Palette
you cover yourself in shadows,
coat yourself in grey,
but i see the blue hidden in your eyes
reflected by the green you awaken in mine
i want to feel your colours
as our undertones combine
absorbing your form
when i sketch your portrait in my mind
i use the brightest palette
each stroke adding your depth,
building your layers,
blending your tone,
drawing you nearer,
i paint you through my eyes.
A sudden burst of painted glass
upon a gray and weathered stone.
They do not light within the grass,
but cling to secrets known to none.
Specks of orange, flecks of blue,
a torn and tattered canvas drawn.
across the morning's heavy dew,
as fragile as the breaking dawn.
No artist held a steady brush
to form this wild and fleeting art.
They came upon the forest hush;
painting on the woodlands heart.
A living mural on the bark,
alive and breathing to the eyes;
before they vanish in the dark;
a glorious graffiti of butterflies.
Fell back when I heard the rumble,
tell me when something was louder.
Pastel thunderstorms pack a punch,
dispel lightning at that shouter!
Scarce remix born of fire and hail
flares as the sunset’s descending.
Repairs won’t work on broken trust,
there’s no palette for pretending.
Crystal white I see it drop slowly
With out effort it floats on its own
If you could halt its moments only
Lapsed in time its uniqueness shown
But why rob it of its time so slowly?
Precious seconds before its moment
Taking its place with others wholly
Because it’s part of a bigger component
A pictures tapestry begins to form
Its palette ready for the artist’s touch
What perfection today shall we perform?
An only depiction of the heavenly such
It’s agreed then as the artist begins to work
Creation’s sacrifice temporary cold it feels
But its labored result is a unique artwork
Seen now the artist’s angelic image reveals
he liked it black and white with no greys in between
even when cracks appeared so strikingly evident
strictly speaking he preferred pink purple and orange
yet when life gave him lemons the brush would not work
the more he stroked and tarred over ruptures and fractures
uncertainty became elusive and poignantly concise
quite the opposite of what he had bargained for with all
the power delusion distraction insecure fear and despair
he knew that the writing was on the wall and yet
the language was foreign complex and would not reveal
meaning message beauty connotation and guidance
as he was blocked into silence depression resentments
all this had been the relentless story of his life and he
could not bear it any longer seemed to have lost all control
a rational mind portrayed it as the gift of desperation
a way forward towards healing perspective and peace
it was difficult to will positive emotions into effect
matters did not fall into balance but skewed misperceptions
what remained was hope rather than mere expectations
and he carried his burdens into an unpredictable but promising future
The canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
A pale silver knife, not forged for war, I wield.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
The sky lies torn in strokes of celeste shade,
each slash more raw, no truth left unrevealed—
the canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
No brush can bruise the dark the way I’ve flayed
these hues loose, their former grace repealed.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
My muse—half shadow, half cascade—
emerges from each mark I will not shield.
The canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
No line stays; no form can be obeyed.
I seek what's felt, not what can be concealed.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
She stares back now, the shape that art mislaid—
a scar turned sycamore across the field.
The canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
Sebastian
couldn’t live
without saving
the walls
His paint
covering over
dire messages
scrawled
All passersby
witnessed
each canvas
restored
Reframing
dark alleys
with hope
evermore
Sebastian
a warrior
of brush
and stroke fame
Graffiti
a pockmark
his quest
to disclaim
Alone
in his wander
where shadows
hold court
Each wall of new
slander
his palette
— retorts
(Dreamsleep: May, 2025)
From God’s Palette
Miracle Man
2/8/2025
Each and every day,
God paints this landscape portrait,
that mankind enjoys.
cyan blues indigo into nighttime
darkness scorches the soul to the core
hellfire’s charcoal embers
dissipate lightness of being
achromatic void
engulfs a self-fulfilling promise
rose petals wither by the wayside
trudged and treaded upon
flame red converts to burnt sienna
a mere shadow dances in the heat
hunter green pastels fade in exhaustion
an emerald pendant strings
a chafed neck in a choking embrace
mustard gold’s alchemy
folds citric sunflowers
away from its rainbow
where a pot of tar
repeats the circular path
suave mauve corrodes
into rust and necessity’s must
clusters indecision
and meaningless desire
the prism yields prison
and yet all colours
would merge into white
when the pail becomes
half full once again
and chakras confide
to the canvass
and the portrait of truth
There is always that person
Who is the most important after parents.
The one who thought us everything
And made us who we are now.
The art of being a teacher
Is like eternity.
The endless joy of progressions,
Is the ecstasy of both.
They are the God's
Who transforms us into the best one's.
Makes us prove ourselves.
And be proud of oneself's.
For me, it's my master.
The one who made me realize who I am
And what my potential is.
The one who thought me my interest
And made me the best in it.
The happiness I get out of it
Is another level of exuberance.
I like my hobby, more like passion,
It gives life to me.
Thank all the teachers
Who helps you through your works.
They are wonderful for who they are.
Because learning is as important as oxygen.
There is no vacant space in my veins;
every inch of me is occupied;
Head to toe I’m full of rich domains;
Despite what you think I must confide
sometimes life can be overwhelming;
Feelings and logic often collide;
Immense or minuscule? Keep going.
Let each beautiful day color you,
keep each untried idea flowing;
I make it seem simple that’s not true,
the struggle lights up my palette’s hue.
Vibrant color,
dancing
reflections of
impressionist art,
blaze on deep green water
of mirrored lake,
flaxen and scarlet leaves
heed their reflections
painted lips spread
betwixt the trees,
multicolored leaves swirl
fluttering,
deep blue sky silhouettes
over lake water,
evening dawns
summer songs
fading out,
frosty kiss of autumn lingers.
The color palette of the world has changed.
Wispy painters brush clouds line a clear calm sky.
The day is dry and cold, powdery snow starts to fall.
Flowers have ceased budding and spilling over in the garden;
yet the passion, fragrant, rosebud cherry and amber
honeysuckle vine, twines round the wooden arbor,
inviting the few scarce bees to come to its nectar.
Forbearance wooden starlings and mourning doves
move on with their singing and coo-OO-oo throughout the day.
Warm breath onto the cold window, a traced note of love.
10/1/2023
Silver clouds up high,
a foil to Fall’s warm colors;
Cool spicy palette.
From God’s Palette
By: Miracle Man
6/3/2023
God, from His palette, paints to beautify,
every day doesn’t come with a Robin Egg sky.
Sometimes the sky is grayish or mottled,
each day a masterpiece that can’t be bottled.
He oft paints a portrait of an ominous sky,
causing countless to pray or question why.
God intends each portrait for all to see,
but I still believe He paints them for me.
The time for these portraits is fading fast,
soon He’ll return and we’ll have seen His last.
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