I adore sketching birds and flowers
spending long hours on the details.
Colored pencils give life,
and leafy backgrounds too.
A nice calm hobby
to pass the day.
Love to show
my friends
too !
A voice of pure honey
Too bad you have that face
Busking in this alley
Seems an appropriate place
You are so skilled
Woodcarving is in your soul
Without that wheelchair
You could be free to go
....where words don't cut
You ruin everything
Can't keep a secret to save your life
You're a waste of breath
So sickly, you might as well die
Bitterness runs in your veins
Hate spews out of your mouth
Violence in movement
Stop breaking sound
....where melodies settle dust
Lazy, worthless, lay about
Go find something to do
Depression has no pill
The streets are calling you
No vision, no hope
You're a blob of wasted space
You screwed up my life
I had "a place"
....where matter makes tattoos
Little baby with sketches
As deep as a ravine
Don't allow those wounds
To have the power to mean
Liars are sprinkled
Along life's walking path
To prevent authenticity
From having the courage to take back
TRUTH
...where TRUTH restores soul
Written by Trudy Schrader on 02-24-2024
sketching facade
of old man oak
squirrel chatters
SKETCHING
taste
for
a revelation
present
or past
tradition
tinged
with change
capture
the living
everywhere
in
a
masterly
style
of
an
unpromising
outlook
by intuition
ever
persist
be
encouraged
&
never
remote
of
the
ever
changing
tastes
of
the
enigmatic
&
immune
in
a
sphere
spinning
away
from
the
contrast
of
light
conceptualising
the
moment
of
today
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Po
Thinking of war, engaged in Ukraine; now so sore
Remembering ww 2, Hitlers outfit brand Shiny new'
Well he had preped, the world then his target.'
So would not putin? of his attack no disputing
Have for world capture, not done exactly the same?
I draw the intrusive silence on your dry lips
Tears of mountain the cloud cares in trip
Migratory birds playing with the south breeze
For hugging we're in the cold winter's grease
Oily whispers aren't wetting the burnt heart
From the fountain flying the larks of thirst
Thirsty life doesn't get alms of love openly
In give and take rules the sketch hides mystery
© Mahtab Bangalee
11 February,2022
Chattogram
Think I'll get back to sketching famous people
When they autograph my drawings it's a really big deal
My success rate's way up there
Much more than my share
Twelve hundred last time, that was totally surreal
I have longed for you since I saw you on the stairs.
Your perpetual smile, your posture of knowledge.
Although the years gone by.
I’ve yet to meet a soul, one that I could embrace.
Yet your smile, your earthly green eyes.
It’s like I could sketch you easily.
Never to forget
Your portrait lay finished.
Now I await.
sketching birds in flight
am drawing flowers instead
birds are a mistake
SKETCHING
charcoals soft lines
in varied shades of grey
birds in flight their feathers spanned light
captured in detail through blue heavenly heights
an artist’s creation emerges
blank pages come to life
with every stroke
SKETCHING
(Inspired by watching my artistically talented daughter-in-law
sketch a “Verreaux Eagle” in the Champagne Valley Drakensberg)
© Kim van Breda—3 August 2015
Think I'll get back to sketching famous people
When they autograph my drawings it's a really big deal
My success rate's way up there
Much more than my share
Twelve hundred last time, that was totally surreal
© Jack Ellison 2015
Eye Sketching
by Odin Roark
Acolytes of inner actualization know…
Upon an oak tree
Scrawls a name,
Never scribed by knife.
Within a crowded sidewalk
Sketches the seductive smile of an
Out of reach dream.
Atop a mountain peak
The etching of above-the-cloud perception
Swirls its heady reward inward.
Afloat in reflection’s calm waters,
Trusted drawings ripple across
Past, present and future pretense.
How healing this alternate world…
In the mind’s eye, time is given little heed.
The impossible embraces imagination,
Never succumbing to reality’s disappointments.
For one’s inner creations never require tools of actuality,
Trusting instead enigma’s eye pencil wisdom,
Needing but an occasional sharpening now and again.
On mountain top high
Where delusions of grandeur fly
Superfluous pen grounded but spry
With ink stenciling the availing sky
Wispy clouds through portals do espy
The regal, azure fountain in scarab's eye
Golden beams vaporous plains do ply
With sultry steam airy canvas does dry
Jet stream's wistful currents solemnly sigh
As lingering, eerie presence of a train passed by
Descending to the valley low
Infused landscape portraits glow
Vicarious pen raised up on the gallows
To stitch tangible but fleeting shadow
Spindled meadows, with amber girth to hallow
Stinging nettles, thistles inlaid soft soles to harrow
Gilded Buttercups frill with radiant, golden bow
Alongside, faded Dandelion wheels dander strew
Beautiful, Monarch, sequin fans heated air bellows
Nearby, Great Black wasp pierces cricket with arrow
How can I sketch my somberness
its own reveal
I sketch it in the end of winter's
grey congeal!
As looking for some life,
some Hope to feel
I sketch my own true sadness
its ordeal!
Forgetting but by moment's pausing peel,
I sketch some risk of being ashen, steel
in knowing consequence
I sketch conceal!
Not flaunting recompense,
nor asking meal
I sketch God's mercy still
from worthless steal!
I sketch my own verbatum
toward some skill
and sketching throughout grace
remember well ~
I sketched the time of love
its homing shield
and sketched a time of tell
prophetic real!
To create a picture two or three faint lines are drawn
To establish the perspective of what's yet unseen
To let eyes to travel easily and harmoniously over it.
Like smoke rising over a newborn mist of valley
A wisp of curving cloud catches at wing tip of a circling hawk
A bubbling stream racing down to awake a sleeping village
On the edge of water and golden gorse a tall full antlered buck
Watching his mate of the moment steal a last bite
Before they both flee the coming bright of day
The wind rises to erase the picture even as it forms
Whipping the smoke to haze
Taking the wisp of cloud and blowing dust
into the eyes of the prey the hawk is watching
driving his breakfast back into the ground.
Carrying unpleasant scents to the spring toed deer
As white tails bounce into secret woods
A picture in time presented by a blinded artist with a lute
Or an all seeing explosive man
Who cannot tell you how his mind can rhyme
Or reason from one moment to the next
Another sketch in text
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