Short Daubs Poems

eve's pond of white star charms
biters are broiling beneath
heaven daubs the blackness...

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birth of a haiku
wind daubs earth's tent with spent leaves
first frost's colored ink

Brian Johnston
October 19, 2015...

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Edgar Degas did not mingle
so shy he remained single
His art self contained & absorbed
perfect though expensive 'daubs'...

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the
  blooms
     silvering
shimmering
in
patches
    of sunlight
daubs
   of colour
midst
  the frigid
   frost
    of
     fall:
cursory
    change
shapes
all
our
  lives...

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Listen to poem:

fall
is spring
in reverse
green leaves, bud bursts,
shrivel to brown, red,
tumble down and crumble

making pastel collage
dabbles of purple
orange, yellow
scattered in
lovely
daubs...

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Paintbrush colours blue
indigo to ocean hues
and baby blue tints
cerulean daubs on canvas
next to Prussian blue patches.










Carol Fillmore
for Francine Roberts "Blue" contest...

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the sky is like a canvas
splashed with modern art
multi coloured daubs of clouds
streaks of blue apart
a reddish splodge sun
slowly slides towards the edge
and dusk has begun

Jack Horne, 29th September, for Nette’s WONDER OF DUSK IN SEGUIDILLA contest...

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Sand sprinkled crest of dust daubs
but there cushioned azures
lives magic swirled in cotton soft
Where lines and dots
imagination caught
reflection in imprfection
Where spurts of red drags you from
your course
paint touched with eyes
that always saw
more...

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Wilted rose petals
unable to attract bees.
Concubine's mirror
holds the reflection of gloom
as she daubs rouge on wrinkles.


Date: 08/19/2022

Note: For the contest (Bite Size Poem no51) by Line Gauthier.
         Honorable Mention...

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Thermite skies burning through the storm
Hapless waves contort their form
Every whisper cottoned with a foaming roar

Shoreline beaten and eroded
Tryst becomes a love affair
Oiled dabs and daubs
Rinsed highlights splattered with death blacks
Mesmerised by storms eye quiet lack...

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Diluted ink blots
splashed
at random 
mingle 
as  improvised 
calligraphic doodles
Spontaneous 
accidental drips
drop to & fro
Daubs pressed upon
the virgin white
Wet,wet colour
 a sponge 
soak-stained
a
happening 
in memory's
drawer
 of the moment
forever frozen in time...

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Daubs
__________________________________a nd
_____________________dabs

of                                                                    words
Like                                                  an

artist                                                      first

tentative                      strokes...

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in the shadows
primary colours 
        become gold
                            
pastel patches 

transfuse
     the translucent
leaves
          in colour
and
daubs
                all living things

its warmth to bring

each eve
waves its good-bye

this perpetual light

     divides day from night,...

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Listen to poem:

He dabbles in this, dips his toes in that
Dithering with daubs, splattering dollops and spatters
Dilly-dallying, loitering lazily lackadaisical
Unable or unwilling to commit.
Half-hearted efforts lie half-baked, unfinished
Laying listless, languidly lolling and littering.
It's so annoying to see time wasted and fortuity fraught
But what can anyone watching do?...

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Diluted ink blots,splashed
at random on the canvas
mingle with improvised 
calligraphic doodles.
Spontaneous accidental drips,
by drop,across the floor,to and
fro.Daubs of paint,pressed upon
the virgin white.Wet,wet colour
soak-stained by a sponge.
Hanging vertical in the hall,a
happening of paraphernalia,
keepsakes from memory's
drawer.Experiences of the moment,
expressed,forever frozen in time

Structured prose verse....

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Diluted ink blots,splashed at random on the canvas mingle with improvised calligraphic doodles. Spontaneous accidental drips, by drop,across the floor,to and fro. Daubs of paint,pressed upon the virgin white.Wet,wet colour soak stained by a sponge.
 Hanging vertical in the hall,a happening of paraphernalia, keepsakes from memory's drawer. Experiences of the moment, expressed, forever frozen in time


Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2013...

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The late-afternoon sun crouches behind me,
daubs my shadow across the pale concrete of the ground,
a black brushstroke stretching on an ink-brush painting,
towards where you’re standing, 
deep in thought, turned away. 

So my shadow spills up your legs, 
the small of your back, 
your nape, 
until my head is on yours,  
shadow nuzzling hair, 
black on black, 
a smudge, 
like a bad painting. 

The closest contact we have these days....

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As a child I would place my closed eyes
in them
while she hummed Gaelic melodies.

Her smock, it was brown
like a butchers apron
but without a speck of blood,
just daubs of fruit dumplings
and the savor of elderberry flowers.

Grandmother had large hands
working hands,
when they closed
it was as if her story book
had closed
at the end of every day,

and that is how she goes away
always very quietly
at the end of every day.
© 2 days ago...

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