From the moon to the mountains, in grains of sand,
the everyday transformation and exile,
the joy of returning home
rests upon my walking.
Do not
put Sellotape
over it anymore.
One Monday,
at the window of rain,
let the words
that were never spoken
stay with me too,
some rain-soaked
names, some
sunlight that never
made it home.
Leave the door
open, in case
she ever
comes back
to a blurred life.
I will live
with a little courage
in this hazy life.
It raises goosebumps,
the blunt
sky blooms
with stars.
I don't know why
I sit and sit,
waiting, searching,
brush in hand,
looking this way and that.
You have kept so much suspicion
in your eyes.
Why?
I am only a little to the north,
a little to the south,
in surrender.
Brush
your hair
or someone
form of self-grooming
or passing someone close
by and scarcely grazing them
A Wily Brush
The world has become my canvas
Everyone's paths
conjuring patterns
Vain ventures
plenty vanities
concocting colors
As unflattering wills
arouses a wily brush
This world is a notating papyrus
Each monk and mockery
fusing a lucid ink
As Pain taunts pleasure
masking our actions
with blending colors
Different worlds are formed
Birthed by ephemeral words
ushering a cascade of thoughts
flaunting baskets
of friable dreams
fashioning the pen
a flickering fiend
flattering friends and foes
a slick ink
with a cloying unction
not just paint on wall
you've painted my heart with
perfect brush strokes
There's beauty in every season
AP: 1st place 2026
He sat upon his handcrafted mahogany stool
Facing the white plains of his canvas
His palette ready with selected color
Vision crisp and sharp like salted chips
Raising his brush to touch the matter
...clumps
The connection is resistant to attention
The heart is cracked, but never open
Movement toward closes opportunity
Like a mechanical apparatus without pause
So, the artist puts down paint and brush
Focusing on the receptivity of the canvas
...smooth
Once again, he draws close to deliver
The paint touches but turns to deep black
Blind people can't see value without light
The other senses sharpen the focus
Hearing what isn't refracted
Feeling what shouldn't be touched
...taste
Patience guides the flow of the artist
As he speaks life over the flowing paint
"My love, I infuse my vision in every stroke
You are no longer barren and afraid."
The canvas vibrates as sight is restored
The image brings forth the fruit
...goodness
"You, precious one....are not for sale."
Written by Trudy Schrader on 04-26-2026
Words create my art
Etymology canvas
Syllable brushstroke
spring paints earth with stunningness -
man gets high from her brushes jeweled touch
You do not know
of who I am
and yet you brush me broadly.
These shoes I wear
and all I've seen
to wit,
has helped to shape me.
Presumptive you
without a clue
your arrogance astounding!
I do not care,
your thought's are skewed
distorting who I might be.
This brush you use
accusingly,
bristled with ignorance.
Just who I am
or choose to be
your brush
does not define me!
Oupa Dean ! With Him she brushed shoulders, forty years ago,
on a rainy twilight down Adderley Street caressing yellow freesias,
bought by her late tea date.
Flower sellers on The Parade delighted with sale.
Mind flashed an evening recall three centuries
earlier, same TwinSoul promenading down Rue des
Iris soon after the 1636 French-Spanish conflict, her name then, Amoré.
Moon-Tears rained French defeat on street,
lamps casting moist shadows across black hats
~ Realities flow into one another, clutching yellow freesias.
This old brush would once brush cleanly
This old brush once smoothed my hair
This old brush once snagged a single strand
When I was kempt and fair
This old brush began to clog up
With the hair that it had pulled
This old brush was like a fur ball
Can my barnet be refuelled
Ain’t gonna need this brush no longer
Ain’t gonna need this brush no more
Ain’t got time to rub those creams in
Nor to tap the surgeon’s door
This old brush served through my youthful days
But now lives in a drawer
If this old brush could be bigger
I could use it on the floor
This old brush outlived its uses
This old brush redundant now
This old comb is all I need now
This old brush must take a bow
This old comb ain’t working proper
Like that old brush always did
There’s a dumb old tufty bit
Of which my comb will not get rid
Ain’t gonna brush this hair no longer
Ain’t gonna sweep it to one side
Cos I’ve got this centre parting
It’s about four inches wide
Ain’t got time to rub those creams in
Nor to tap the surgeon’s door
Ain’t gonna need this brush no longer
Ain’t gonna need this brush no more
Beneath windswept limbs of an ancient tree
I quietly sit as Dawn's brush paints the sky.
My thoughts turn in this sunrise morning
to blades of grass around me that soon will dry
after sprinkled with dew when night held sway.
I'm feeling melancholy over days gone by,
recalling sad memories that come to mind...
A love once held deep within my heart
and a romantic song we had called our own.
Here, on the ridge where the world is hushed,
I'm in no rush to leave my dreams behind
while remembering a time when life was kind.
Twisting vines and bending branches
Intertwine and wrap around
Hiding lost, forgotten treasures,
Encasing all that's near the ground
Past the viridescent greenery
Creeping twigs that reach and claw,
All that exists will flee as you run
Stuck amid the brush’s maw
New walls, inviting
colors crisp and…
Clean, washed
bright, beautiful and…
Fresh, renewed
by cheery colors, so…
Neat, energetic
like the unsullied, and…
Different, unmarked
by the past, unsoiled and …
Detailed by soft brush
filled with paint’s heavy scent…
Sparkling, like the life
reborn, new and changed,
converted by the primer –
His light never fades out…
His brush mends the heart
restores the soul with faith
and transforms the life with grace…
Painting the spirit in love so amazing
Painting my life so I’ll always be praising
A Brush, A Hush,
Of Scores Begun!
Field's Of Victories,
Our, .... Fun!
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