Long Watercolors Poems
Long Watercolors Poems. Below are the most popular long Watercolors by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Watercolors poems by poem length and keyword.
No pixelations,
8-bit art.
The resolution of my heart
exceeds electric exhibition,
desires finer definition
like watercolors
which must
f l o w
or oil paintings
setting
s
l
o
w
so every nuance saturates
that canvas where each life creates
its masterpiece of choices made:
those strokes of words
and deeds portrayed
outside the borders of a screen
where things unseen
subsist and mean
beyond a glassy lavish glow.
There's more to see, to show,
and know.
_______________________________________
Become a Painting theme challenge - link:
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poetry/contests/become_a_painting__15627
On the canvas of my life the surface
Started out blank the moment
I was born and came into existence
Just as everyone does then, overtime
As I went through different experiences
The acrylic and watercolors of emotions
Thoughts and beliefs began to slowly
Mix and blend the beliefs that I have
To be normal just to fit in.
A little green here and blue there
Just to add some depth and dimension to
all the worries anxieties and fears.
No matter how abstract the image appears.
Charcoal for the shadows and pastels for the highlights
Sometimes it can be hard to see the horizon line of the
The present moment of every day when the 3 point perspective
Is being drawn without the guidance of a ruler.
Forget bottling up my emotions because no
Container is big enough to hold the vast majority
Of ruminated thoughts that run through my mind
The way to much paint runs down a canvas when
You add water to it.
Since each emotion can be represented by a different color
The canvas of my life is like an abstract painting of every
experience I ever dealt with, every being I ever encountered
and the energy I took on during our interaction.
I once heard that life is whatever you make of it and
You have the power to shape your own destiny.
From an artist perspective, I would say since each
And every individual begins his or her life as a blank
Canvas the paintbrushes we use to represent the tool
And the paint whether oil, watercolor or acrylic are
The choices, decisions, and results that add vibrancy
highlights, mid-tones, and shadows of our lives.
Those enigmatic clouds of Charles Baudelaire were floating in the sky
An unhappy man, he, was standing under the sky,
He did not see the clouds, he did not know the color of the sky
Nothing charmed him, not at all ...
Life is useless, failed
He's out ...
He needs some sleeping pills
That's the quick remedy for fatigue, Isn’t it?
Those enigmatic clouds of Charles Baudelaire were floating in the sky
An unhappy man, he, was standing under the sky,
He did not see the clouds, he did not know the color of the sky
Nothing motivated him ... he had a terrible headache
He needed immediate sleep
Sleep...an impeccable silence
Of a dreamless, dark death.
Poet: Why now? Why is it time today,
when everything is over?
My life is nothing but burned out ashes only,
why now is the time for you to talk about this?
Poetry: But, It is you who made me!
I am nothing but a mixture
Of watercolors of your imagination!
Poet: You are the crop of my misconceptions,
The agonizing cry of not merging my desire!
Will you release me? I want to forget everything,
Please do not call me anymore!
Poetry: If you turn away,
my death will be inevitable.
So, what do you want?
Poet: I don't know.
I just feel that I am decaying endlessly, continuously!
He who is burdened with the burden of decaying life,
How will he create?
Poetry: But you are the one who loves, poet!
Forget all fears of hardships, and sorrows.
You do love poetry!
You create your poetry beyond all the pains of a crazy life!
Is it not so?
Poet: I don't know that!
I'm terribly tired and exhausted.
I want to sleep now!
The world submerges into darkness.
Only hope survives, the hope of a new dawn,
In the life of a poet and a poem.
night market! a juggle of flavors
succulent and citrusy with
pears pumpkins peaches inflamed
and clothed in sweetened rinds like
watercolors of tangerine and mauve...
stems dipped in waters of tender sun
flesh touching flesh,
nectar glazing bronze on squirts turned into nectar,
into savory brine... then to wiggle
upon a harvest filling
quilted baskets sucked and chewed: beaded
globules, bulbs rippling in own honeyed pools,
tangy fruitage which bears the ripest of ovules
lacing the tongue ambrosial. tangy...
and ladies like rush home with flushed romance
in their heads
with piles of delicacies bending swirling
on their ample chests
to taste the liquid radiant syrup
of eve's craving for a night lovers' feast.
For Debbie Guzzi's Just A Little Bit Of Sugar
2/22/2017
Small paper airplanes I'd never flown.
Most boys made them, each labled their own
Into the air they'd go toward blue sky,
they'd catch a breeze and away they'd fly.
I could have been just a paper doll,
yearning for places, hearing their call.
Tickets bought to fly on paper plane,
we'd climb high finding magic to claim.
We'd glimpse wonder, clouds of chiffon lace.
Earth would seem small as we followed space.
We'd watch sunset's gold and crimson tints
spread like watercolors' breathless hints.
Waving to moon as night circled nigh
musing of clouds and mysteries high.
Climbing and turning as stars peeked out;
eager to learn what life was about.
Our minds suffused with real and pretend.
Enchantment hidden where real can bend.
Small paper airplanes and paper dolls:
childhood's magic, a world to recall.
August 18, 2022
for Paper Airplanes contest
by John Lawless
5th Place
mother taught me about gardens ...
all winter she would ponder ... and make plans
selecting flowers by texture and shape
in a tapestry of colors
like bright sun jewels
and on planting "day" I wore an aquamarine sundress ...
~ we needed hardy flowers
for our changeable climate
and mother taught me to use color artfully ~
but no matter what we did ... by mid summer
the garden was a wild mosaic tangle
of tangerine nasturtium and lemon marigold
along with lilac forget-me-nots
and a mix of lavender and crimson snapdragons
oh, we had lost all control ...
~ we had painted daisies in saffron
and watermelon pink
and thrusting coneflowers in all hues ~
now, my garden is much smaller
yet I still have a vibrant array of flowers
a display of changing colors all summer long
that grow high, cascade, and tumble
I have climbing wallflowers in chartreuse
and every view is painted ... in hues
like watercolors saturated with sun
oh, I love the coral bells ... falling from baskets
~ let there be color and there is ... like magic
... colorful flowers dancing in the breeze
____________________
April 5, 2021 - Repost
Poetry/Free Verse/like watercolors
Copyright Protected, ID 04-1368-232-05
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Submitted to the Standard contest, A Brian Strand July 2 Contest
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 07/02/2021
First Place
What if dawn’s amethyst light is just a murmur,
a suggestion we agreed upon while sleeping?
The alarm clock’s persistence, the morning commute~
all figments, conjured by the mind
that forgot it was dreaming.
What if every touch is ephemeral,
watercolors on the canvas of our own choosing and making~
and the body, with its ego and burning desires,
merely a costume we wear
to dance atop the pulse of the unreal?
What if love is the only law in this realm~
gravity dissolves, skin translucent
like the space between stars,
and every wound we stitch ourselves
is just another thread in the tapestry
we wove just for the satisfaction
of unraveling and learning?
What if we wake, and none of this was ever solid?
What if that is the secret?
I can hear the water,
a giggle almost,
in the small cold spring
by which I sat
that foggy morning,
sketchbook, pen, and watercolors in hand.
A weed with a single white flower
grew from the innards
of a half submerged,
humus-bound log
alive with neon-green moss.
A brilliant web
spun by a tiny jewel-orange spider
laced the flower to the log.
I dipped my brush in the spring water,
washed it around in the appropriate colors,
painted the scene as best I could,
never coming close to capturing
the brilliance of flower, moss and spider.
Only approximations of nature are possible.
She moves through the world in watercolors; bright, translucent, and skipping across the surface of things.
People see the "whimsical" girl, the one who finds magic in the mundane and speaks in the language of curiosity.
They gravitate toward that light because it’s easy to bask in.
But she keeps the doors to her inner galleries locked, because she’s convinced that if they saw the oil paintings beneath… the ones rendered in thick, heavy strokes of midnight blue and leaden grey: the one’s that showcase the darkness she’s still fighting to overcome- they would realize they’ve walked into a museum they aren't really interested in.
She tells herself she is better off in her own company, a solitary curator of her own complexity.
She… I fear that a witness would only want the spark and not the furnace.
My experiences convinced me long ago that my depth is a burden… My heaviness- a truth that eventually would extinguish the very light people claim to love.
But now, I am learning to accept that I am not two separate, warring versions of myself, but a single, very real and vivid landscape.
The whimsy isn't a mask, and the heaviness isn't a secret; they are the poles that keep my world spinning. And in that spinning there is whimsy, longing, waiting.
She… I. I have been waiting for those who don’t just tolerate the contrast, but understand that you cannot have the moon without the vast, dark sky that holds it.
And the brighter the technicolor projection, the deeper the darkness must be to hold the image.
mother taught me about gardens ...
all winter she would ponder ... and make plans
selecting flowers by texture and shape
in a tapestry of colors
like bright sun jewels
and on planting "day" I wore an aquamarine sundress ...
~ we needed hardy flowers
for our changeable climate
and mother taught me to use color artfully ~
but no matter what we did ... by mid summer
the garden was a wild mosaic tangle
of tangerine nasturtium and lemon marigold
along with lilac forget-me-nots
and a mix of lavender and crimson snapdragons
we had lost all control ...
~ oh, we had painted daisies in saffron
and watermelon pink
and trusting coneflowers in all hues ~
now, my garden is much smaller
yet I still have a vibrant array of flowers
a display of changing colors all summer long
thrusting, cascading, and tumbling
I have climbing wallflowers in chartreuse
every view is painted ... in hues
like watercolors saturated with sun
oh, I love the coral bells ... cascading from baskets
~ let there be color and there is ... like magic
... colorful flowers dance in the breeze
____________________
April 5, 2021
Poetry/Free Verse/let there be color
Copyright Protected, ID 04-1344-147-05
All rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest Changing Colors
sponsor, Emile Pinet, Judged 04/19/2021
First Place