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This poem came about when I glanced to a business card for a painter named Sandra Pride (Northport,AL), with the Pride, and the sand in Sandra, this poem was born. Yes, I am addicted to the dreams of my words.
Refreshing are the brushes of paint.
Weathered in the mind’s imagination.
Windy stokes gently waving on canvas
Contouring as if sand dunes on beaches,
Caressing serenity, rippled paint ‘n water.
Canvas of the creative artistic pride,
Moisture of oil colors drying solid.
From the heartbeats of its creator,
Creations of masterpieces of thought,
Singular visions of multiple personalities.
Addiction of the true artist’s love,
Enlightened drug of natural highs,
Emotions that storm into motion,
Settling upon picture frames of peace,
Tranquility designed on legs of easels.
Painters are a breed of their own design.
Thoroughbreds prancing in independence,
Observing living variety within textures,
Grains of true coloring singing treasures,
Capturing perfection, eternity of pleasures.
Note: To deny a painter a pencil, canvas, or to deny a poet a pen, paper is to deny them their hearts.
D.Lester 05/13/05 ©
Terminated poet of Americas freedom of speech,
Somewhere in America not on company time,
Liberated in dreams for all American free spirited minds.
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|Reviewed by Carole Mathys
|Beautifully said Dave!
|Reviewed by Sandie Angel
|You have captured the artistic instinct of a painter so well in this one. This poem paints a thousand paintings in its unique form and inspiration.
This one is so well-done. I applaud this.
Sandie Angel a.k.a. Sandie May Angel :o)
|Reviewed by Elizabeth Taylor (Reader)
|Reviewed by The Smoking Poet
|With color and spirit, David, well done.|
|Reviewed by Sue Hess
|you are so right and you say it with such style|