"He won’t paint", cried out the Father
suspecting a flame of genius
in the toddler’s eyes.
The painterly parent bought paper, acrylics,
oils, brushes, chalks, and crayons,
not even a finger painting emerged.
The child steadfastly refused to paint.
The father pleaded:
“For the glory of God why not paint!”
His offspring only turned away
to suck a thumb.
Months past…years.
The child grew to be a sullen teenager.
He began to write poetry – and such woeful,
doleful poetry!
Exclamation marks rose up in heaven
as thick as bamboo forests.
His father read them, his face grew ashen
with a sickly alarm.
The poems spoke of phantasmagorical visions,
hordes of screaming demons, dismembered
herds of hapless humans.
Abysmal were the visions the boy unleashed
from his newly erupted consciousness.
Presentiments flew up from the pages
as horrid as the blood-red dragons of Hades.
Upon reading his son’s latest works
the father exclaimed:
“For God’s sake, NEVER paint!”
He took the young man for long walks in the country,
forced him to join a local soccer team,
suggested a military career,
alas
the boy began to paint.
Categories:
chalks, poetry,
Form: Free verse
For my friend Patricia who followed her dream, and became the teacher she was meant to have been.
* * *
When I was a little girl, long ago
Uncle John bought me a box of chalks
A blackboard too, a dream coming true
The teacher in me was being born.
I played teacher, the pupils my toys
Hour after hour and day after day
Those moments I will never forget
Of when the teacher in me was made.
I became a teacher, lived the dream
Wonderful, golden days of my life
Found it rewarding in many ways
No two school days were ever the same.
I enjoyed teaching from first day to last
Helping students on their way to success
Making many precious memories
Souvenirs made with pride and pure joys.
I praise the day I got that box of chalks
From uncle John, dearly loved of course.
* * *
Categories:
chalks, child, destiny, dream,
Form: Free verse
When days of dreary tropes could feel no duller,
and gray heavens escape my pencil’s reach,
—oh misery!, it can’t be set to speech,—
my crayon box dreams of unbridled color!
When weeks waste precious hues for wanton squalor,
my paintings doning the pale death of bleach,
—or worse!—, if poetry can no more teach,—
my crayon box prays for fuller color!
Woe!Woe!Woe!—unto the whole damn affair!
My chalks, my pastels, ground to bits and dusts,
scattered astray in wicked winter’s gusts—
and cruel life squanders these, without a care?
How many months, how many years, until
the thrill once more spills forth from this dry quill?
Categories:
chalks, art, creation, depression, inspiration,
Form: Sonnet
she's a reprimand
in sight
british in american
no flights
the runaway holds the mold
speaking of witches
exploiting the no
turnaround and shes her ugly
misplace vowel in assembled
stance to task
her brothers blanketing his stash
demoralized and torn
its already early and she'd never show
speaking in my houses
blue horn irish muse
want of den's forgotten
harlot attempts the dew
wasted station of armies
stagnant collars and door
left handed chalks
whites hurdles will roar
Categories:
chalks, creation, easter, england, girl,
Form: Couplet
Notwithstanding, stars must be tall
To separate me from the waking-up of miles.
They glint when there’s no more light at all—
Drawing from my eyes; For on sky’s blackboard,
A p..m. set of chalks, rise in awe
To sketch, dreaming within a child’s hours—
Notwithstanding, stars must be tall
To separate me from the waking-up of miles.
-not a regular Triolet
Categories:
chalks, child, cry, dark, deep,
Form: Triolet
Today a simple blessing that comes from every artist
who work with paints or pencils or chalks…
Life is much more colorful
when we use every crayon in the box
Categories:
chalks, color, inspiration,
Form: Rhyme
In the club we rave chicks
Munching on glow sticks,
While sipping from a tub of acid,
Sipping on tube shots until we rabid.
After hours we doodle on the sidewalks
With a pack of rainbow chalks.
The people in the streets listen to our hums
As we march to the beat of our own drums.
Our heads filled with magic
As we drink coolers until we sick.
We rave girls love partying:
Dancing until we feel like we're dying.
Categories:
chalks, addiction, crazy, dance, drug,
Form: Free verse
A poetical and impressive woman, Jacquetta Hawkes her name and Dr Christine Finn delievers a message to share with us all, the true essence of timeless fame. There she stands, Jaquetta Hawkes and her merry band, a glass of chilled wine balanced in her unique and graceful hand. She captures radiance, a beauty for all to see, the shapes in a new landscape in the clouds of prosperity. For a moment in time, I guess being at the top of Primerose Hill, I am doing pretty fine, glancing a portal of Heaven on Earth that chalks a skeletal map, a Legend lest we forget how precious A Land is.
Categories:
chalks, beautiful, blessing, celebration, earth
Form: Rhyme
cute color crayons
chalks bought for children well spent
canvas of rainbows
08 June 2021
Categories:
chalks, nature,
Form: Haiku
Addicted to words, I take them on walks
I play Scrabble, Dabble, and crossword puzzles too
I spend hours with pen, paper, ink and chalks.
Words on my sidewalk, written in the soul of my shoe.
I flip through the dictionary at least three times a week.
Addicted to meanings, context, to words I must peek.
What is wrong with you? My husband asks, feeling forlorn.
I have no idea. But I know I am totally word-born.
Addicted to words, I spend hours and hours each day.
Playing word games, creating poetry, tossing words every which way.
Addicted to words, I read at least three books a week.
Loving dribble, and fibble, and credo and freak.
Words make me smile, hop, laugh, roll and sing.
Words are my world. More welcome more than any other thing.
They are my companion, my lover, my food and best friends.
We will probably not even notice when the outside world ends.
I cannot put words out of my mind more than a few seconds a day.
To me they are fun, exciting. I need to have so much word play.
My muses love adjectives, adverbs, and funny information too.
Without this addiction, I simply do not know what I would do!
Categories:
chalks, word play, words, write,
Form: Rhyme
Addicted to words, I take them on walks
I play Scrabble, Dabble, and crossword puzzles too
I spend hours with pen, paper, ink and chalks.
Words on my sidewalk, written in the soul of my shoe.
I flip through the dictionary at least three times a week.
Addicted to meanings, context, to words I must peek.
What is wrong with you? My husband asks, feeling forlorn.
I have no idea. But I know I am totally word-born.
Addicted to words, I spend hours and hours each day.
Playing word games, creating poetry, tossing words every which way.
Addicted to words, I read at least three books a week.
Loving dribble, and fibble, and credo and freak.
Words make me smile, hop, laugh, roll and sing.
Words are my world. More welcome more than any other thing.
They are my companion, my lover, my food and best friends.
We will probably not even notice when the outside world ends.
I cannot put words out of my mind more than a few seconds a day.
To me they are fun, exciting. I need to have so much word play.
My muses love adjectives, adverbs, and funny information too.
Without this addiction, I simply do not know what I would do!
Categories:
chalks, words,
Form: Rhyme
Bay Area Nigh December
A tryst on a San Francisco trolley
that exhibits penchant amidst a glance,
for 'tis wintry time launch all, too jolly
save two turtledoves, culled cooed romance
left in steep devotion, neglects folly.
Atone solemn occasions ere chapel
doors left open, soul worshippers pass stained
glass multicolored figurines, dapple
its windows amidst Christmasy lights, trained
eyes in wonder, gulp an adam's apple.
Snowflakes patterned distinctly, blankets bare
grounds painstakingly, changing verdant green
to an achromatic dressed whitewash wear,
rotating perspective picturesque scene
consistent seasons shift that we now fare.
The Golden Gate bridge, waning its glit of
citrus rising, squirting into blind eyes
forced to shades, now visibly shone 'twas love
delicate trace of your countenance guise
as it chalks a blackboard wrote from above.
2020 November 14
*8th Place*
Quintain-Sicilian
~~Emile Pinet
Categories:
chalks, appreciation, city, imagery, winter,
Form: Quintain (Sicilian)
The Infant won’t paint, cried out the Father;
he sensing an otherworldly genius
in the toddler’s eyes.
The painterly parent bought paper, acrylics,
oils, brushes, chalks, and crayons…
not even a finger painting emerged.
The child steadfastly refused to paint.
The father exclaimed:
“For the glory of God why not paint!”
His offspring turned away to suck his thumb.
Days past…years.
The child grew to be a sullen teenager.
He began to write poetry – and such woeful,
doleful poetry!
Exclamation marks rose up in heaven
as thick as bamboo forests.
His father read them, and his face grew ashen
with a sickly alarm.
The poems spoke of phantasmagorical visions,
hordes of screaming demons dismembered
herds of hapless humans.
Abysmal were the visions unleashed
from the boy’s erupting consciousness.
Presentiments flew up from the pages
as horrid as the blood-red dragons of Hades.
After reading his son’s latest works
the father exclaimed:
“For God’s sake, NEVER paint!”
He took the young man for long walks in the country,
forced him to join a local soccer team,
suggested a military career,
alas
the boy began to paint.
Categories:
chalks, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Favorite Artist,
A romantic,
A dreamer.
Choice for a favorite artist,
that would be,
Me.
~
I grew up in a family of seven children.
As the oldest I found myself entranced and driven.
Then, other times in a pensive mood
to be alone, in a quiet place, bliss of solitude.
I would sneak away and hide in different places.
No, sound or faces; leave no traces
just my chalks, pencils, and drawing pads
drawing traces of faces among them mom and dads.
As I grew older, I used my talent
to earn a living, every day was a brand-new challenge
discovering new things about me.
Excited and amazed of my talents, I started teaching
reaching for those that had talent, but lacking
self-esteem and making their dreams come true.
Then again, another phase of my life, I pursued
finding myself as a poet, a healing of my soul,
a journey to the depths,
food for substance that made me whole.
~
Being an artist has let me see and feel into my human self
with more meaning and understanding to life.
11/11/2019
Categories:
chalks, art, career,
Form: Free verse
White chalks.. on the glossy blackboard.
Black and White. .all matte and bored.
Technicolour scribbles. ..the world explored.
Vivacious markers...splashes the white board.
The aura of colors..the magical power.
Light mesmerising...the dull in cower.
Crayons and lipsticks..palettes of brush.
Vintage memories..in bookshelves flush.
Color of sun..darkens in shade.
Color of leaves..wither and fade.
Color of spring...never overstayed.
Color of life. .greys. .betrayed.
Reflections shimmer... the glass of solitude.
A kaleidoscope heart... colors in multitude.
Chameleon thoughts...in silence argues.
A 'Colorblind Dreamscape'...
the mind imbues.
8th September 2018.
Colored Memories Poetry Contest
sponsored by Craig Cornish
Categories:
chalks, age, betrayal, color, dream,
Form: Rhyme
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