by SoloartistDover, Tasmania, Australia
Sep 2016 597 Views 3 comments
Of Poetry & Paintings
Of Poetry & Paintings or Framed Words.
The paintings that I’ve painted, now part of history
As the words that I have written, poetry from me
Feelings put on canvas, or typewritten to implore
Compassion, Love, Lust, Desire or more.
Let not these words offend, for as my souls regret,
Is that, as yet, it still remains as free,
Though I am not adverse to passions, wants,
Infact the opposite is quite true for me.
Subjects chosen, words are written, laid free hand,
As brushes cover paper, as Paint flows, oozing free,
They are not, within constraints a perceived reality.
As an artist I am weary, of those, who’re envious of life,
As a Poet I’m not satisfied, that as an Artist I am right
Life has played a cruel and nasty prank you see.
When beauty beckons, to be painted or revered,
There’s a rush right to the door,
By the Artist and the Poet
Who?, who has been there first before.
With words so softly spoken, poetically to hear,
Or with deft brush strokes, that wash in the image clear,
Competition from within is fine, unless, chagrin,
Neither the Artist, nor the Poet, ever, ever, win.
Kenneth Tregoning 23 May, 1996
The paintings that I’ve painted, now part of history
As the words that I have written, poetry from me
Feelings put on canvas, or typewritten to implore
Compassion, Love, Lust, Desire or more.
Let not these words offend, for as my souls regret,
Is that, as yet, it still remains as free,
Though I am not adverse to passions, wants,
Infact the opposite is quite true for me.
Subjects chosen, words are written, laid free hand,
As brushes cover paper, as Paint flows, oozing free,
They are not, within constraints a perceived reality.
As an artist I am weary, of those, who’re envious of life,
As a Poet I’m not satisfied, that as an Artist I am right
Life has played a cruel and nasty prank you see.
When beauty beckons, to be painted or revered,
There’s a rush right to the door,
By the Artist and the Poet
Who?, who has been there first before.
With words so softly spoken, poetically to hear,
Or with deft brush strokes, that wash in the image clear,
Competition from within is fine, unless, chagrin,
Neither the Artist, nor the Poet, ever, ever, win.
Kenneth Tregoning 23 May, 1996
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Sep 2016
About this poem:
Am I an Artist who writes Poetry or a Poet who Paints?Poems entered on these pages are copyrighted by the authors who entered them. They cannot be reproduced without the author's written consent. © Copyright 2001-2024. All rights reserved.
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Comments (3)
Kathy
The artists I worked among fitted and slammed components of steel into railroad tracks.
And I am not poking fun in any direction at all;
Starving or Freezing or Falling to death is the reward for losing innumerable arts.
Good to see so many on this site continuing forward while not paid a dime.
Thank you Solo, and everyone else who posts ~ 'thepines
thankyou for sharing lovely read first thing this morning.