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HSH Mar 30
Pastels/interlude of spring
Rememories in pattern&gene
Soft-hues emulate the air breaking/defrosting/shedding from chilled atmospheric flingending

Warm-risal of color saturation
In tune-time for renewal plant life
Budding/blossoming/bussing into vibrant splashes all can hear with their eyes/feel & read on their skin
Proof of life in us flooding back in

Pastels/complimentary of spring
Inches away from primaries
Setting a balance/calming glee
ing effervescence

Arianna Feb 27
"Castle in the clouds
ringed with lanternlight halos
along snow-covered borders,

Floating, floating over
hanging gardens
of phosphorescent roses."
Wrote this a few weeks ago when it had snowed: between the snow, the dusky sky, and the peculiar street lighting, some of the buildings here looked like they were floating on clouds. :-)
Katy Jan 8
I bleed in pastels
To mimic the beauty of sunsets
Brooke White Dec 2018
Should I bring a résumé  of my dreams
to the publishing company on West 38th?

An abstraction of when my teeth
crumble like pastels, or summaries of my
vocal cords seeking air through a taut fabric.
I’ve achieved piercing silence in a room of white noise.

I have an impressive inventory of witnessing infidelity.
once, we were both in between romantic partners.
I was awakened by the taste of copper
from biting the inside of my cheek.
It looked worthy of an aged Merlot.

My most admirable skill is prediction.
I can sense a mass shooting or the expiring heart of a loved one.
but I usually float like an island over the scene
because my biggest weakness is lacking density.
Robin Lemmen Nov 2018
And it is tiresome to think
But most of all I drown in sad
Knowing you will never know, me
Like I wish, like I know you could have
To explore my midnight tendrils
To watch me, be
Broken wishes that left scars on my skin
Explore boundaries knowing
Home awaits inside my arms
It is tiresome, so tiresome
To always ponder and dream
Stuck on wishful thinking
So, please
Don't paint me troubled
Think of me in pastels, a breath of spring air
After the confusion of winter's numbness has melted away
AmberLynne Jul 2015
I show the world my flowers,
daisies flowing from my fingertips,
smiling with the brightness of tulips,
and leaving a trail of poppy footprints
with each step I take.

I present this spring-themed Monet masterpiece,
careful to conceal the chaotic overcrowding
pushing, building pressure beneath the surface.
This rootbound torture belies the floral illusion,
and if you peer closely at the pretty pastels,
you'll see they're nothing more than
brush strokes and broken hopes.
Lisa Benson Jun 2015
there is comfort
in living in black
the devoid of color
makes life seem more meaningful
as if pain has got it's bludgening purpose

but then you came along
sprouted from the ground
petals in pastels and colors all around
and my god

i'll keep my eyes open forever
if it means the black has gone to color
and you promise me that you'll never find
any other
Harmony Thomas Apr 2015
Her long fingers grasped
the midnight blue pigmented stick of oil,
pulling it across the sand coloured card
as if nothing else existed.
The way she focused on the piece of art
she was creating-a piece of art
much like herself,
was exhilarating.
On the card was variations of
shapes, colours and shades-
much like herself.
She wore a prominent frown when she drew,
shaking her head and muttering things to herself when she went outside the lines,
making her hair fall into the middle of her shoulder blades.
Just like her masterpiece, she was
made up of
shapes, colours and shades.
Eyes a large oval shape
her nose a  triangular sculpture against her soft features.
The skin on her nose and against her cheeks were a darker shade of olive,
compared to the rest of her imperfect countenance.
Hair like black coffee cascading down her back,
merely reaching her frail waist.
A sense of nostalgia surrounded her small frame.
The masterpieces she creates show sentimental meanings,
hidden with oval shapes and midnight blue pigmented sticks of oil,
much like herself.
Hearts are not constant,
They each have many shades,
Their colour depends not on themselves,
But the light shining on them.

In the light they radiate beauty,
Each hue complimenting the other,
But in shade they lose focus,
And at night they are lost completely.

But Hearts are not black,
They only appear dark,
Nor are they red,
As even the most loving know hate.

Instead they span a spectrum,
Each unique,
But made of the same,
Primary emotions.

Hearts are pastels,
When touched they merge,
Blending towards each other,
Bridging the gap.

Although they cannot always fuse completely,
There will always be enough different colours,
For hearts to find companionship,
And trust, if not love.
Hearts are not constant,
In the light they radiate beauty,
In shade they lose focus,
In the night they are lost.

But Hearts are not black or red,
They span a spectrum,
Each unique,
But not so different from each other.

Hearts are pastels,
When touched they merge,
Bridging the gap between each other,
And becoming one.

Although they cannot always fuse completely,
There will always be enough different colours,
For hearts to find companionship,
And trust, if not love.
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