Best Watercolours Poems
When I was just a little girl
I painted soaring seagulls
in a dawning sky of duck-egg blue
I painted ladybirds and whimsical butterflies
A red cottage with square-shaped windows
A misty mountain with a purple hue.
All my fields were evergreen
with flowers falling like confetti in between.
A rising sun in molten gold so bright
with shifting leaves along a riverside.
I painted mushrooms covering faries
Unicorns, princesses and queens
Happy trolls and Naughty elves
riding on watercoloured bees.
As such was life, Carefree
As beautiful as dreams.
Years rolled on, trees turned old
Vibrant colours became the past in an hourglass.
All shadows now, are black as night
All that is left are sepia shades
dim as the gloom of a Winter day.
But little child out there, Listen to me..
Never let clouds cover your soul with ash -of-grey
Like candyfloss, clouds might seem huge
But they're made of fluff...Blow them away.
Blow them away before it rains
Yet if rain pours its heavy drops
and gusty winds whirl from strong storms
Never give up!
Lilt up your head, seek with those eyes
In every journey a rainbow hides
Just keep on searching, do not be blind
Leave all your troubles way back behind.
All shadows now, are black as night
All that are left are Sepia shades
dim as the gloom of a Winter day
But now and then a spell's bestowed upon my name
With an old brush and childhood colours
I paint an orchard with sugar-maples
and fragrant blossoms blooming in May.
~*~ Summer to Autumn ~*~
Expresses blooms of beauty,
~ primary pastels ~
whilst impending changes loom
~*~ Water colours in the rain ~*~
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/nature-13.php
This one’s a castle; that’s a customs-house.
They’re stolid, listless, just a little dull.
The sky supports an arbitrary gull.
The languidness of Liszt, the style of Strauss
are wholly absent. Colours are metallic.
The eye sweeps over cornice, turret, steeple,
then it dawns on us – there are no people.
Clock towers, mountains, minarets, all phallic,
are void of human life. Stark, empty chairs
adorn each arid, motionless interior.
As we apprise, eyes sneeringly superior,
we note acerbically his love of stairs –
A Will to Power, ever pushing up.
One daub there is, however, gives us pause:
it dates long before Enabling Laws,
before he dreamed of Kesselring or Krupp:
a bridge that’s quite impossible to cross,
going nowhere, has never carried traffic.
With a boy sitting on it. Startling, graphic,
without a hint of Schadenfreude or Schloss.
Self-portrait, this? What features may we trace?
What’s here vouchsafed? Incipient racist brute?
Hardly. A disarmingly awful suit,
and most revealingly of all – he has no face.
as rain extinguished embers
of the long day's city heat
blurred traffic light reflections
painted puddles on the street.
This one’s a castle, that’s a customs-house.
They’re stolid, listless, just a little dull.
The sky supports an arbitrary gull.
The languidness of Lizst, the style of Strauss
are wholly absent. Colours are metallic.
The eye sweeps over cornice, turret, steeple,
and then it dawns on us – there are no people.
Clock towers, mountains, minarets, all phallic,
are void of human life. Stark, empty chairs
adorn each arid, motionless interior.
As we apprise, eyes sneeringly superior,
we note acerbically his love of stairs –
a Will to Power, ever pushing up.
One daub there is, however, gives us pause:
it dates from long before Enabling Laws,
before he dreamed of Kesselring or Krupp:
a bridge that’s quite impossible to cross,
that goes nowhere, has never carried traffic,
bears one boy sitting on it. Startling, graphic,
without a hint of Schadenfreud or Schloss:
self-portrait, this. What features might we trace?
What’s here vouchsafed? Incipient racist brute?
Well, hardly. An endearing, awful suit,
and – most revealingly of all – he has no face.