Paints Poems - Poems about Paints

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

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

In the diaphanous light of morning, when dawn paints the horizon with golden whispers

In the diaphanous light of morning, when dawn paints the horizon with golden whispers,
The earth rises from its deep slumber, dreaming of the green phantoms of revival,
An untamed longing is born deep in my chest, like a firebird spreading its wings,
A burning thirst to embrace the world, like a river flowing towards the endless ocean

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

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

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

A Picture Paints -

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

In the melancholic hour of introspection, where twilight paints the sky with sadness

In the melancholic hour of introspection, where twilight paints the sky with sadness,
Religious souls often walk, hand in hand with righteousness,
Forsaking the tender embrace of compassion for the cold certainty of being right,
Clinging to a fragile mantle woven from threads of egotism,
As if their faith could ennoble their identity with divine approval.
In the sacred sanctuary

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

A picture paints a thousand wordz thuh'ree

.

                            ‘tiz thuh
                         raison

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

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

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