Best Brush Poems
The color palette
has changed of the world .
painters wispy brush
clouds line clear calm sky.
Day is cold and dry,
Fine snow starts to fall.
Plants have ceased budding
bent, spilling over
yet passion, fragrant,
unadorned jasmine,
honeysuckle vine,
knit wooden arbor.
untiring starlings,
early mourning doves
move the day with their
inviting singing
and soft coo-OO-oo
throughout the chill day.
Ardent breath, note traced
of love, a heart shape
onto cold window.
1/6/2024
Forget to brush; must maintain that gleam
Run to sink, grab a tube, no light stream
Such an odd taste in my mouth
Quickly I must spit it out
Oh, dear Lord, it’s Dad’s hemorrhoid cream!
(Sadly, a true story)
If my mind be painted in colors borrowed, would it be red?
Rusted in brown, or maybe instead, an indigo streak?
Depending upon the source of inspiration,
and the song on the radio at the time of connection...
I keep coming back to sea green,
or the blue of underwater murals at 3ft tall of childhood,
eyes wide in fickle, transient hazel
absorbing each moment, be it safe or unstable
categorizing each scent and each color
each love and each valor
each crisp Autumn, Summer
in vats of brain paint to be later unlidded
and splashed with insignias
of every person and place and event
that ever touched corneas innocent, bent
on absorption.
If my mind be painted, I think it be green
like the moment I'm lucid before I dip dreams
and hang them to dry in the gallery
"Mind's Eye"
and push to wake up to connect, signify
every sensory path that I've traveled before
to traipse them again and still come back for more.
I'm a stickler for art and with your canvas blank
my sweet innocent dear, with each word that you hear
you will brush stroke your way to uniqueness.
One fine day I was fishing at sea
Two big blue whales swam up by me
They flicked their tails sent up a spray
All I could do was watch and pray
They kept flicking and sank my boat
I'm now in the water and here I float
If no one is around to save my life
Then a widow she'll be, my wife.
I'm not afraid of a big blue whale
I'll put a harpoon in its flickering tail
When seas get rough from a blowin' gale
Just pour me another swig of ale.
They kept flicking and sank my boat
I'm now in the water and here I float
If no one is around to save my life
Then a widow she'll be, my wife.
I'd cut my hand and the blood ran free
Three fins appeared ready for their tea
Then from nowhere I heard a shout
"Grab the rope we'll get you out".
They kept flicking and sank my boat
I'm now in the water and here I float
If no one is around to save my life
Then a widow she'll be, my wife.
They hauled me in and saved my neck
I was a soggy heap upon their deck
I was perished they gave me rum
Felt a warm glow in my tum.
They kept flicking and sank my boat
I'm now in the water and here I float
If no one is around to save my life
Then a widow she'll be, my wife.
The sails went up they made for shore
Made a vow to myself the sea no more
Now I'm a crofter working on dry land
And ne'er again see sea or sand.
They kept flicking and sank my boat
I'm now in the water and here I float
If no one is around to save my life
Then a widow she'll be, my wife.
After five months I was longing to be
Back in the boat fishing out at sea
A landlubbers life was not for me
On the water I was free.
They kept flicking and sank my boat
I'm now in the water and here I float
If no one is around to save my life
Then a widow she'll be, my wife.
The credit for the third verse goes to Jenna Logan.
Written 31st January 2021.
Hands
mixing
neutral shades
as brushstrokes form
etches of life’s vignettes in washed-out tones,
Reflecting grim shadows doused by night’s ash
Where black white hints
Trail along
Fingers
Stained.
Grief
In oil
Expressing
Artist's lament
Through paint of tears which words cannot portray.
tetractys 1st place
Contest NO 85 for Briand Strand
Skywardly yearning,
wheeling and turning,
an exaltation of larks!
Lines interleaving,
wings interweaving
an orchestration of arcs!
Just shadow and light
imbuing their flight,
shape-shifting magic they fly.
With artistic flair,
their canvas the air,
this brush of wings paints the sky!
Tiny, timid, thing
tell tales that throw time
through thought; teeth tightning trenches
these trouble tellers taunting tidbits
Thawck!
Toiling Thugs
They tinsel trash
through tonsils
Tackle them!
Trophy triumphant toddler!
1 tiny
2 timid
3 thing
4 tell
5 tales
6 that
7 throw
8 time
9 through
10 thought
11 teeth
12 tightning
13 trenches
14 these
15 trouble
16 tellers
17 tauntings
18 tidbits
19 thawck
20 toiling
21 thugs
22 they
23 tinsel
24 trash
25 tonsils
26 tackle
27 trophy
28 triumphant
29 toddler
When I awoke this early morn
I looked out upon a magic fairyland
Last night a whole new world was born
Nature had been making surprising plans
To paint the world with an icy hand
I looked beyond the windowpanes
And spied a welcoming winter's view!
Enchanting houses up and down the lane
With frosted roofs, and sidewalks too
All the world covered in crystal hues
Frosty art upon the window glass
Beautiful designs that Jack Frost has left
I wish his artwork could be framed to last
But as morning leaves, and Jack takes his noontime rest
The chill will leave, and the sun will bless
For Carol Brown's contest "Welcoming Winter"
She rested upon the edge of her desk, lifeless for there was no paint in her hair
The world arose and it too did set in light to her view
Lonely she wept, as the paint teased her emotions, and tears did flow
Greens and yes many blues
Lost, no direction the canvas yelled in agony, for fear of emptiness
Her only desire to be caressed by the hair of the brush
Beauty would be the medium, the track to unite the brush that just sat and the weeping canvas
Blank, no message emotionless for color was no where to meet the eye
Tears made the oil-based paint thin to water-color and yet not a single stroke to joy
The brush saw the crying canvas, it rose to her foot and gently dried the canvas tears of fear
Her color did stay
A heart it formed, love was to display
Alas a love that would for ever stay
Like a tatto, for a lifetime there
Her hair brushed and brushed
The canvas smiled with joy it revealed
A huge heart and they called it love
Ink grew and time stood still
For the power is countless to a strong will
The brush paused, it dried
Dead in color her message lives on til this day
In many hearts a canvas weeps, awaiting the beauty of art
Comeforth and reveal its love
When I first saw you,
you smiled directly at me
It was a warm, effervescent smile
Melted my heart totally
But I could also hear you crying,
you were crying on the inside
I sensed a broken heart still healing,
pain lived where love should reside
It was mutual magnetism: the more you were attracted to me,
the more you tried to pull away
I welcomed you into my life with open arms,
yet it was a struggle for you
Your mind would say, oh no, got to go ...
but your heart would say, no way, got to stay
It was such a hard struggle for you
You didn't trust your new found happiness,
it had betrayed you before in the past
Dreading always the future,
memories told you love never last
Our relationship was treading water,
it wasn't moving anywhere, it wasn't moving forward
So when I told you how I felt,
tears started streaming down your cheek
You lowered your head and turned away,
feeling it was another love lost, love you couldn't keep
But I gently turned you around,
and brushed away the tears on your face
Told you that I loved you so much,
that I needed you in my life every day
I said let me brush away your tears,
let me brush the pain
that's been in your heart over the years
I said let me brush away your fears,
let me brush away all the past hurt
that causes you to cry so, so many tears
Then you looked up at me,
and smiled that most beautiful smile
Your expression of love given freely;
and the canvas of your heart,
you opened to me completely
Blue for the eyes that loved my calm sky,
green for the soft grass we slept on,
white for the lilies we picked,
yellow for small daises,
purple for sunsets,
red for wild lips,
pink for skin,
rose for
you.
Copyright 2014 (c ) by Andrew Crisci
Entranced, am I, by God's
infinite paint brush.
Illuminating this sunlit room
with a quiet hush.
The morning aurora makes all
things right.
After a peaceful sleep in
heaven's twilight.
The walls and ceiling twinkle
with multifarious colors.
Deepest green, sea foam blues,
magenta pinks,mandarin orange,
and a host of others.
I move those glass beads in the
sunlit sterling bowl and swish!
In a single instant, my beads,
make me a color artist.
Oh, how most desirably and so
dreamily wished!
God's own hand in my Mother's
antique and beloved, sterling dish!
July 18, 2019
8am PST
My words – but feeble brushes
attempt to recapture
the essence of a masterpiece
in black and white lines,
to give flight to a long dormant eagle,
raise a long set sun,
scorch the soul of the horizon,
make diamonds of the dew.
To paint with worded brush
the infamy of sunrise red
setting fire to daybreak,
the purple edge of waking blue
clinging to the moonlight,
the splash of sunrise
dancing across a pond,
the sound of nature humming
as she wakes her children.
John G. Lawless
©11/9/2021
A BRUSH OF ARS POETICA
Rhythmic verses wherein death paints a picturesque of life
or life itself is written in lethargic-dying state:
a dusty stocked vocabulary still cuts like a knife
when done and re-phrased witty, nonparallel and ornate.
Like the azure fluffy clouds parading affront the sun,
its smiling hue of yellow-orange kisses sleeping hope--
softly flaming those frugal thoughts in grace and wonder stun,
remarkable enough to line dream stanzas ropes and slopes.
Strokes cast spells of rattles, rambles to erratic silence
allowing trembles to twang murmurs upon hardened hearts
same as magnet it attracts eyes and ears to your essence
because your speech ushers morals incubating fresh starts.
_______________________________________________________________
***Sponsor Thomas Martin
Contest Name Ars Poetica
++Placed 1st++
O.E. Guillermo
2:26 pm, March 06, 2015
***I define art of poetry as variations of light and dark, life and death, pale and vibrant, real and fiction... Writing poetry resurrects life even to a scene spelling disaster and death. Art of poetry embodies every angle aiming to touch the senses. Deep and superficial, all around breathing or not screams/is an art of poetry.
distant mountain scene
blue shadows for artists and
indigo poems