october brushed by
in the midst of an october sunrise
bearing splashes of colors beyond description
like a thick acrylic paint mixture
crimson with cadmium yellow
thrown…scattered like seed…by the hand of god
morning unfolds like a delicate rose
light crawls like aching fingers
touching soft lips that moisten the sands,
retreating, sliding like two bodies too close
to be parted, moving slowly, one advancing-
retreating, wave at a time.
the water returns—
–to the water
the sand to the sand
and yet the light to darkness
i’m sinking beneath the surface of my soul
void of color, gray on gray on gray
as a jacket of black smothers me
suffocating me
gripping my heart
until i see evil being squeezed out
jealousy is green, greed is yellow
hatred is black and deceit is red
until at last
god has taken the ugliness of my heart
squeezed my evil
and fashioned a brand new color
for tomorrow’s rainbow
all get one
just one
and you will remember yours
tolbert
Categories:
acrylic paint, color, god, october,
Form: Free verse
I take a step back and look at my canvas with inches of acrylic paint piled on as a result of trial and error.
Something is off.
Are the tones mismatched?
Why is it unbalanced?
Do I no longer like the subject matter?
I bite at my nails, I bounce my leg, my eyes dart from corner to corner.
Did I do something wrong?
I inhale and fixate on my palette.
Charcoal Gray, Crimson Red, Canary Yellow.
Beautiful, but wrong to me.
My hands open and the colors drop to the floor.
I rummage through the additional shades and pull out the one that is identical to the canvas.
The canvas I haven’t seen in years. The canvas riddled with subjective mistakes. The canvas that endured a lifetime of experimentation.
I untwist the cap, dip the brush directly inside, and slather the canvas.
Though the acrylic grew thicker and the texture of my previous strokes remained,
I was starting new.
Categories:
acrylic paint, anxiety, emotions, growth, identity,
Form: Free verse
Acrylic paint and dust. I can taste sunlight. Hear wind-chimes that have not been invented yet. That have already disintegrated into the deserts of the apocalypse.
I am at home in this living room. Even if i am not welcome.
St. Ambrose’s hymns are sung by children whose faces i’ll never remember.
Whose voices will weave into the river if my mind with grace and an undeniable sorrow.
Ripped dresses, burned houses, and tax audits late into the spring.
I find divinity in my shoelaces.
There is beauty not only in creation,
but also in the act of letting go.
Categories:
acrylic paint, beauty, bible, god, grief,
Form: Free verse
Ebony braids, moon misplaced
Indigo inferno flames
Speckled iris, abstract face
Drowsy eyes, acrylic paint
Haunted ash tree, trailing bleak
Torrid patchwork women faint
Pigeons perch on scribbled lines
Chanting fire petals dance,
Abstruse art, bewildered mind
Categories:
acrylic paint, art,
Form: Rhyme
For Christmas I want fuzzy warm socks.
Everyone knows it, and they are affordable.
So people can keep their big money for their children’s gifts.
If you have homemade fudge, of course I want that too.
And I will take white acrylic paint because I always need it.
A bag of potato chips is always welcome also.
But mostly, I want my loved ones to be healthy and happy.
I do not want to be a burden for them. I do not make demands.
I tell them “If you can make time for me, please do.” If not, it is okay.
Christmas is time for me to relax and write poetry.
Time for me to reflect on the blessings and talents that I have.
For me to appreciate Baby Jesus and his sacrifice; this is more than enough.
Categories:
acrylic paint, christmas,
Form: Free verse
When I was fifteen I had a soggy heart
“Paint what it feels like”
So I painted my heart, dripping in sorrow
The cheap acrylic paint left their printer paper as soggy as the heart I had made
I’m twenty now, and the poeticism has vanished
I don’t feel melancholy
I feel like sh*t
Categories:
acrylic paint, 10th grade, childhood, depression,
Form: Free verse
Over the ocean in a far away land,
My lover sits with a steady hand.
Splashing lashings of acrylic paint;
Upon a surface with no restraint.
He smudges, swirls and smears it in,
Traditional art with a brand new spin.
To share his culture to the world,
Paintings, sculptures he has hurled.
They see it, they want it, they love what they see,
A master of Masters, naturally.
T'is his craft where he exceeds,
Sharing such expertise.
I long for him and love him much
Though can't compete with work and brush!
Categories:
acrylic paint, art, culture, love, relationship,
Form: Rhyme
Green on my fingers,
pink and purple too.
Acrylic paint lingers,
Ah! There is red and blue.
When I paint I’m such a mess,
Ruin my clothes every time.
Outer beauty must confess.
Truly hidden under grime.
Magical canvas,
Interrupts in ups and downs.
Makes me so happy,
In yellows, blues and browns.
Light and lively,
My fingers and my knees
Paint is everywhere,
Because I am being me.
Categories:
acrylic paint, art,
Form: Rhyme
I have garden loving hands.
Painters hands.
A poet's hands.
Ink-stained, acrylic paint splotches,
dirt under my broken and split
fingernails.
Here I sit, observing today's
experiences on my hands.
They tell the story as well
as anything else could.
I have smudges of ink,
and the entire side next
to my left pinkie is
saturated with beige and
red paint.
I see other women's
hands. Their nails
are "done". Their
nails are painted,
glossy, perfect.
I laugh at the
idea of having that
kind of hand, wondering
what kind of fun they
could have, without
dirt under their nails.
There is plenty of dirt
under mine; I can
barely walk past
a plant without doing
something to it.
I have gardener's hands.
Poet's hands. Artist's hands.
My diary is in my hands.
Come hither and see.
Categories:
acrylic paint, garden,
Form: Free verse
if you wanted to dance with me
i mean really wanted to dance with me
then i would
i would dance with you
if you needed me to walk on water
i would stand there until the lake froze
then i would
i would walk on water for you
if you suggested i climb
a mountain
warm at the bottom
freezing at the peak
i'd buy you a snow globe
turn it upside down and up
hold your hand warm
watch the freezing snowfall
climb your suggestion creatively
if you mentioned
you'd like me to paint your portrait
i'd buy every different colour of acrylic paint I could find
blend them on a canvas
paint your colourful internal portrait
every crayon in the box
that's who i see
if you said move me
i wouldn't hire a truck
or even touch one stick of furniture
i would write this poem for you
put a bow on it
fingers crossed
i would move you
your lips are always on my mind
if you want a man
willing to do...
...a man...
...hold you gentle but firm
i'm here
ring in hand
on one knee
November 28 2016
Categories:
acrylic paint, celebration, for her, i
Form: Dramatic Monologue
he was the crusty cocoon covering the caterpillar
boneless, yet filled with vibrant life, and belittling
the very source of her security, and the sacrifices
the casing made to transform frailty and un-beauty
later to lighter flight, much fluttering with splendour
of myriad colours as of acrylic paint and clear-coat
for weathering both the hot sun and the wet rain
before seizing the right moment to flirt with another
and never return to the cocoon, the first house
that remains deserted, forever a broken heart, blood
now dried, able to give no more life, mere useless
clothing, like the shed skin of a snake now escaped
Categories:
acrylic paint, beauty, butterfly, caregiving, change,
Form: Free verse
I was painting – a painting painting –
and when that right moment arrived
I went deep into the manic time, the flying zone.
For those readers who have never gone flying,
let me tell you it is the absolute best feeling you can have – ever.
How often do you get the opportunity
to be clear and fast and all-powerful,
so deep in love with what you are doing that you can’t breathe
and time and the world vanish and you don’t care?
My bedroom was my studio.
My mother was dying, my wife had divorced me,
and I had ordered a dozen or more pints
of every color of acrylic paint I thought I might like,
plus brushes in every size.
I couldn’t afford it, and I didn’t care.
When the order arrived I moved the bed
out of my/our former bedroom and ripped up the carpet,
stapled large sheets of heavy drawing paper to the wall,
turned Ani DiFranco to full volume,
and went to work.
Going in was the hard part, the getting there,
but I could feel when it was happening,
feel it in my chest and breath, the movement of my body,
and I was gone.
I painted until the piece itself told me to stop;
in that very instant I rejoined the world.
Categories:
acrylic paint, on work and working,
Form: Free verse