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Brody Blue Jul 6
And so it goes,
The slow at heart.
The first to book the train
Worlds apart;
Then when the whistle blows
And train departs:
The last to show's
The slow at heart
Mrs Timetable Feb 23
Drawn by the sadness of time
Minutes of repeated striations
Hours of wounded sketching
Days draining color
Outstare me...I dare you
Survey my damage
Morphing into
A dueling masterpiece
For the young artist
Sally A Bayan Dec 2021
(Black Tide)

🌒
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My finger touches water...imagining,
tracing...the contours of a face,
eyes...hair...they undulate on the
wavy mirrors of the water, reeling
on the blue luster of the rising tide,
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
shimmering streaks, reflecting
splotches, as sun rays are waning,
~~~~~this late afternoon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
i stay, unflinching, un-intimidated
by the lapping waves, violently
caressing the sandy shore.
~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
🌒
The dimming sky blurs
your sketch into an enigma,
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Your hair, your face are vanishing
leaving your open eyes, glimpsing
around, glinting like silver, through
the rhythmic ebbing and flowing
of the now black tide.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
November sky's an undaunting view
.......as firm as dark navy blue,
a few stars in sight,
la lune is still queen of the night,
so determined in her scant glow 🌒
~~~telling me, it's time to go,
~~~to live through this night,
then, face a new sunrise 🌕
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~
~~~
(#silly love poem)


sally b


© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
October 17, 2017
(from my collection of silly love poems)
Shofi Ahmed Nov 2021
Drawing down the moon
eyes on deep down the ocean.
Perhaps no sketch on the up for a dwarf  
but deep down may be a mirror.
der kuss Nov 2021
sinking low, layers of consciousness drifting away softly
you slip in between, fragments of this half-forgotten face
aren't you tired of flying around me, my strange?
when i gradually grow defenseless, lampshade turns sunset crimson
darkness thickens with yearnings outside, on the lane

my senses are heightened but i am senseless,
and dull are the days since i lost you again, i have been grieving for nothing,
(you became me, and i wished not to be left by myself)
and no matter how far i go you are remembered
in hours when i grow defenseless

my cheekbones are defined, i look more of a strong-willed woman
than a mad girl in love who parted ways with me once and all
but still we said this to the thin air: make me happy again
i wished you could hear this and i felt vapid,
i only have myself and it will be enough, and not enough

take me back into the holy room, where you and i had each other
and you were enough for me but i wasn't for you, we're lovers still
if we must part then i wished it was of my will
but a creak of a toad brings me back to life here
kicked out of heavens in clouds, there's a hole in heart, and will always be

tossing and turning, i touch my face with my unarmed hands
(these were once yours too)
i thought you might forget and never knew missing yourself
(i hoped you'd be back, i hoped you'd look back)
Steve Page Jul 2021
Inking an octopus
takes time and space
and detail-dexterity
with a sense of 4D
you see, their arms
flow
and your eye can't track
their deeply chronic current-cy.
Following a conversation on the radio.  And sketching an octopus featured.
gen Mar 2021
the ones that constantly play on my mind,
now etched inside his head
he'd make you feel profound things
converting a blank page into a room full of thoughts and visualizations
waiting to be filled with intention
by the way his fingertips graze over canvas
strokes, hues, and lines
every exquisite detail
the lead scraping across the paper
shadows that protrude the overall portrait
contemplating to contrast the grays
forming vivid illustrations no one would ever envision
the paper comes to life before my eyes
it's like he never had to use his own hands
to touch each & every part of me
i only see him in monochrome
but he penetrates me with all kinds of hues

i hope he realizes that he himself, is art. my art.
4 ya
Brody Blue Jan 2021
I wandered by the wayside
till I wore out my traveling shoes.
I stopped and smelled the roses,
it seemed to be that time was mine to lose.
But when the thorns drew blood,
I saw how little time I had to choose
To pluck the rose, or bleed out with
The rosebud blues
A song about everything you hate
Cross Boundry Sep 2020
i'll sketch you, mon ange
i'll draw you on the page, my pencil giving you immortality
poem four: french beauty
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