Long Daubs Poems

How quick capitalone two-step flickr ring imperceptibly, 
   kneaded asper byte
sized LivingSocial ties, linkedin and massaged viz MineCraft flight
of fancy outlook with plenti full confidence, faith, 
   and inherent lettered oblations...

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The art of the critic, WHY?                             ...

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Vae victis! Her quick eyes spy out the field.
Reconnoitred, the foe's dispositions have been noted, 
quantified, assessed. The forces of order
and tidiness, in neat array, 
perfect their alignment, await onslaught.
The sentinels stand guard:
A pot of...

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oh, my precious child!

let me kiss away your weep -
do not be troubled, the moon but bids good night
(stars whispering their ancient lullaby)
swallowing not, the western reach
but merely giving pause to the day, waking
so that...

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exclamation, which does nothing to stem dead locked high tide   
     proliferation of high-powered assault bazookas 
     manned by berserk cruel death eaters, 
 ...

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Oh, my precious child,
Let me kiss away your weep -
Do not be troubled, the moon but bids good night,

       Stars whispering their ancient lullaby,

Swallowing not, the western reach,
But merely...

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To get lost amidst a painting
cast into my mind
falling into my eyes
all these scenes creating
fast forward and rewind
all that is before me, can shatter into behind
the distance between us is clearly insurmountable
oh, but the numerous...

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Variations on a Theme of Red 

Color of bold that daubs the sunset bright
Old fair weather friend of shepherd’s delight
That taints the emblazoned rays of gold 
Displayed a glorious red for all to behold

Rare crimson...

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written months ago commemorating 
the graduation from a vaunted charter school 
in Bend, Oregon of thy lovely youngest,
this papa could not attend - 
geographical distance constituting the primary determinant.
*      ...

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Artiste, she paints in breathless strokes,
Dedicated to the art, the flow,
Colors alive, blushing in bold and bashful caresses,
Lifting the heart, soothing as laughter.

Artiste, she splatters the canvas with hope,
Grace captured on the bare canvas,
Home to...

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Celeb


No sooner does a Celeb opens his closed lips
Than eager pens poise to ooze ink from tips!
Such is the woe and pain for my brother Caleb
Who’s a reviled, demeaned and stalked Celeb!!

Whatever he utters is...

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A child shelters ...
Under a bloody, swollen moon
Yearning the daylight
Soft beams show the way
But there is no ember ... no brightened clarity
No warm-to-the-marrow saturation
It is beautied, like the elements of love
But it can not fill...

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Lemons,
their squeezed
juice
that trickles
down
the chin,
and slides
through
the fingers,
is the
sunlight 
that
warms
an
April
eve'
for
the first
time
since 
the previous
April.

Lemon-
drops
are
sweet,
and you
want
to 
just look
at 
their 
sunny 
sugariness,
hold one 
like 
a little 
jewelry bead-
and 
in
your
mouth 
every suck- 
one 
after 
the other 
like you 
string the beads-
one...

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How soft and sweet the breath of May
          So warms to brace the swallow's wing
           ...

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Obsessed with Words

A poet is a wordsmith shaping lines
like a blacksmith bending metal pieces
into works of art and functional tools.

Poets are blatantly obsessed with words
That are selected, rendered, assembled
into verse, like a composer strings notes
or...

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Night's grassy fields furrowed beneath starry bait,
calls us to cast ourselves upon the straw,
above the Pointillist's daubs spark a hungry slate
to entice our soul while we chew our chaw.

Where we render ourselves like straw
we skew...

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In swoon ‘neath golden moon and sable sweep
   let bathe with hues upon my canvas soak
     romance a mingle, brush and pigment sweet,
      ...

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A watercolor sky 
at Dawn-washed salmon, and light 
lemon hues. The colors 

are reflections,
in a lone fresh puddle shaped 
like a winding stream; 

in the shiny streets;
the gleam of the cars of greys
and deep Twilight...

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July 29, 1890

Colored daubs and swatches
crave artist’s practiced hand.
Justice, nearly blind, yet watches—
unwrought art upon a stand.

Regard the brushes in a row—
the palettes and the sponges.
Genius maimed by status quo,
vain a hope that fate expunges.

Guttered...

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Steam at the mug's brim warms my cheeks
From the upstairs window, glassy as the sea
A distant island's timber speaks and I watch 
   the sun begin to peak.  

Below, the dock rattles...

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Rhapsody of rainbow morphs to morose mélange
Bleeding colors bleached from the twilight cloud 
Rainstorm daubs as blemish on the broken heart
The shades of grey paint the frayed linen of love.

Requiem of roses resonates in melancholic...

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Hell won't be so bad, 
if the clouds are made of papyrus
and the devil has ink wells for eyes.
If I could grab hold of his tail and snip. 
Forge it into golden quill called grand...

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where the pipeline meets the lake
spewing sewage in its wake
several snowdrops grow and help to paint God’s earth

and as acid rains from clouds
upon the litter strewn by crowds
lines of daffodils speak more than words are...

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Portrait II *
By: Tom Wright
1/31/02

Meticulously mixed, my days as paint,
my life, a canvas, on an easel stand.
Each brushstroke from the palette,
precisely placed by the Masters hand.

Solely exhibited will be yon things,
which I exclusively, in stone,...

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As a child I would place my closed eyes
in them
while she hummed Gaelic melodies
neither she nor I had words for.

Her apron, it was brown
like a butchers smock
but with not a speck of blood upon it
only...

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