There are strokes that come from various
sources
These strokes can be words that turns to
strikes
There are words that hit harder the first of a
pugilist
And there are words that calm the nerves like
a balm
We are all wordsmiths mastering our trade with
strokes
Some of the words uttered carelessly have caused
wars
While some carefully grafted words has ceased
strife
History has an array of predilection of such
issues.
We carefully and judiciously use the resources
of the word we have.
(Written on the 8th of September, 2026)
Altho' I'm a common or garden potato
a lighter shade of brown
and you're a turnip who
just my luck fell off the truck
on the ride from the other side of town
I only have eyes for you
but when the chips are down
a brussel sprout I can do without
as for lettuce you may forget us
onion always makes me cry
“Goodbye radish” or so say I
garlic is all very well but not the smell
to the pepper bell a fond farewell
yet the root of the problem
is indeed you see
while I think you're the top of the crop
you don't care a swede for me
not just paint on wall
you've painted my heart with
perfect brush strokes
love styled days and nights
colored years with fulfillment ~
heart calendar art
Reading past writings
With lack of recognition..
What prompted the rising
Of those words..?
Many seem strange indeed
Words rising and gone
Life and death in the
Strokes of the keys...
Come October, I feel a nip in the air,
frosting my breath like contrails of smoke;
while gilded leaves start tumbling from the trees.
Overhead, a gaggle of honking geese
are fleeing Winter's approach:
joining the songbirds that have migrated south.
The Fall leaves are painted with bold strokes
of yellow, scarlet, fuchsia, gold, and orange:
inked by Jack Frost,
and sprinkled on the ground like confetti.
Amber and vermilion drip from the trees;
pooling into a crunchy sea
of colorful leaves: that the wind weaves,
into shifting swirls of abstract art.
One of Nature's boldest paintings,
Autumn steals one's breath away, instilling awe;
infusing Summer's death with Winter's birth:
a truly magical transformation to behold.
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.
(Our differences are like the pieces of a puzzle called life)
What does humanity want from life, it’s puzzling to know
Peace signs, Daisy cutters, find Jesus in the afterglow
Seek out seventy two virgins, priming fuses to blow?
Come together in jannah, with a godlike libido
Write painstaking poetry, devoid of human ego
Kill every known disease, have a chat with a mosquito
Build a chocolate empire, watch fatty deposits grow
Start a protein only diet, get ripped from head to toe?
View b movie stars at night, (censure) the matinee show
Have no more hangovers, enjoy life utterly blotto
Bring back prohibition, replace it with a pink benzo?
Smoke marijuana safely, vaporise tobacco
Play chess at home with the wife, or away with a bimbo
Give a hand to starving wolves, then go howl out the window
Let a child get carried away, not by some wild dingo?
Set the bar high enough, flambé for a life of limbo
It's said there's magic to be found in the joy of innocence
and giving credence to the possibility there is a paradise.
I think that holds true when life's canvas is primed, ready
to be painted with the skillful brush strokes of an artful hand.
Life is like a painting, blending colors of autumn's leaves,
soft shades of amber, sienna, and coral, the romantic tones
illumined, yet shadowed by vestiges of life's highs and lows.
The artist is always careful to remain focused on the lovers.
Arm and arm, they may not have even noticed the rainfall.
Lost in each other, both totally engrossed in the moment.
They've found their paradise. No abstract painting on canvas,
this one created with skillful brush strokes of a loving hand.
*painting by Jeff Rowland
1.The dogma of atheist does not contain any stance
(positive nor negative)about any form of incest.
about pig eating,about swine soup,about fried frogs,
about consensual gaang baang etcetera.
2.Moreover,most atheists do not customarily condemn
the very practices that religion condemns,
for example,idolatry,adultery,and homosexuality.
3.Atheists do not constitute a cohesive or powerful group.
4.They argued that as long as sex is between two consenting
adults,then it should be permitted.
5.It is an act that is morally or naturally wrong and it should
be punished by law.
Several
soft spoken
strokes grazing against
the cool
contented
crest
winsomely
woven with
withering white.
Nurturing a
newborn
ambition
for light.
That boldly
begins burning
out it’s passionate
pale plume
of a plea .
Which is
always seen
reaching out
towards an
reluctant
royal reverie .
Whom is
too afraid to
walk amongst reality .
Nestled woodland, leaves on line,
thick, straight, and curving.
Mounded upland, forms eternal,
Rounded, angled, and yielding.
Circled valley, meadows, fields,
shapes, and pathways winding.
Seasons quartered, warm and cool,
rust and mustards flying.
Upward outward, textured daybreak,
quiet breezes low:
Close encounter, canvas earth,
to view, to feel, to grow.
Brush strokes on paintings
Is a lot like life
Each one has a
Different meaning
Light strokes mean just wanting fun
Heavy strokes mean desire to have
In final exams scored zero:
Who drives The Cleanest Pajero;
The Guys ahead of him in class
Aware he is of Upper Class:
Enjoying financial morning
But after exams mourning...
Todd could with The Law have a brush
And a cop to hospital rush:
Bodyguards with exploding shots,
Richly paid but in agreed shorts...
Wishing to be like Todd A Gross:
Those who'd guessed they couldn't be Boss.
Life, forever, Different strokes;
The first lesson for all hurt blokes.
Brush strokes
The sky this afternoon had odd clouds
looked like icebergs floating on pink air
The seagulls took refuge on my terrace.
A grey wolf with a leg of lamb scratched
on the door, I let it in.
when preparing the meat, the wolf left
down the hall that was dimly lit
I asked no question
I remembered a Russian painter of black forests
and dark red sky I think he was foresighted
therefore, sent to a Gulag.
The sea in the bay is dark with white spots
the Russian has gone mad, was his name Kozlovski?
Back in the hall where the wolf had disappeared
left a pile of dung as proof, in case, I thought
it was a dream.
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.