Brush Poems - Poems about Brush

When the Soul Holds a Brush

I once saw a soul hold a brush—
when my eyes first fell in love
with the Sistine Chapel ceiling.
Michelangelo, with the sweep of his hand,
took me through space and time,
into a cathedral of bliss
painted upon the heavens.

When I dreamed of the Mona Lisa,
and tasted the silence
of The Last Supper,
I woke asking—
Was Leonardo da Vinci a man,
or

This Old Brush

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

23 Minutes

Survival in spite of a series of unfortunate events, 
And despite being delirious in the head, 
I thrived in the thicket and the brush. 
The Moon’s departure was the Sun’s arrival, 
Nights in the cities was ahead, 
I felt alive again in the swish of the rush. 
Light up a diluted filter with a crush,

Dawn's Brush Paints the Sky

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

artist's brush

artists brush

 
i have painted you 
with the pointed brush of an artist
creating every line and detail of your body
before finishing the colors

now
I have laid aside my paint-filled brush
realizing that i could never compliment your beauty
with pastels on canvas

i filled volumes with words
intending to tell you how much you mean to me
by building paragraphs on

Through the Brush

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

Fresh Paint

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

A Brush, A Hush

A Brush, A Hush,
                   Of Scores Begun!

Field's Of Victories,
                        Our, .... Fun!

Where My Brush Strokes Linger

I woke trembling on the threshold of dawn 
as dappled sunlight through my window shone 
Upon my primed canvas there had been drawn 
a masculine image with finely chiseled cheekbones

What virile fantasy had I born while in flight 
for my hand to have created such a dashing face 
In stippled darkness of my dream-filled night,

A Brush with Blush

This is where I hide, 
A secret garden
Cool and quiet-
Where words rest
in safe space. 
Here I can write out
those wary, hidden thoughts
That come out with insight-
Aware, half awake, they fly out. 

Caught by surprise, 
Flushed OUT from
cozy comfort zone... 

Disturbance kick start
with real life
shock starts my heart
with blush brush. 


Aqua Marine. 
Posted:  Friday, 15th

Brush Strokes

Each brush stroke on the canvas
marks a moment in time
the artist left behind.
A fragment of thought expressed in 
a line, a trace, 
a spot, a dab, 
a splash, a splotch,
a daub by palette knife impasto.
The brush a fleeting hand
expressing the artists
shade and light, color and flare,
texture and shape in composition.
It marks the way the artist

Baby's First Brush with Alcoholism

It runs in the blood, you know.
The mind may forget, but the body remembers
There are things you'll try to shake and fail for years
Etched in the nerves for generations to come

Love you grandpa
You ol' whiskey-soaked lush
You've got three daughters and three grandkids who won't touch the stuff
So clearly, the responsibility fell to me

It's extra bitter

paint brush

an artist paint brush 
spreads magic across canvas 
exhilarating sight

Brush Pile

                                   Pile of dried branches
                

Brush Strokes

Brush Strokes 

…

The canvas of fate,
Wind strokes of the brush create a straight.
The vibrant hues blend seamlessly strait,
Each stroke represents a chapter of my state.

An empty canvas representing my soul.
Full of dark void and hole.
Hues of the future dole,
Sudden colors I've never seen before began to appear on the palete as a whole.

Stopped at my

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