
,Maddison has gone home now as she is going to college, she may come to live with me when she finishes her two year college course in catering.
A truly hideous curse for some, no doubt. I miss absolutely nothing about it. Love being sober and experiencing everything in the world, no regrets, no hangovers, no feeling utterly trapped and alone. 'Tis an awful way to live. You did a good job with him, though.
it is so sad i feel for people with this problem, i could never be an alcoholic, drink just sends me to sleep or makes me sick...... it is a bit of a curse, and the only illness that tells people they have not got it.... I am just listening to John Martyn he has the most beautiful voice...... went to see him in concert 3 times each time he was drunk and abusive. It seems to be the sensitive men that sometimes get caught up with this problem...... i will have to tell you about my dad one day that is anothere story altogether
The artist the girl
The moon shining on the sand
You and I hand in hand
Walking slowly enjoying the day
Wondering what the next poet will say
Will they see once again the butterfly's wing
Or tell us about the bird that can sing
all short memories
the dawn, the day, the butterfly
like a wind through a branch
where she was watching
for the bird
who had lost his way
Merry in heart
From the start
A last glance at
the past golden part
A ray of sun
To watch the butterflies
fly before the day is done
So young in mind
They glance at the trees hoping
Life and be pleased
Till the end of time
Dreaming on into a wondrous land
Watching midnight rise while hand in
Staring one to another in the eyes
Leaving nothing left for the heart
Their soul's paintings intertwine
Off eachother's energy they dine
Kissing the midnight air away
Listening as the sun rises for
different places different times
Poets add a few words to these rhymes
The butterfly hovers
The artists paint
A special kinda poet may arrive
If we just wait
it's the only way to live
you do not want your mind flowing from a cup
and never let me hear you are giving up
so much to live for
too many people care....
never give up don't you dare......
breathe easy, piece of mind
flowing comfort , feather glide
pace and balance
pleasure and rest
wine with friends
you love the best
you left out one thing my friend
you made a big mistake....
How could you ever have forgotton
The seasoning on the steak
It's in my belly
now like jelly
good wine and treats I see
with cheese and berries
let's continue the feast
Now that we have started no need to stop
Eat til your sick
drink til you drop
Let'S have a big party
That never will end
I hope you are coming
My confident my friend......
Of course I am
I've been longing for
this night, oh where do I
I can see the fireworks in plain
Above the building
In bright light
People dancing and drinking
the night away
Enjoying the music they play
In playful song
The dearest butterflies that we left
A few verses back, the poet took them home
Closing his book
Lying his pen to rest he takes one look
At his work, the best
And through his open window blinds
He notices a party going on behind
Their hearts turning true
Flourishing through their mouths that drunk too
much too soon
The poet decides to join the fun
a break from all his work that is done
A dance here
A drink there
Maybe even a side of steak that is rare
A little fun never hurt
Just be responsible as with the liquor you
drunk disordely but extemly happy
steak too rare
but what the hell
writing and drinking
so many stories to tell
stay a while don't go home yet
let's keep on partying til the sun is set
While Frank, over there,
with the lampshade on;
doesn't seem likely
he'll make it 'til dawn.
And I'm starting to worry
a little 'bout Meg;
Someone just told me
she drank one whole keg.
The table tipped over,
thanks to Pat;
but he'll unlikely recall
ever doing that.
It seems, too as if,
Paul can't handle his booze;
because it appears he's begun to snooze.
I say, "What a party. I just love it."
But Bill says to me,
"Wanna make somethin' of it?"
When I say I don't,
Bill says, "Step outside",
and I say I won't,
"Knock it off," someone cried.
We lost the artist
And the butterfly
We all got drunk
Both you and I
lets get back to serious poetry now or not
As sure as day follows night
And sun follows rain
My heart will beat on
Until the Master DJ changes the song
So sing while you can
Write while you have hands
And dance while your feet
Still remember that wild hip hop beat
And parties, we find
must come to end;
but dancing and writing
can be like a friend -
always close by
from day's start
to day end.
Dancing and writing -
what wonderful things
that let poets ride
on butterfly wings.
poets writing on butterflys wings
about all the many beautiful things
We have all around us from morning til night
A picture to paint....... a most wonderful sight
vivid spectrum's of the palette
random rivers varied patterns
Thoughts of love,
songs of laughter,
tales of happily ever after.
Words of hearts
that have been broken,
Thoughts 'til now
still left unspoken.
Words paint pictures -
Written from a writer's heart.
from heart to screen
from screen to heart
this poem is making a wonderful
thanks everyone busy weekend be back soon keep adding
From where we dream
Paint our days
As lovers reel...dance and play
Peaches n cream
by Marla Rose5 years ago
What makes butterflies the prettiest insects around? Is it their delicate nature or their exotic colors? Or perhaps something else...
by Mark Hodges5 years ago
most poetry is inspired by emotion and follows a theme directed by that emotion. colour also affects emotions,linking the two makes poetry come more alive and gives it depth so I label this as 'Psychedelic Poetry'...
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