The sun contours the cloud’s edges
Like a sky crack. If the sun be my eye,
Could eye be distracted from the surface heaven?
Some seven wispy islands’ masking bedding,
The frictive crashing plates, dying
And reborn downpours, slitted resting
Clouds, tense breasts and tension bringing.
A salmon fillet stretches gelatinously,
Horizon skin cooked by incidental switches,
Minor cloud bump shuffles that arrest
The sky. It lay there scorching
From the daggered strikes, the speaking
Pikes that shatter crackled clouds.
Their lost remains are seeping out of line,
An army shielded, steel of darker, stealing paints.
Valhalla battle cries boast legends, saints
And mages known only to the sky.
I live because in my life
you paint love as surreal art
it’s my bruised heart
scorned, sacred vows of a saint
true lovers’ art
this, you paint…
It appears as me
with altered appeal and
tints of pain,
tainted in taffeta’s
crisp and stylish
Primped and fashioned, contour of course
My soulful eyes
fitting for a muse
my lips are shut,
and my finger pressed
against a smudge messed
I want to shout
let me out of this demure affair
In that case, I pleasure in my nails
Hand splayed, what’s red is green,
Revlon’s recipe
on sharpened tips
secrets we keep, and so what
if my complexion pewters
I’m just an object
An object of veneration
where pain and beauty coexist
Gone direly insane, you’ll find out
I am a photo finish, a diarist
reclusive in my personal struggles
and creative expression
and in this I conclude
that I’ll outlive you
in solitude
"I live bacause in my heart
you paint love as surreal art" - By Poet
The eventide sun spreads anew
in my garden the golden hue,
I see your beauty bloom charm
in the fold of my fervent arm.
The sapphire petals of iris bud
unfurl with enticing patina flood
in your dreamy eyes of dove
with the lilting luster of love.
The tiny drops of joyful tear
in the midst of your eyes’ flair,
gleam like gems of dew,
the pearls of charisma adorn you.
The reflected radiance of the shine
flashes yearning in the pined heart of mine,
the feeling fills me with romantic rhyme,
takes me to the edge of the stalled time.
In the trance of the fusing embrace
I swim in the sea of your grace.
The essence of your longing I crave to acquire
as I float on the waves of desire.
I wish you will always be
walking life together with me.
Your allure I will never eschew,
because I live to love you.
______________
April 11, 2023
Contest : Because I Live
Sponsored by : Mystic Rose Rose
Splintered heart
Contorted surreal art
Crumpled canvas
_______________
December 10. 2021
Contest : Bite Size Poem No 29
Sponsor : Line Gauthier
Of false post science
hyper surreal art skill
wall street realness...
These are the days of dream
Don’t sink, don’t set, I tell the spent sun
I'll fly like a butterfly with motif of love on wings
I’ll reach, I’ll touch the flower you become for me.
These are the days of dream
I see the streaks of the golden sun in your eyes
Your smile sparkles with the patina of pearly dew
I’m a blushing blade of grass in your flushing meadow.
These are the days of dream
The crimson clouds brush your face on their flight
Paint me in its color making me a piece of surreal art
For I’m no longer an empty canvas hidden in your heart.
These are the days of dream
You dance like a leaf in rhythm of summer shower
From your deep dimple my love drips for you to feel
I’m a drop of rain trickling, trying to touch your purple lip.
These are the days of dream
I see you clear, I see you come to me
These are the days of dream
Let me lie, let me sleep on your arm.
May 12, 2021
Contest : "Say It Again"
Sponsor : William Kekaula
Sauntering Upon The Edge of Insanity.
.
Sauntering upon the edge of insanity
Fanciable inspirations
Drawn from the unconscious well
Of nonsensical surreality
.
Stretching the boundaries of an avant-garde
Lucid fertile imagination
Unconventional to the rigid
Laws of physics and mainstream norm
Seeing things from the inside out
Bending abstract line and form
.
An unorthodox man with a box camera
The artist innovating with inventive eye
Exposes monochrome and sepia stills
To perceive the world from another side
.
A Pandora's box for subjective conjecture
Creating a mood of confusion
By# manipulative illusion
But leaving the insightful voyeur
Awakened in awe creative inspired
And satisfied.
.
‘’ the photos of surrealist Man Ray’’.
.
Peter Dome©2020.
HOPE, THE PAINT MOVER
The patterned palette clasping the melted rainbow
doesn’t take time to dry as streaks of colored bone
if the amateur painter waits long and doesn’t know
how to choose the colors fast and select their tone.
The blank canvas waiting silent on the slanting easel,
the unpainted bare face wrinkles in creeping wet air
if the unsure moody painter hesitates awhile to tell
the dormant imagination to make the motif in color.
The hued palette, the waiting canvas and the painter
turn into a useless unlinked trio in the pursuit of art
if they can’t find for their purpose prime paint mover,
the camel haired innocuous painting brush to start.
The brush comes alive in the painter’s nimble fingers,
paints from the pliant palette with ardor it captures.
The face of charming canvas glows in collage of colors,
in surreal art form the nebulous imagination appears.
When winds of stormy time abrades life’s canvas bare
how long the painted rainbow will last you’ve no clue.
If all the colors start to melt in the torrents of despair
in color of future dip the mind’s brush hope gives you.
October 9, 2018
Whispers of sweet nothings through my ears
Roaring yet soothing tunes interrupted my veins
Small boats abiding the collision of fears
Abandoning the bundled senses of pain
The briny tang became acidic to the heart
With coral and ultramarine that entwined violently
A hurricane of wolves galloping like surreal art
I fall back, drowning into the depths of vibrancy
Hallway wall
Surreal art shouts;
Images startle
Steadfast drought,
Browning the greens;
Rain on hiatus
Dryness spreads
Drought loiters well;
Dreary comfort
Dry spells,
Dry feel;
Dehydration
Words fail,
Music stops;
Collateral damage
Fine writes,
Show-and-Tell;
Bizarre burping
Wise words,
Vain dreams;
Cacophony
Listen...
Wind calls;
Post mortem
No escape
From more words;
Mood swing detour
Leon Enriquez
19 Mar 2014
Singapore
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