Long Watercolours Poems
Long Watercolours Poems. Below are the most popular long Watercolours by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Watercolours poems by poem length and keyword.
Were I given the choice
No matter the season
Heed the call every morn
Beguiling and playful
Come out and discover
Charge up the camera
Tote spare memory card
And head off for the day
Shooting million photos
Details and horizons
Feathery cloud patterns
Luxurious shorelines
Sun’s radiant caress
Cute graceful pussycats
Happy children laughing
Unfading open fields
Tall trees of every shape
Heavenward church towers
Birds soaring high above
Rainbows across the sky
Why would I ever tire
I’d just love rushing home
Download my treasure chest
Sift for each gold nugget
Feeling mighty wealthy
Wrapping up the jackpot
Every wondrous blessed time
Appreciate the gift
Building my collection
Of art inspiration
Recharge my batteries
Load up my paintball gun
Watercolours, pastels
Charcoal, acrylics, inks
Create, create, create
Spawn interpretations
Allow colours to speak
Full tilt given the choice
AP: Honorable Mention 2021
Submitted on August 16, 2018 for contest PICK A THEME: GIVEN THE CHOICE I WOULD sponsored by VIV WIGLEY - RANKED 4TH
"The Next Dream’s Reality"
in dreams
we find our way
that long night
into light of day
what remains
in the memory
washes in and out
like surf on soft sand
the cool drag under our feet
pulls us out then back in again
we are floating ghosts of ourselves
like watercolours in lulling tide
loose fabric washing out the bleed
of sensibilities and the intrigue
of lost self saving moments
fading in and out
the metronome heartbeat
measures us in time
we are the slow opium
kissing other phantoms
we pull them into us for a while
like we are magnets, or some strange
symphony music of what was,
what could be, but never now
heard through that hypnotic
whispering fibonacci shell
delicately rhymed we
move swiftly poetic accolades
roulette cards laid on velvet
tableaus of mystery
the swift passing ignomity
spells cast like nets for falling
pearls of another life
aether mist the smell of musk
incense from liturgic thuribles
in other forgotten strange worlds
wafer thin, the sense
of taste and smell
never entirely complete
puzzle pieces fit eventually
on waking during the
most irrelevant moments
in our waking daze
and we find a way out
back into the next dream’s
reality where the sun rises
and the moon sleeps
the soul speaks to us
softly in riddles
and we,
we
are the mystery
of what it keeps
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
When I was just a little girl
I painted soaring seagulls
in a dawning sky of duck-egg blue
I painted ladybirds and whimsical butterflies
A red cottage with square-shaped windows
A misty mountain with a purple hue.
All my fields were evergreen
with flowers falling like confetti in between.
A rising sun in molten gold so bright
with shifting leaves along a riverside.
I painted mushrooms covering faries
Unicorns, princesses and queens
Happy trolls and Naughty elves
riding on watercoloured bees.
As such was life, Carefree
As beautiful as dreams.
Years rolled on, trees turned old
Vibrant colours became the past in an hourglass.
All shadows now, are black as night
All that is left are sepia shades
dim as the gloom of a Winter day.
But little child out there, Listen to me..
Never let clouds cover your soul with ash -of-grey
Like candyfloss, clouds might seem huge
But they're made of fluff...Blow them away.
Blow them away before it rains
Yet if rain pours its heavy drops
and gusty winds whirl from strong storms
Never give up!
Lilt up your head, seek with those eyes
In every journey a rainbow hides
Just keep on searching, do not be blind
Leave all your troubles way back behind.
All shadows now, are black as night
All that are left are Sepia shades
dim as the gloom of a Winter day
But now and then a spell's bestowed upon my name
With an old brush and childhood colours
I paint an orchard with sugar-maples
and fragrant blossoms blooming in May.
Where is the secret of the rainbow?
At the edge of one's own life?
Whence does it come, with those lovely pastel colours?
Is it a heavenly art or a mere human illusion?
Some form of an ancient creative masterpiece?
Perhaps expressionism was reassessed?
The spiritual in natural art is oft-forgotten
in musty mists, where the soul engages
in confrontations with the deadly reaper.
The appalling midst of winter intensifies in the freeze,
and the psychology of death deepens,
for we are too much attached to worldly cares.
Characteristic emotions in cowardly conflicts.
One can say so very few words about
the astute business of a measured life,
like autumn's falling bronzed leaves,
its face value is not easily perceived.
For dead leaves turn into compost,
no peaceful transition true, but a must
that leads and helps life's renewal in spring.
Forget the troubled dream of dreary life,
let the seasons daub their watercolours bold and free,
the rainbow assigns a variety of mellow hues,
chooses always the brightest.
For the secret of the rainbow
a symbol of new hope lies in its Creator.
Placed First
This one’s a castle; that’s a customs-house.
They’re stolid, listless, just a little dull.
The sky supports an arbitrary gull.
The languidness of Liszt, the style of Strauss
are wholly absent. Colours are metallic.
The eye sweeps over cornice, turret, steeple,
then it dawns on us – there are no people.
Clock towers, mountains, minarets, all phallic,
are void of human life. Stark, empty chairs
adorn each arid, motionless interior.
As we apprise, eyes sneeringly superior,
we note acerbically his love of stairs –
A Will to Power, ever pushing up.
One daub there is, however, gives us pause:
it dates long before Enabling Laws,
before he dreamed of Kesselring or Krupp:
a bridge that’s quite impossible to cross,
going nowhere, has never carried traffic.
With a boy sitting on it. Startling, graphic,
without a hint of Schadenfreude or Schloss.
Self-portrait, this? What features may we trace?
What’s here vouchsafed? Incipient racist brute?
Hardly. A disarmingly awful suit,
and most revealingly of all – he has no face.
Where is the secret of the rainbow?
At the edge of one's own life?
Whence does it come, with those lovely pastel colours?
Is it a heavenly art or a mere human illusion?
Some form of an ancient creative masterpiece?
Perhaps expressionism was reassessed?
The spiritual in natural art is oft-forgotten
in musty mists, where the soul engages
in confrontations with the deadly reaper.
The appalling midst of winter intensifies in the freeze,
and the psychology of death deepens,
for we are too much attached to worldly cares.
Characteristic emotions in cowardly conflicts.
One can say so very few words about
the astute business of a measured life,
like autumn's falling bronzed leaves,
its face value is not easily perceived;
for dead leaves turn into compost,
no peaceful transition true, but a must
that leads and helps life's renewal in spring.
Forget the troubled dream of dreary life,
let the seasons daub their watercolours bold and free,
the rainbow assigns a variety of mellow hues,
chooses always the brightest.
For the secret of the rainbow
a symbol of new hope lies in its Creator.
This one’s a castle, that’s a customs-house.
They’re stolid, listless, just a little dull.
The sky supports an arbitrary gull.
The languidness of Lizst, the style of Strauss
are wholly absent. Colours are metallic.
The eye sweeps over cornice, turret, steeple,
and then it dawns on us – there are no people.
Clock towers, mountains, minarets, all phallic,
are void of human life. Stark, empty chairs
adorn each arid, motionless interior.
As we apprise, eyes sneeringly superior,
we note acerbically his love of stairs –
a Will to Power, ever pushing up.
One daub there is, however, gives us pause:
it dates from long before Enabling Laws,
before he dreamed of Kesselring or Krupp:
a bridge that’s quite impossible to cross,
that goes nowhere, has never carried traffic,
bears one boy sitting on it. Startling, graphic,
without a hint of Schadenfreud or Schloss:
self-portrait, this. What features might we trace?
What’s here vouchsafed? Incipient racist brute?
Well, hardly. An endearing, awful suit,
and – most revealingly of all – he has no face.
I pull out my watercolours
to try to paint what I’m feeling
Vibrant red stained by brown
Bright yellow blemished by grey clouds
But the blue, isn’t blue enough
No matter how much i try
Should mix in my tears
Or breathe in a sigh ?
My colours comes to life
Dripping onto my fingertips
As my hands sob onto the canvas
Puddles start to ebb and flow
The red is shocked by electrifying oranges
And seemlessly the ocher dances
The emotions glide through the water
Rippling in ever corner
My paintbrush soaks up the shadows hidden in
The umbra of my nights
The ones with which I put up a fight
The vista of shades become a philharmonic conversation
A babble of acute sensations
Dribbles of passionate abstractions
Mirroring my great sollitude
They wash out into the pot
and merge into a muc of liquidifyed spleen,
Gunky disquietude ready to be pored out of me
As i stain the paper and myself too
I giggle because now I really am blue
These stains stick to me
And now you can see
The true colour of my melancholy
DAUGHTERS
Opposites presented by Goddess
in talons of Eagle
on wings of Dove
Equally loved
A torrent from a fierce black cloud
yang frothing waves in a storm
beating seaweed rocks
claiming it in her bosom
then furling it afar
into unknown depths
where Neptune roars
his roar on end
boasting an indigo flag
Then ...light as a feather
yin floating on a shimmering beach
rosy ringlets microscope crabs, bubbles
giggling at ant antics
in crevices of creaky floorboards
while autumn Sun sets
dew drops on clover leaves
so misty morning says Hello !
A dancing juicy apricot
kisses at library doors
spongy beneath oak exterior
where beetles dug a hundred paths
staring defiance at an orange star
scornful, graceful, factual
proclaiming a Largeness of Life !
An Earth child in long waves of auburn
reaching for Mercury
A Spirit child, Earth located
One imaged from bowels of struggle
she whispered freedom in my ears
when behind prison bars
I sat counting toes
One imaged from Gabriel’s gown
or was it Merlin’s ?
she fingered watercolours
through my lenses
As Saturn said goodbye ...
Sirius screamed from wreaking hell
wrought from rages or sages unknown
Born in blood without its blue
from a womb of turmoil tremors
crystal dripping dark strife
hypocrisy contemplated
torn apart by churning guts
as young medics ogled
grimaced, searched
so premature, so incubated
it was “I will survive!”
Sun and Moon crossed one another
not knowing which way but loose
streaming rivers flowing sideways
in dusty towns, painted villages, rape
a gecko appeared on a pillowcase
Gangster peeped through a window
books came tumbling down
numbers flew away
lashes black as croaking crow
it was “I am here!”
There can be no coin to
ponder if not faces two
no tornado ripping apart
if no breezes play on
a horse farm in Karoo
No life if no death
Night clings to day
as daybreak clings to escaping night
sunset embraces twilight
negates itself, disappearing
one embalming the other while
flying
together on a silver thread
in blueberry Sky !