#painting
Streams of colour
In constant motion
showing shades of beauty hidden
Powered by the wind
As it caresses the river of scent
Gently, softly, lovingly
And moves through the rows
Never stopping, always moving
Following the wind
Lavender tributaries
in a Sensual scented sea of colour
Never ending.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC
Live in poetry
Hold unto novelty
Never settle
Never just be
**** being content
Sadness, emptiness, happiness, despair, love, hatred, wonder
They are all colours
Why paint in black and white when you've got the whole
spectrum?
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 7:39 PM UTC
I am a canvas
Painted in harsh strokes
With kind words
Mistakes blend in
Over time and diligence
But are never erased
They sit quietly
Under layers of oil paint
Built into my foundation
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 12:29 AM UTC
The sunset imbues its last glance
as molten lavas cool into exotic crimson
painting the colour of romance on the seabed.
What glance did you cast?
Stunned moon turns up a notch,
keeps looking over the ocean,
yet to drink a drop!
Ah, holy smoke,
what did you drop?
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 2:55 PM UTC
Painting in the secrets
Of a thousand lies
Is fun
As you get to paint in
How you see those lies
Let's paint our hair red
Of a thousand fires
So fun,
As you get to paint it
How you really want to
Aggressively painting canvases
Of a thousand depictions
It's fun
As you get to paint whatever
How you really see it
*Let's go paint something, sister.
Together.*
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 2:53 PM UTC
Fragmented lives entangled
but asunder in our journey
as our paths cosmically connect
in a romance of the arts
And who's to say what's real
to touch or deeply feel
what will truly last
or simply where to start
So I’ll
paint you alla prima
as I feel you playing me
in warm colors of merging ardor
a wet blending of artistry
my brush strokes of your body
painted in my mind
of impressions blushed in passion
in hues I can’t describe
Suspended in the moment
floating on a breeze
I revel in this picture painted music
almost in disbelief, unthinking…
knowing every nuance of our love
found only in our dreams
Like children in parallel play
I’ll finger the keys
and slip the locks
of all your orchestrations
filling the walls
of my concerts halls
with deep
splattered tones
in pinks and blues
the hues
that forever
bind us
And we’ll not look back
nor forward
but hang here in the moment
to display our
Painted Song
in the eyes
of giggly children
both doing
our own thing
together
on a string
curated
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 6:22 AM UTC
Paints of dark twilight hues,
Slathered across in blunt strokes.
Blend with deft hands,
Cajole gently with jabs and pokes.
Backdrop begging for a few others.
Longing to hold in infinite embrace.
Friends of earth and midnight sky.
Worthy of a doe-eyed lovers' gaze.
Cascading moonbeam...
Drenching all in silvery white.
Restless twinkling stars...
Singing their mismatched might.
Silhouetted landscape as horizon,
Darkened oils of plateaued ridges.
Finest brush could only manage,
To close the gap, I build bridges.
Nearing completion, this stint on canvas.
Nuances of dawn for what I've begun,
Usher the arrival of a brand new day.
All I need now is a few drops of sun.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
Paint the night sky with twinkling stars, distant from one another but collectively emitting a spectacular glow;
Paint the spun ivory clouds across the interminable blue, watching the softness suffocate sunlight streaming below;
Paint your frayed chocolate braids beside curved, smiling full lips in the middle of a vivid, adorned cottage;
Paint the passionate red of blood that stains our hands as they clasp together like imperfect puzzle pieces, and the jagged breathing that fogs the dusk;
Paint yourself where you are loved--
Paint yourself with me.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 3:46 AM UTC
In a loud corridor
Full of young people
I move slowly, reconciled.
I have lived a little longer than they have.
And yet I do not know how
They recognize my face,
They smile at me so calmly.
On the walls
Reproductions of masters.
One calls me,
Face distorted,
Naked in his suffering.
I stop my thoughts.
I look.
I see his bitten soul.
Too many sunsets
in blood-red color.
He and she,
They lost everything
And yet they still see
so much love.
I am already with them,
on their portrait.
I am part of these colors.
I search in a corridor of eclipses,
Flashing hopes.
To soothe their dignity,
To save the bond between them.
I take this story in my hands, so gently.
Together, we look into earthly wounds.
We allow them to scar over,
Day after day,
Year after year.
Until they grow over with life.
Until they grow over with green grass.
I will be happy.
Observing how they grow in true strength
Of human fragile beings,
Of impatient humanity, longing to be reborn.
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 9:46 PM UTC
My eyes watch
as the sky
is painted with colors of
soft blues & white fluffs
to
vivid pinks & dazzling oranges.
Soon to be
pitch blacks & deep violets
with tiny bright lights
speckled on with flicks of His brush.
Soon to be tomorrow,
strokes of
happy yellows & stunning golds.
Apr 12, 2021
Apr 12, 2021 at 6:28 PM UTC
now that you own a paint brush,
i no longer have to paint a smile on my face
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 3:02 PM UTC
Based on a painting, "Nuclear Puppies", by Julie Nagel, 2001
You’re a mutant, you know—
got funny dog babies sprouting
out of your head like they were
ears. Those copies of your face
look up at a sky of ashy gray,
perked and tense. Are you listening
to yourself? What choir
of dog-eared deformities
sings to you? Maybe they should have
howled louder before we dropped The Bomb.
Maybe the yellow caterwaul of their
melting butter bodies would have stayed our hand.
I doubt it though.
This is what we do. We burn things.
We tinker, adding and subtracting until
what’s left is blasphemy—until what’s left is
you. A yellow almost-dog, a sagging
body with melted flesh where there should
be fur. Sad monster; beg your alms
from the atomic Frankensteins who made you.
Your skyward eyes are bright, still happy
anywhere but here. But your abominable
body lies here staring into gray space with
Alpo still sticky on your nose, wet, brown snow.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
in this age of vanishing dreams
and crying ghosts
I find myself drawn again and again
an undying connection
to this work of art
so out of time upon its creation
as to be an endless fascination for me
so unlike the artist
this suffering soul
who's immense love and anguish
for the less fortunate
coupled with a talent too immense
for one man
created a burden that weighed upon his shoulders
and his heart like a million captured tears
then once upon a beautiful dream
or perhaps just a clever thought or a baby's smile
a brief respite from the pain
he created the contradiction of his lifetime
as if to say to all that may come to know him
through what history dictates
'You see...I was not crazy!'
and The Smoking Skull
was born
Dec 26, 2017
Dec 26, 2017 at 8:50 PM UTC
Bilang mga pilipino
Nakaugalian na nating
Bumili ng bagay bagay ng
Pa tingi-tingi,
Tulad ng
Sigarilyo,
Kendi,
Shampoo
And marami pang iba.
Bakit nga ba natin ginagawa ito?
Ito ba'y dahil
Tayo'y nag titipid,
kaya tayo'y dumudukot lang
ng pa-pirapiraso,
O baka naman,
Ayaw lang natin
Na may mga bagay na nasasayang
Pero kahit ano pang
Aspeto ito,
Nadala na natin ito
Hanggang sa paglaki.
Nasanay na tayong
Umasta ng patingi-tingi
Pati sa pakiki-salamuha
Natin sa kapwa
Tingi-tingi na din,
Tingi-tinging mga ngiti,
tingi-tinging mga halik,
Tingi-tinging mga kwento,
Pero ang pinaka masaklap
Sa lahat ng ito ay,
Tingi-tinging debosyon
Sa panginoon.
Na dinudukot lang natin
ang mga pirasong,
Tugma sa
Sa ating mga problema
Ang mga piraso,
Na nagpapasarap
Sa atin piling,
Hindi natin ito kailanman
Hinahayaang turuan tayo,
At itama sa ating mga
Pagkakamali.
Tulad ng mga bersiculo
Ng biblia
Tinabas-tabas natin ang mga
Kasuluksulukan
Na banal sa libro.
Binulsa lang
Natin ang pagmamahal ni Cristo,
Dudukutin lang
Pag kailangan.
Kapag tayoy nalulumbay,
Sabik na sabik
Sa mga bisig
Ng iba.
Si ay ating
Kinakalimutan
Sa panahon
Ng kaligayahan.
Tinatawag
Lang siya
Kapag tayo'y may
Kailangan.
Na sa oras ng kagipitan,
Sinisigaw ang kaniyang
Ngalan.
Sana matandaan natin
Na tayo'y
Binili ng buo,
Gamit ang buhay
Na hindi binigay ng
Tingi-tingi
Pero binigay ng buong buo.
Hindi lang isang
Patak ng dugo,
Pero buong pagkatao,
Ibinuhos para lang sayo.
Kaya,
Tigilan na
Nating ang patingi-tinging asal,
Tigilan nalang
Natin ang pagpapakipot
Sa taong
Nagmamayari satin.
Tayo'y hindi tingi, tayo'y buo.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 12:47 PM UTC
For an hour and a half I sit on the floor
holding a piece of shaped cardboard.
I turn it round and round to show all side
while holding a paper plate of paints.
He holds the brush like he holds his pencils
“wrong.”
He pays attention to the cartoon at his lap
and sporadically looks at the tip of the brush.
Colors are scattered with no rhyme and reasons
and brush strokes are seen without hesitation.
He paints and paints and saps his little energy
to make a Christmas present for his little sister.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 11:43 PM UTC
you are mostly angles
and i am mostly curves.
the best paintings
have the perfect combination
of the two.
together
we are a perfect mixture
of sharp and soft.
like a painting
a living masterpiece.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
A small skiff drifted in the harbor
guided by the eazy oars of a fisherman
standing in the hull to better view
the shimmering reflection
of the orange circle hovering overhead-
dancing with the gentle waves
in the morning mist.
Monet had to name it something
so he called it what it was:
"Impression, soleil levant."
A critic, wanting poison for his pen,
seized Monet's title to squeeze
a lethal dose into the radical veins
of the artist and his fellows of the gallery
(Renoir, Pissarro, Cezanne).
With scathing indignation
he dubbed the lot of them,
"Mere Impressionists."
The label endures (minus one word)
but how many recall or care to know
the righteous critic's name?
November, 2011
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 4:40 AM UTC
Sunshine on delicate pink
warms and sweetens blackberry nectar.
Scents of nectar
attracts honeybees.
Amber stripes and transparent wings
weave a tapesry on my canvas.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 1:10 PM UTC
I am a humble painting
hung upon a common wall,
composed of grey tears;
striking, yellow laughter;
trampling fear; undisciplined love,
of other human beings.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 12:30 AM UTC
All the colours, electric green
Rose and violet shades sereine
Crimson clover and loyal blue
yellow ocher, burgundy too
Take up arms- a graceful stance
to "Yeah Yeah Yeahs" modern romance
Yet all the colours and shades that be,
Could never truly release me
But prop me up- so I realize
the prusuit of art is faithfully wise.
Every morning and every night
I choose my pallet, scared to fight
But still I start for love and duty:
Passion and anguish, courage AND beauty.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 6:08 AM UTC
When Icarus falls
Who can say that
He does not turn his own back
To the fact that
The ploughman’s family
Are shrivelled on a diet
Of failing crops
And that the only two
Imperturbable components
To the serenity of his fallen world
Are the sun and the sea
That wash blue and gold
Over the evidence
Who can say that
Icarus is not so consumed
With the boiling wax upon his shoulders
And the screams in his throat
That he has casually
Failed to realise
That the ploughman on the cliff
Has just as far to fall
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 7:06 AM UTC
Across an ocean of canvas white
A stroke of beauty comes to light
The patterns even, contrast, and fair
Complexity in the mind created with care
Do not allow a single smear
To blotch the canvas and make unclear
What blossoms made with hand and mind
What intricacies you will find
A root of commons grown within
of Artist and Gazer's ken
Now engrossed with personal thought
Through paintings on canvas, connection is sought.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 10:36 PM UTC
From white canvass,
a blank ledger of potent
expectation,
awaiting form and function.
The artist invokes
shade and light.
The seminal swirl of
her brush signals
simple hue,
discrete structures.
Then flesh strokes imbue
sanguine blush of
satin seams
and outstretched limbs;
spring greens and rampant peaks,
reaching high into
gossamer nimbus. Calm swells,
abundant bosoms,
beckoning fields of luxuriant temptation.
From an eternal cool,
the (all too) temporary warmth
of her embrace
lies just beyond:
enticing, luring, teasing
into torrid desire.
From whence,
the dream
unfolds...
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 7:54 PM UTC
Her Imperious Canticle rewarded
From the butterflies of monarchy
Mermaid scales are her bouquet
An ombre is the debut
Crystal corals are the stars on her face
Below pink rings that scale a tune
Which the winged beauties will charm in too
An amazing debut for the see through
Of a dynasty that glows in the prism moon.
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 9:13 AM UTC
Bridge
Over river Seine.
Blue buildings silhouette
Cast behind. I could almost cross
Over and smell the cafes
If only it wasn’t
A hanging.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC