“Art, it’s  a kind of magic…”

Art, it is a kind of magic,

A spell that weaves its way,

A stroke of paint, a melody,

That takes our breath away.

And like the notes of Freddie's voice,

That soar across the sky,

Art takes us to a higher place,

And makes our spirits fly.

From Queen's masterpiece, a timeless gift,

Is Art, a force that can uplift.

It speaks to souls, across all ages,

Igniting passions, turning pages.

In every brushstroke, every note,

Art, a potion, which can emote.

It captures hearts, it stirs the soul,

A kind of magic, which makes us whole.

So let us embrace the magic,

And let our souls take flight,

As art lifts us up to places,

Where our dreams can come to life,

“For what is Art ?”

A question that lingers in the depths of our soul,

A puzzle that has no definitive role,

What is art, this elusive domain,

Where creativity and beauty forever reign?

Is it the brush on canvas, colours that blend,

Or words on paper, a message to send?

Is it the sculptor's hands, shaping the clay,

Or a melody's dance in the light of day?

Art is the mirror to the human heart,

A reflection of emotions, an intricate part,

Art is a journey, a path to explore,

A way to discover, to learn, to adore,

It speaks to us in whispers, and shouts out loud,

A language of passion, which leaves us wowed,

It's the protest, the rebellion, the voice of the oppressed,

Or a tranquil scene where hearts find rest.

Art is the vessel where ideas take flight,

Where imagination soars to boundless height,

It's a bridge to cultures, a shared embrace,

A universal language that traverses space.

In the end, art is what you perceive,

A canvas of emotions, a web of beliefs,

Art is the journey of the human soul,

A quest for meaning, to make us whole.

So what is art? It's a question with no end,

For in its mystery, our spirits ascend.

It's the beauty we find in the world around,

And the depths of our humanity, where art is found.

“Art, speaks to my soul”

Amidst the noise and chaos of the world,

Where every day seems to blend and swirl,

There lies a beauty, waiting to be found,

A treasure buried deep beneath the ground.

It's the art that speaks to my soul,

The kind that makes my heart feel whole,

The kind that ignites a passion inside,

And helps me navigate life's bumpy rides.

I search for art in brushstrokes bold.

And sculptures that are centuries old

In music notes that fill the air

And words that move me to despair

But finding art can be difficult to grasp,

Like trying to complete an impossible task,

But if we look hard enough, it's all around,

In the subtle moments, waiting to be found.

With every canvas, every page,

I pour my heart, I release my rage,

From a simple stroke of a brush,

To intricate patterns that make you blush,

So, open your eyes and look around,

And let the art in your heart be found,

For it's the beauty that makes life worth living,

And the inspiration that keeps us giving.

Let us cherish the art we see,

And the art that's waiting to be,

For in the hands of an artist true,

A masterpiece can come anew.

“Loving my Art”

In the room of muted echoes, where shadows sprawl,

I measure out my life with brushes small.

To unfold my art, a patient refrain,

In the corners of my mind, where doubts remain.

Shall I dare to disturb the universe, I wonder,

With strokes of passion, lightning and thunder?

I have heard the siren call of the canvas's embrace,

Yet fear the judgment, the world's cold gaze.

The etherized moments, numbing self-doubt,

In the silent studio, where whispers flout.

I spread my dreams on a palette's sprawl,

Yet hesitate, linger, against the wall.

A hundred visions, a hundred schemes,

Yet linger in the realm of elusive dreams.

I polish my verses, my colours chart,

In the quiet alcove, I lovingly start.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To dive into the chaos, the uncharted mile?

I sip my coffee, my thoughts enthral.

I murmur, "Do I dare?" and "Do I dare?"

As I face the canvas, blank and bare.

I hear the mermaids singing, each to each,

Yet fear the consequences, the critic's screech.

I linger on the edge of artistic precision,

Caught in the paradox of my own indecision.

For I am no prophet, and here's no great matter,

Yet still, I persist, in the silent clatter.

To squeeze the universe into a ball,

And roll it toward some overwhelming question,

My love for art, my soul's confession,

In the quietude of creation, I stand tall.

“The painter and the sea”

In the hush of dawn's embrace, a tale unfurls,

Of an artist bold, whose canvas twirls.

With strokes of courage, dipped in hues so free,

She painted with passion, the canvas of the sea.

Her palette danced with shades untold,

A symphony of blues, a story to unfold.

Brushstrokes like whispers, secrets they'd keep,

In the soulful silence, where the ocean would weep.

The artist, a conjurer of the tidal surge,

Capturing the sea's ancient, rhythmic dirge.

In each crashing wave, in each gentle caress,

She painted the essence, the sea's deep recess.

Through tempests wild and calms serene,

Her artistry echoed, a visual dream.

She weaved tales of sailors, of ships lost and found,

In the ebb and flow, in the sea's sacred ground.

With every stroke, she etched the lore,

Of sailors' wishes on a distant shore.

The moonlight dancing on the crests of the tide,

In the artist's canvas, the sea would confide.

Her spirit, a tempest, a tranquil breeze,

A sorceress of art on the vast, rolling seas.

Zoutes beach rhythm in the poet's plea,

For the artist who painted the soulful sea.

 “The Perfect Artwork”

In the quiet chamber of my soul's endeavour,

A yearning blooms, a quest that lasts forever.

To paint a masterpiece before I part,

A canvas of dreams, a work of heart.

Brush in hand, a conductor of emotion,

In the palette's embrace, a vast ocean.

Colours dance, a symphony to be,

Crafting the perfect artwork, untethered and free.

Each stroke, a whisper from the soul,

A story unfolding, an artistic goal.

In the tapestry of time, my essence weaves,

A legacy of creation, a spirit that believes.

Capture the sunrise in hues unseen,

Blend the moonlight with shadows serene.

A fusion of passion, a visual hymn,

The perfect artwork, my soul's requiem.

In the silence of the studio, dreams ignite,

As I chase the vision, the muse in flight.

To carve emotions on the canvas vast,

A composition that will forever last.

Before I bid this transient farewell,

Let my creation in galleries swell.

A testament to moments, to joy, to strife,

The perfect artwork, a celebration of life.

With every stroke, I paint my truth,

A memoir of Vigor, a fountain of youth.

A testament to the soul's decree,

Crafted in passion, before I'm free.

“How Life began”

- From an Artist perspective -

In the canvas of cosmic silence, void and vast,

A whispered yearning, a question asked.

From primordial whispers, a palette spun,

The artist's journey had just begun.

In the dance of stardust, a cosmic ballet,

Brushstrokes of creation, in an astral display.

The artist's vision, in each stroke spun,

Life emerged beneath the radiant sun.

A symphony of atoms, a celestial rhyme,

Notes in the cosmic rhythm, echoing time.

The artist's vision, a masterpiece to craft,

Life emerging from the cosmic draught.

In the alchemy of molecules, secrets unfold,

A canvas of chaos, a story untold.

From the breath of nebulae, a whispering plea,

The artist painted life, an ethereal decree.

Through epochs and eras, the artist refined,

A gallery of life, in every design.

In the delicate petals, the wings of a bee,

The artist's signature, in the symphony of a tree.

Through the eons, the artist's strokes unfold,

A narrative of life, ancient and bold.

A masterpiece ongoing, in nature's plan,

The artist smiles at how life began.

From the cosmic expanse to the earthly sod,

The artist whispers, "Behold, life's wondrous ode."

In the heartbeat of creation, where it all began,

The artist's eternal canvas, life's intricate plan.

"I dream of the perfect artwork"

In my mind's eye, I see a canvas,

Blank and white, waiting to come alive,

I dream of filling it with colour and shapes,

Of creating something that will truly thrive.

The colours dance before my eyes,

A rainbow of hues, so bright and bold,

I imagine blending them together,

Creating something that will never get old.

I dream of the perfect artwork,

Of a creation that will speak to the soul,

Of a masterpiece that will leave us in awe,

And never let us go.

Each stroke of the brush brings it closer,

As I pour my heart into the work I do,

And I know that with each passing day,

I'm one step closer to my dream coming true.

So I'll keep on dreaming, keep on creating,

Mixing colours and shapes, in endless combinations,

For I know that with each stroke of the brush,

I am one step closer to my heart's true destination.

And when my artwork is finally complete,

I'll look back on the journey I've taken,

And know that every colour and every shape,

Was worth it for the dream that I have awakened.

“Art Critics”

In the realm where colours collide and emotions ignite,

Lies the dance of art critics and expressionists, a fascinating sight.

But with time and patience, I learned their tricks,

To calm them down and tame them quick.

Art critics, with discerning eyes and critical minds,

Seek to decipher the messages that artists leave behind.

They delve into the depths of each brushstroke and hue,

Interpreting the narratives that artists imbue.

Expressionist artists, with fiery passion in their veins,

Transcend the boundaries, shatter artistic chains.

They splash their emotions onto canvases bold,

Using vibrant colours, their stories unfold.

Art critics, like skilled archaeologists of the mind,

Unearth the layers of meaning artists strive to find.

Expressionist artists, masters of emotional terrain,

Capture the essence of life, its joy and pain.

Art critics, guardians of aesthetic judgment,

Weigh the impact of artistic statements, their sentiment.

They praise, critique, and shape the art discourse,

Guiding viewers' perceptions, adding depth to its force.

Art critics and expressionist artists, a dance intertwined,

An eternal dialogue of perspectives, constantly refined.

For while critics dissect, artists continue to create,

A dance of inspiration that transcends any debate.

So let us celebrate the art critics and expressionist souls,

For their passionate pursuits and creative roles.

So, here's to my Art critics, I love them so,

Through all life's twists and turns, we'll go.

And though I may be flawed in every way,

I think, one day, they will love me anyway.

“In my artworks, I live on forever”

As a painter, I live forever through my art,

Brush strokes and colours, emotions I impart.

Upon canvas, I etch tales of the heart,

Each stroke a reflection, a life's work of art.

With colours, I capture life's fleeting grace,

In strokes of passion, I find my place.

Eternal my spirit in every stroke,

Through the canvas, my dreams and hopes evoke.

With colours and textures, I speak my truth,

In canvases, I find my eternal youth,

A testament to passion, to dreams, and fears,

I paint my essence through the passing years.

As seasons change and shadows grow long,

My paintings sing a never-ending song,

A testament to the beating of my heart.

A testament to life's intricate art,

Through landscapes and portraits, my essence remains,

A testament to passion, where my spirit reigns.

In the gallery of time, my legacy gleams,

As a painter, I live on in endless dreams.

The canvas is my mirror, my heart's true reflection,

In vivid hues, I find my soul's connection.

As a painter, I live on, beyond mortal breath,

For my artworks are the gateway to my endless depth.

My artworks are whispers of my soul's song,

In each piece, a story, a love that's strong.

For as a painter, my spirit transcends,

In the strokes of my brush, my existence amends.

Though I may fade, and my mortal coil sever,

In my artworks, I live on forever.

As a painter, my legacy takes flight,

In the canvas of eternity, I find my light.