van Gogh’s yellow transmuted — s a p p h i r e
on palette before my irises
faded sunflowers become
black butterflies
F l uttering
on outskirts of red beginnings
from cocoon onto canvas
is it my blue seraphim core
they seek to touch ?
astounded I splotch violets whispering
so they have nectar to quench
birthing thirst_____ white
sinking back into
sapphire SEA
I report to Neptune
all is well ~
_____________________
Unnamed Painting : Suzanne VanBebber
Private : Image Copyright : Oregon : May 26
Silver Winner Poem : Allpoetry.com : May 26
Assessor : Suzanne VanBebber
I stayed up past midnight on Halloween night
Wanted to see a particular sight
Watched in the shadows, until I finally I saw the truth
Day of the Dead meeting Halloween; her name was Ruth
She snatched the calendar out of Halloween’s hand.
Next thing I knew, I heard a mariachi band
Halloween giving way to Day of the Dead is interesting to watch
My intuitive familiar told me; I call him Odd Ted; he's a splotch.
Confused is she who believes she knows
herself. A splotch in the artist's worst work yet
calls herself a masterpiece. Not even the
artist notices her mistake.
The vibrant dark red blood of a swatted mosquito
creates the edges of her face, standing out
in the sea of white, green and a sky blue.
A simple coffee spill shades in her eyes,
a simple dirt spot on the canvas, her iris.
She is hung up beside a poor copy of
Bar at the Folies-Bergère. Not more than a
pair of wandering eyes grazed over her and the clammy
artist.
But that blink, the extra second spent analyzing that
crown of hair, meant to her,
that she was the centerpiece.
Yes, it is unequivocally true, your beauty will fade. Your skin once tight, will start to drape and hang in unexplainable ways. Discoloration will begin to splotch and take place upon your once evenly toned body, and newly lined face. Your vision will get blurrier with every new age. Your hair will thin, and color change. Your wrinkles will deepen with every smile that stays a little too long, forever imprinting its frame. Your memories will escape from any accessible place. It’s a slow death from a life full of moments you meticulously made, but inevitably forget. Your heart's beat will lose rhythm, and sound slowly. In the end, we often regret because we were in such a hurry not to leave, not to age, not to gray. So focused on a temporary body, which we knew would expire one day. So yes, there will be change taking place. I like to imagine aging means we are that much closer to another energy state. So let it fade. Let the wrinkles and discoloration take place. Remember they are little reminders this body was never a permanent space.
They’d fallen in love
as some young people do—
so that lust might rationally increase.
Their bright, valentine-red-blood fairly beat for love.
It’s good that we can name a thing—
describe it and classify it, so it’s out there,
fact-like, in the flimsy, indefinite poetry-verse
It was a day for it, as the sun, that most followed star,
was a carnotite paintball-splotch against a sky stitched of turquoise
and the quality of the light was sentimentally beyond reproach.
Their gallant love seemed to cast a radiance too, a bright, collateral light,
which was of greater reassurance than any by-rote, muttered words.
No one denied the ambition of their love, it was both a mess and a revelation. And no one could pretend the moment was ordinary, that the atoms that spun and gripped our world together weren’t woven yet more inseparable by their union.
The greatest, alas, may choose to bless or deny that such a miracle as love, lasts.
.
.
Songs for this:
Under Your Spell by Snow Strippers
You Can Have It All by Yo La Tengo
UNCONSCIOUS ART
blot splotch
chance blotch
my paint apron has so many colors
it looks like a fascinating Miro design
splotches, dabs and finger tips of paints
blues, reds, oranges, silvers, a bit of blue
they are blended beautifully
put onto this apron one at a time
smeared and swooshed by my fingers
or sometimes a thin paint brush
my apron looks like a designer’s fabric
I have had many compliments on it
people ask where they can buy one
they can’t
it was made by my sister
decorated by me one splotch at a time
while I sit contented, painting
a work in progress
Each brush stroke on the canvas
marks a moment in time
the artist left behind.
A fragment of thought expressed in
a line, a trace,
a spot, a dab,
a splash, a splotch,
a daub by palette knife impasto.
The brush a fleeting hand
expressing the artists
shade and light, color and flare,
texture and shape in composition.
It marks the way the artist paints,
to convey the image in a way,
where the parts are
much more than the whole,
like footprints
tracing the inception of creation.
So dainty how she held the tea cup,
sipping showing off manicured nails;
I walk in and fall with a thump;
Hot spots splotch a face that pales,
yet never do they hear me scream;
I secure the win as ‘Graceful’ fails;
So unrefined is how it may seem
meeting the floor with my face;
Channeling poise I quickly redeem;
Transformed by soft metamorphosis,
a still lady below the surface.
"We are cute spring chicks with fluffy feathers that keep
us warm; real small, like to run, and we are adorable ! "
Quote by _Constance
On a bright morn spring chicks hatched,
as the first flowers of the season bloomed;
oddly, not a single chick matched,
their fluffy feathers delightful plumbs.
Each was silly, playful and gay,
they would run every which way;
often, they wandered the barn yard going astray.
Those sweet chicks had no fear,
sometimes, suddenly they would just appear;
and to their mother would adhere.
So whimsical and frivolous to watch,
and almost impossible to catch;
I love each fluffy chick's feathery splotch,
and have a favorite that I call Butterscotch.
Idle thoughts have me replaying
the cry of an owl I heard
last night when half asleep
and swear it flew a silent course
through the center of a dream
and then, this morning,
I had myself picking a splotch
of sunlight from a leaf to hold
in my hand before it flew away
on a sudden gust of wind.
Then, off I went to break
a sagging spiders web hung
with beads of dew and stretched
across my path, a sticky wet cling
of thread finally letting go
to set my morning free.
One day, I fear, I shall
fold myself up and let
my idle thoughts metamorphose
into me, taking a room with a view
on the second floor of my poetry.
Tear-drop jewels fall from the sky
Mercy sent from heavens high,
Sustaining life in fair supply
more precious than the human eye.
Parallel patterns fall
pouring down to shower all
There’s nothing like natures call-
here and now or felt before.
Through the rain a storm has spun
evolving from the start of one
splotch of inspiration done
as we draw toward our sun.
A rather young couple have
Moved in together
In the two up, two down
Across the street.
Not for them conventionality
Or conformity:
No wedding band offends
Her third finger, left hand
Nor, it must be said
From appearances,
Does bath water very often.
Long, lank and greasy hair
Drools over their acne-scarred complexions.
They proudly declare their membership
Of the rock music degeneration
With booming bass
And screeching electric guitars,
Earth-quaking the street.
Oh yes, they have defiantly
Made it clear
They’re not going to conform
And prefer to live their lives
Living in din.
The Valley of the Forgotten
By Jason Williams
Gray and white clouds sail gently over the valley of the forgotten,
casting ethereal patterns on the wildflowers below.
In one, I see the child,
injured upon the path home.
With face frozen in agony,
his silent cries pierce my ears.
His shadow falls upon my desperate and stricken face.
But he is just a cloud now,
an imprint from my years past.
There’s nothing to be done…..
or undone.
The treeline stretches out to the horizon,
a dark splotch to the east tells of his story.
The tale of oneself, of myself,
lies in the dark crook of these woods.
I fled from its depths long ago.
A forbidden path my curiosity chose,
abandoned in haste lest it consume me.
As I look down into the valley now,
the memory of the child fills me with such anguish
The song of the magpie, my only solace, comforts me.
It protects me from the dark memories
of the long forgotten.
I live in a barren wilderness.
Thoughts of those I miss are few.
Nothing but the midnight sky to watch.
For leaving them behind I have no bitterness.
Although this world all but feels like deja vu.
For this existence is but a splotch in mine reality.
Some of my previous life's are coming clear.
All of these memories will soon accrue.
Upon a greater reality of one I will try to drink away with hard scotch.
Be it through this life or the next I am alone for that Is my fear.
Upon my next dream I hope I will be with them again mine Bauch.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.