I pull out my watercolours
to try to paint what I’m feeling
Vibrant red stained by brown
Bright yellow blemished by grey clouds
But the blue, isn’t blue enough
No matter how much i try
Should mix in my tears
Or breathe in a sigh ?
My colours comes to life
Dripping onto my fingertips
As my hands sob onto the canvas
Puddles start to ebb and flow
The red is shocked by electrifying oranges
And seemlessly the ocher dances
The emotions glide through the water
Rippling in ever corner
My paintbrush soaks up the shadows hidden in
The umbra of my nights
The ones with which I put up a fight
The vista of shades become a philharmonic conversation
A babble of acute sensations
Dribbles of passionate abstractions
Mirroring my great sollitude
They wash out into the pot
and merge into a muc of liquidifyed spleen,
Gunky disquietude ready to be pored out of me
As i stain the paper and myself too
I giggle because now I really am blue
These stains stick to me
And now you can see
The true colour of my melancholy
This one’s a castle; that’s a customs-house.
They’re stolid, listless, just a little dull.
The sky supports an arbitrary gull.
The languidness of Liszt, the style of Strauss
are wholly absent. Colours are metallic.
The eye sweeps over cornice, turret, steeple,
then it dawns on us – there are no people.
Clock towers, mountains, minarets, all phallic,
are void of human life. Stark, empty chairs
adorn each arid, motionless interior.
As we apprise, eyes sneeringly superior,
we note acerbically his love of stairs –
A Will to Power, ever pushing up.
One daub there is, however, gives us pause:
it dates long before Enabling Laws,
before he dreamed of Kesselring or Krupp:
a bridge that’s quite impossible to cross,
going nowhere, has never carried traffic.
With a boy sitting on it. Startling, graphic,
without a hint of Schadenfreude or Schloss.
Self-portrait, this? What features may we trace?
What’s here vouchsafed? Incipient racist brute?
Hardly. A disarmingly awful suit,
and most revealingly of all – he has no face.
If I could love thee in a thousand ways
The warmth of the sun's rays on chilly climes
Refreshingly cool breeze on humid days
As the soothing music during bedtimes
Your safe shelter amidst torrential rain
Limitless such as the deep blue ocean
A blazing wildfire that is out of rein
A serenading lover in motion
Fervour of the river to meet the sea
Butterflies drawn to colourful flowers
Dancing on a moonlit night, you and me
Nature’s resurrection after showers
Love is a kaleidoscope of colours
Beloved’s portrait in watercolours
Where is the secret of the rainbow?
At the edge of one's own life?
Whence does it come, with those lovely pastel colours?
Is it a heavenly art or a mere human illusion?
Some form of an ancient creative masterpiece?
Perhaps expressionism was reassessed?
The spiritual in natural art is oft-forgotten
in musty mists, where the soul engages
in confrontations with the deadly reaper.
The appalling midst of winter intensifies in the freeze,
and the psychology of death deepens,
for we are too much attached to worldly cares.
Characteristic emotions in cowardly conflicts.
One can say so very few words about
the astute business of a measured life,
like autumn's falling bronzed leaves,
its face value is not easily perceived;
for dead leaves turn into compost,
no peaceful transition true, but a must
that leads and helps life's renewal in spring.
Forget the troubled dream of dreary life,
let the seasons daub their watercolours bold and free,
the rainbow assigns a variety of mellow hues,
chooses always the brightest.
For the secret of the rainbow
a symbol of new hope lies in its Creator.
words form in a flurry
bleeding saccharine too too much
all the crushed kaleidoscope colours
signature pastels and sparkling vibrants,
a tenderfoot cherry, with little of life yet to go by,
still art, that one is full to the brim with stitched up wisdom,
bleeds like watercolours across canvas melting messy hearts like chocolate,
la Ingénue’s cup overfloweth with abortions of sugary poésies
plumbed ripe and read, dripping black currents
legs wrapped around broomsticks of diamonds
Candide Diderot. ‘24
I will enjoy life.
I will enjoy the peace it brings me,
and learn from the lessons it has taught me.
I will let the wind blow through my hair,
let me eyes gaze up the Sun and it's watercolours.
I will continue to let me ears relish in every subtle and soft symphony there is,
and let me skin prickle in reaction to the cold every time.
Just this once, I will let my life slow down,
I will let every emotion pass through me and come at once. While I will welcome each with a tight embrace.
And I shall pause, and turn my head back to see just how far I've gotten, while also appreciating how far I've still yet to do. I will remember every hopeless and hopeful time I had, and be grateful for all.
I will enjoy my life. Enjoy it while I can.
Successfull Julian Aiden Weir
held painting an art so dear
In watercolours&silver point
to the Academy they did apponte
trees twist and swaying
mottled watercolours sing
raindrops tap dancing
Oct.26.2021
Geoff Butterworth the English colourist is my pick
to make watercolours so realistic
His paintings have perspective the discerning now seek
Try this link* to give this art ..a peek
inspired by a recent 'Flog it' tv clip/interview
as rain extinguished embers
of the long day's city heat
blurred traffic light reflections
painted puddles on the street.
Rhapsody in Autumn
Rhapsody of colors spread sunshine of rays have bled
Falling leaves stir ahead blanketing onto grounds bed
Crimson skies sighing amidst flocking birds’ south flying
Canvased pigments complying within natures purifying
Watercolours thru walking of mosaic rainbows talking
Winter within blues mocking upon grey clouds blocking
Chilling air in breezing amongst running noses sneezing
Pies with pumpkins pleasing of ghouls hauntingly teasing
Orange painted town with camouflaging scarlet brown
All faces tainting frown Autumn of rhapsody turnaround.
...if anyone is interested, this couplet can also be read backwards.
Oct.04.2018
Vermillion Autumn Couplets
Sponsored by: Vermillion Scythe
N/A for contest
Were I given the choice
No matter the season
Heed the call every morn
Beguiling and playful
Come out and discover
Charge up the camera
Tote spare memory card
And head off for the day
Shooting million photos
Details and horizons
Feathery cloud patterns
Luxurious shorelines
Sun’s radiant caress
Cute graceful pussycats
Happy children laughing
Unfading open fields
Tall trees of every shape
Heavenward church towers
Birds soaring high above
Rainbows across the sky
Why would I ever tire
I’d just love rushing home
Download my treasure chest
Sift for each gold nugget
Feeling mighty wealthy
Wrapping up the jackpot
Every wondrous blessed time
Appreciate the gift
Building my collection
Of art inspiration
Recharge my batteries
Load up my paintball gun
Watercolours, pastels
Charcoal, acrylics, inks
Create, create, create
Spawn interpretations
Allow colours to speak
Full tilt given the choice
AP: Honorable Mention 2021
Submitted on August 16, 2018 for contest PICK A THEME: GIVEN THE CHOICE I WOULD sponsored by VIV WIGLEY - RANKED 4TH
This one’s a castle, that’s a customs-house.
They’re stolid, listless, just a little dull.
The sky supports an arbitrary gull.
The languidness of Lizst, the style of Strauss
are wholly absent. Colours are metallic.
The eye sweeps over cornice, turret, steeple,
and then it dawns on us – there are no people.
Clock towers, mountains, minarets, all phallic,
are void of human life. Stark, empty chairs
adorn each arid, motionless interior.
As we apprise, eyes sneeringly superior,
we note acerbically his love of stairs –
a Will to Power, ever pushing up.
One daub there is, however, gives us pause:
it dates from long before Enabling Laws,
before he dreamed of Kesselring or Krupp:
a bridge that’s quite impossible to cross,
that goes nowhere, has never carried traffic,
bears one boy sitting on it. Startling, graphic,
without a hint of Schadenfreud or Schloss:
self-portrait, this. What features might we trace?
What’s here vouchsafed? Incipient racist brute?
Well, hardly. An endearing, awful suit,
and – most revealingly of all – he has no face.
Paint
Pictures painted with acrylics
Finger paint or watercolours
Paint on walls
Not on floors!
Faces smeared in war paint
Finger prints smothering everything
Picturesque paintings
Hanging proud
The centre piece for all to see
Paints in all the colours
Red, orange, yellow,
Green, blue, indigo, violet
Black, grey, white
And brown!
Paint spread from wall to wall
On paper, posters
Canvas and card
All sorts of paintings
Covered In paint
So many ways to colour this world
Paint, fabulous paint!
Archibald Knox from the Isle of Man
painted scenes in watercolours.
Designer of Art Nouveau
for Liberty’s London.
My dream is to own
artwork by him,
but sadly
I’m not
rich!
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron
Contest: Favourite Painter
11~23~15
Sub Categories
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