Paints Poems | Examples

Just Give me Paints and Some Brushes

just give me paints and some brushes, the little girl said.
She had drops and drips all over her face and her head.
Her overalls were saturated with paints in reds and blue.
What else could we do? Asked her mother, what else could we do?

She painted her way through college, covering canvases galore.
Sixteen hundred paintings, and maybe two hundred more.
The paintings were crowding her parents who had no more room.
Can we sell them? Asked her mother, who was on Zoom.

No, the girl said, just burn them, I can make new ones every day.
But her parents could not do this, so they threw furniture away.
They got rid of their couches, chairs, and tables to make room.
“What happened to your house?” asked their daughter on Zoom.

Mixing Paints

I paint a smile on my face, mid-poem the smile
begins to crumble.
Who are these dark angels that cast such shadows
over my laughter.
The brush falls from my hand, now I sketch in charcoal -
teeth gritted.

Wishing to portray the sun rising over a pastured valley,
struggling for sunrise hues,
plucking eyebrows with frustration.

hands snatch up an artist's palette to mix and blend,
to gather together a comic image of a free-willed poet,
a notion both ridiculous and profound.

Shaking a shaggy head, splashing on a new grin
the valley explodes into light,
a rising sun rains down its golden radiance,
the canvas reflecting each shining word.

Alas among these sparkling sounds,
Deadhead's Moths emerge through the verdancy,
they also are grinning, as this poem is captured
by an always hovering, dismal shade.

Once more a drear charcoal bleed's through
a paper reality,
doggedly painting a clownish grimace,
as joy and sadness merge and mingle.

acrylic paints make me happy

Colored pencils
Pastels
Sticks of chalk
Too light for me

Water colors
Doing what they want
Dribbling all over the page
Wild and free

Oil paints
Vividly beautiful
Take too long to dry
I am too impatient

Acrylic paints
Give me fluorescent colors
I have black lights
They make me happy

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 heart
and a romantic song we had called our own.
Here, on the ridge where the world is hushed,
I'm in no rush to leave my dreams behind
while remembering a time when life was kind.

One Man Paints

Gathering remnants where facets remain
I add a touch in a brush stroke of dream
Of lemon sun possibilities
Upon an emerald grove of trees
Resting near a subtle blue lake
Dotted with red posies
Lost in a dream
Chartreuse mountains reach high
Blue skies redeem 
the meaning of life
Lost in a fantasy
A subtle river runs free
Birds of flight flutter 
As my muse is complete

For nature and all its beauty
A gift given for free
Touching the vast unknown
From one spiritual seed

caged

As the years pass me by,
I've remained stuck in a cage.
Built up by my fears, 
made strong by my rage.
I sometimes get to wander free in a garden filled with color.
A blissful peace within myself, forgotten moments after it's discovered.
Retreating back to the comforts of my cage.
A confinement of my mind, body, and soul.

my paints are waiting for me

my paints are waiting eagerly for me to return
an art studio of my dreams inside my garage
I am not ready to paint yet, unsure why.

Maybe it is because I have done it too many hours lately.
with nothing to show, because I am working on twelve simultaneously.
nothing is getting finished.

the trouble is the expense of paints.
When I pour out yellow, I have to use all of it.
I used to put the left overs on a door.

But the door is so saturated with paint now, it weighs six tons.
I can barely open and close it.

So here I sit, finishing up all the paint on two more paintings.
Now I am working on fourteen simultaneously.
Wishing I was not so cheap.

A Picture Paints -

Picture the words
your pen would write -
Like Wordsworth might?

how paints a poet? -

(inhale)

aim, undetermined ...
what purpose do I serve?
what is poetry’s primal essence?!?
my words only
cover pages that ghost
the spaces of better intention ...
that garland upon
my brow bleeds 'neath the
clawing shadows of
naked branches, thorns twisted
and braided with the
lightness of feathers, and pressed with
poetic care to let my
red ruin run ...
it drips with the weight of
indifference and
careless consideration, and clots
about my feet ...
cold witness, there, the moon -
it's visage smiles from the
surface of my weeping veins, puddled ...
such impeccable beauty
there in the coagulating remnants
of my mortality ...
and though it's a lie - just the
mirrored image of the
heavenly beauty that daubs
the great expanse,
it is enough ...
sufficient grace to squeeze
the last languorous
gasp from these tired,
grateful lungs ...
LIFE, I love you with my being ...
your breathtaking elegance
and your exquisite pain,
and I am naught but blessed to
have simply ...
breathed.

(exhale)

A picture paints a thousand wordz thuh'ree

.

                            ‘tiz thuh
                         raison d’etre
                                the
                         neanderpoet 
                        stopped not at
                             “Crack”
                            the artist 
                         invented the
                           the pencil

a picture paints a thousand word'z 'sequel'

.

                                   how many werdz

My Young Son Paints My Face

He does not look up,
he is struggling with a vision of me
that has no roots.
The brush in his small hand
is as thick as a besom
plunged into bone-white paper.
Eyes appear,
burning with love or impatience,
hard to tell.
The outline of a too large a head,
nose, mouth, and eyes,
purple, green and red streaks
adrift in a bubble.
Today I see again
that spaced-out image,
a garish cross-eyed mask
looking this way and that,
as it searches blindly for fatherhood.

She Paints the Night

She’s the garden girl.
A precious rainbow 
in the night.
Painting with crystal water,
she brings the forest light.

For nature is her canvas.
She brings out every hue.
If you’re walking
through the forest,
she’ll shine her light on you.

She’s purply pink passion,
reds and yellows too.
The moon 
bestowed its magic,
shading her dark blue.

She languishes 
in the darkness,
as she giggles
with such glee.
No one knows her name.
She’s a pretty mystery.

Lulu Is Always Covered In Paints

painting brings Lulu such joy, she has more fun than others.
her fingers and wrists are full of paints of many colors
reds, oranges, greens, blues, yellows, tans the color of sands,
where is my silver? She wonders, studying her hands.

and gold, she says, where is my gold paint? She finds it finally.
Bringing her so much enjoyment, how much happier can she be?
she is always covered with paints, her grandma says, isn’t that great?
Her grandmother is an artist who still paints canvases at age ninety-eight.

Heaven Or Hell Painting

In life To paint a generous heaven
or even a grievous hell
– it depends on the paints...!

• Short Paints Poems
• Famous Paints Poems
• Best Paints Poems
• Read Paints Poems
• Long Paints Poems
• Paints Quotes