Best Paint Poems
Tonight is not like other nights
Tonight I could paint a moonlight
with the smudged ink of my tears
No its not the inexperienced arms of death
which are longing to embrace my breath
that fill this soul with pain and fear
Nor is it the breeze of thousand needles
'neath the soft glow of my skin ,
What scares me most is...
Not being here in a twenty years or so
to tread love's kiss upon my daughter's cheek
Feel my fingers running through her hair
Listen to the sweet sound of her laughter
Make a wish under the unnoticed starry stars
and watch her dance beneath a repetitive boring sky.
What scares me most is...
Not being here in a twenty years or so
To let the crimson of my lips
bleed its rose close to your pillow
and its fragrance 'pon your bed
Its not being here to hold your blemished hands
and say to you all words still left unsaid
What scares me most is...
That in a twenty years or so
You will be here , still hating candles,all alone,
Its missing the chance, to share those words that don't make sense
yet mean that I have loved you all along.
In a twenty years or so ...In a twenty years or so
Will the ones I hold so dear
still find a way to know ?
Pull out the easel
set the canvas
positioned long and slender clean slate.
Sketch the figures huddled and dark-bound hostage
to charcoal-cooled coals
etching in shadow images;
Faceless entities
slipping in and out the background
earth-toned sojourners accepting, alone, quiet, dying;
Still the images in silence
hard and disfigured
grotesque horrors in place;
Somber soul-drained eyes
skeletal socket holes
buried in the heart and mind;
Let tears fall down their cheeks
in wonder, awe, and
fear of what happens next.
Acrylic primers dilute the wash in the storyline
flaking and cracking
tearing each soul and truth away;
Polyptych blended burnish bleeds
quiet, soft exuding
whimpered cries, asking why;
Chiaroscuro collages of death from life
fading to diluent breaths
the heartbeat of an unholy silence;
Graded gouache monochrome scraper boards
releasing sfumatos of singularities
communal lives sacrificed
Varnish the final rendition
camouflage the realities,
the actuality of what it represents,
Time immemorial in genocidal atrocities
of Native Americans, Cambodians, Hawaiians,
Jews, Rwandans, Bosnia, Darfur,.
When does it stop?
The never-ending list
life is more precious than this
until change comes
Paint the Picture Black and Gray
pray
then act.
I tried to paint a picture, Dear, of you,
But there was no right color that would do.
There is no blue that ever could display
The tranquilness with which you face each day.
I think no shade of red I’ll ever find
To match the utter passion of your mind.
Among sweet sunny yellow’s many hues,
I cannot find a one that I might use.
No color in this world can paint you whole.
And certainly I could not paint your soul.
The soul of you, so beautiful to me,
I know that it will shine eternally.
From inside out, my darling, how you glow.
Such happiness I’d never thought to know.
But never could I paint that brilliant light.
Nor can I paint your beauty in my sight.
If I could be Van Gogh, I think I might
Create a picture of a starry night.
And I would put inside it me and you
Enraptured ever in that sky’s dark blue.
Written April 1, 2014
Blank canvas
lies naked, cold and pale.
Master painter
paints a dream,
so a man without sight can see.
Master painter's palette enchants.
Sleeping grey pigments weep,
flowing crimson reds drip as
mellow yellows bring sparkle.
Navy blues dribble with royals,
as bright greens drizzle with
bursts of orange bowing
to sprinkles of gold.
Without a word,
each stroke dances
flowing like the sea,
where calm waves
salute unblemished shores.
Psychedelic impressions
shape illuminations,
creating images
like a mother's lullaby.
Silent One
Simple Musings
16 July 2017
Got home awound twee (I was dwunk as a wouse)
Awose pwomptly at six wit' dwy cotton-mouth
I knew wather soon my day was gonna' bwow
When I stwuggled outta' bed and stubbed my wight toe
Fwopped back on the mattwess cwying and twitchin'
Staggoid back up and wimped to the kitchen
Stumbled to the counter to bwew Folger's bwend
Spiwwed it down my Hanes and boint my widdle fwend
Hobbled to the bathwoom to wustle up some Tums
Twipped on my fwip-fwop and bwuised my weft bun
Should not have cawoused wit' owe Bugsey wast night
Now my head hoits and de wight is too bwight
If I had not dwunk gin for my mowale booster
I coulda' swept in trew 'dat wascally wooster
(Don't feel wike wunning dat siwwy wat-wace
Tink I might caw in sick at the Woony-Tune pwace)
I dyed my small world
In the colours of grief
I couldn’t find comfort
But I longed for relief
All my fabric was dark
I was shrouded in black
The weight of the world
Felt full on my back
I walked amongst shadows
With a feeling of dread
No one could reach me
with the words that they said
Yet this wasn’t a place
I was required to stay
My Lord He whispered
“You can leave, it’s Okay.”
My love brought her brushes
Colourful paints and her crayons
With brushes fingers and toes
She spread joy around
She repainted my world
Yellow, Purple and Gold
Each painting a flower
I now thankfully hold
I embraced her rainbow thinking
Let my sad drop to the floor
Dispensing of my gloom
I didn’t need it any more
Now here am I
still floating back to earth,
and lightly so,
for all these words
arrive on little velvet pillows.
I wish I could have
stayed up there
and lingered by your side.
Still it is you who signals me
each day with patient wind.
I feel it gently on my face—
whistling softly in my ears and
lifting distant scents for my mind's reflection,
redolent of blossoms far away—
from so very long ago that I'd forgotten.
Therefore, what am I to do
to reassure you
of my life and time?
How are they now that
I might speak of them?
I have chosen thus
to stand alone
on tall and barren hills—
and daily task myself
to paint the wind with clouds.
READERS: Don't just come for a free ride. Offer a thought and honor the poets here on the Soup who work very hard to bring their poems to you.
Paint With Fire
Paint flies freely from his brush
As he paints he sees her blush
In both their eyes passion burns
Naked she poses her body turns
Temptation irresistible for her he yearns
With his brush he paints her red
In all her glory there on his bed
Textured skin a canvas extreme
Heaving, writhing, an artist's dream
Fire flows from his finger tips
In all her curves, his passion drips
Transformed into a work of art
Eternal pleasures, light and dark
For Andrea's Acrostic Contest.
I also used the first word in each stanza to spell out the title.
In Aussie-land dwell the marsupials
By night they paint the town connubial
They make them a joey
Named Zoey or Chloe
Neighbors jump for joy indubitable
He leaves his silent signature on every piece of art
Not seeking worldly profit or acclaim,
Yet touches of perfection often set his work apart
And witness to his honourable name.
He moves his painter’s palette from the east unto the west
From north to south he coats the sweeping land.
His artistry is limitless and stunningly expressed
With every brushstroke marvellously planned.
Assorted textures bring to life the panoramic scenes
Resplendent in their richly varied hues,
From pastel pink to persimmon and dazzling emerald greens
Warm russet browns and iridescent blues.
A masterpiece can sometimes be neglected it is true
And counterfeits delude us at first sight,
So let us keep this perfect canvas in our field of view
And in the artist's workmanship delight.
06/10/18
(British spellings)
N/A :‘The paint mover poetry contest’ : Sponsored by: Anthony Slausen
Thinking of you I’m painting of love
Ascribing endearing brushstrokes
Ambivalent of my reach to inform
As I adumbrate upon soul’s canvas
Come build this portrait with me
Emblazon those empty spaces
Color them boldly as you please
Embolden contours of your wishes
And when your heartbeats speak
Indulge them in enamored feelings
Savoring love’s treasured meaning
As flame of passion ignites within
Clasp this wave beckoning now
Lift us, dear, to crest from trough
Glide merrily riding tides of awe
But paint us, my love~ as we are
April 1, 2022
Placed 1st: A Brian Strand Standard Contest
Your body is lowered into the ground, where you lie in darkness.
My warm tears mingle with December's cold rain... I lament.
War's grip holds me in depression, for this should be my grave.
"TAKE COVER!" you yelled, as your body and your blood fell over me.
My malaise of guilt: you died for me without a "thank you."
I'd give my life to find a doorway to you; my life is just a beautiful lie.
But my fear of death
keeps me from reaching for the door handle.
An alabaster portal that may not allow me in, a wretched sinner.
I have need of paint and brush, for it must be darker to open.
I weep for you, my brother, as my incarnate heart weeps for me.
But my fear of death
staunches my progress; I cower in my shame.
Damn my trembling hand, for the door is only darkened to gray.
My mind, an unassailable weapon against my will; it paints... It paints.
But my fear of death
haunts me; I fall to my knees in mental anguish.
Tears rain down as mortar shells, and flow into the ink of my pen.
I write these words for war mongers to read. "Death is a painful truth."
With labored breath, I brush a final stroke on the door to paint it black.
I am on my way, Captain, for I have found the courage to thank you.
My fear of death
was an illusion to mask the longing for my demise.
The only way I can be free from my fear of death is to let death claim me.
November 9, 2015
. 1~
She walked ~ faint footprints left behind
A maiden's journey~a silent remind
of long-ago days in deerskin dress
A shelter of skins won under duress
She walks with wind along the Plains
Feeds quail and birds the corn remains.
Her voice, an octave or two below
returns their music as she sows
She prays for peace and for the rain
She wants her lover back again
and corn that reaches up so high
it paints the blue across the sky.
She wants those days before men came
took their children, killed their game
She wants the breezes in her hair
and mourns those days of little care.
~2~
An archaeologist~grave robber, some say
Yet before each dig, she takes time to pray
For this is where people lived and died
Birthed their young, laughed and cried
She finds the footprints under deep sand
Preserved for years by Nature's hand
And, next to them, some bits of corn
A wonderous find, and yet she's torn.
Put on display for tourists to stare
hallowed ground ruined, many despair.
A tug at her heart, the call of a bird~
She decides to leave site undisturbed.
As she moves on, she throws some corn
For quail and birds to feast upon
Perhaps nuggets will one day rise ~
As stalks so high they paint the skies.
Remembering days of azure skies,
I dream of you,
Knowing we're through.
Cerulean thoughts impose;
Tomorrow I'll begin anew.
How? I haven't a clue.
My heart's encased in cobalt walls.
Where's the joy we knew,
Happiness that grew?
Lonely, indigo nights await,
Wondering what I can do,
Nothing more to pursue.
'Neath night's sapphire cloak,
I eat my words. I chew.
How did I misconstrue?
Angst, veiled in navy curtains,
I ponder love once true
Until you withdrew.
*Word Count is 78. For Dale's "Brevity in Blue" contest.
Eastern sky blazes at the break of dawn
In the air the rising sun throws its hue
The speckled clouds gleam in the horizon
On multicolored flying palette I see you.
I’ve reached the edge of the blue plateau
Where the clouds touch the ground I find
They melt in the colors that define you
I splash on blank canvas and paint my mind.
In colored contours I see your face
Draped in unique tapestry of grace.
I’ll keep you there
All the time forever….
Western sky drenched by the dusk shower
The setting sun designs for it an attire new
In rainbow lined by pleated petals of flower
In its multihued transient arch I see you.
I’ve crossed the stretch of the green meadow
Where the rainbow holds the horizon I find
It melts in stream of colors that configures you
I flood the bare canvas and paint my mind.
In colored contours I see your face
Draped in unique tapestry of grace.
I’ll keep you there
All the time forever….
February 25, 2918.