"brushstrokes" poems
#
*paint me
with the wet tickle
of your tongue
lingering with affection
savoring my fervent flavor
in bold strokes
of your obsession
color my essence
in heated hues
sending shivers
down my spine
in anticipation
of your warm breath
against my flesh
with every blissful caress
to ensue painted petals
of animation
with your supple lips
gently blur the lines
of my curved hips
softly stroking
the subtle shadows
of warm depth,
blushing
quivering thighs
as I gasp
of breath
plunge in
a primer coated palette
dipping your stiff paintbrush
deep within
the folds of my blanket
manipulating
a trembling image
of your voracious lust.
craze me
again and again
in breathless
****** glow,
your sensual brushstrokes
gently murmuring
layer on layer
in alla prima flow
delve deep
into my eyes
paint splattering
the passion
of my soul
drizzling silken strands
of love
in their entirety,
polishing me whole
and then
in blissful backwash
admire
the tangled limbs
interposed
of your
completed masterpiece
in smiling
sated repose*
#
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 8:21 AM UTC
So the clever artist manages to push all her friends away,
And the clever artist decides to distract herself from her plight.
The clever artist goes outside to paint
In the rain.
In the middle of the night.
The clever artist crafts damaged brushstrokes.
And the very clever artist watches them wash away.
The clever artist sends herself mostly blind
As she watches her foggy breath over a flashlight.
The clever artist thinks about the silence that blares,
Despite the music coming from everywhere.
And oh the clever artist!--
Dropped her brush in the dirt.
But she still managed to disguise her hurt..
The artist cleverly insulted the paintbrush in hand;
Clever words, metaphorically meant.
It was then the clever artist ran inside
Her hair dripping from the rain, tangled and wild.
The stupid artist sits down before a page,
Taking her favourite seat.
And writes the worst excuse of a poem ever made.
Becoming the least worthy poet you'll ever meet
The stupid artist can't write,
Nor paint for ****
And of her friendship skills?
Well, **** it.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 6:05 AM UTC
is like no other early morning, man reborn, in the delivery
room of sky blue, the offsetting water deeper bluish hue,
the trim-all-around of the mixed salad greens of the staff's
scrubs as they usher in unity, with no imp-unity, the risks,
while the supervisory sky, disperses cumulus clouds in
peppercorn patterns of white chains, or big wide solitary
brushstrokes on a a ****** canvas, gettin' the feel in the
palm of the heft of brush, the viscosity of the paint, the day's
palette reflecting available colors in order to create a uni~cued
original of what has been painted an uncountable times before,
and before…
tho short weighted, was the sleep of the prior night's restful,
he awakes to the early morning light, the sounds of early
island rouse him, even, arouse him, for the August chill
foretells of the early onset of memory loss of the peculiarities
of this summered simmering, human warming and baking
and natural braking of the slowing of the heart rate, to better
accommodate, nature's hints and hidden reminiscences
of the true purpose of the summer's intervention upon our
collective and unique bottling, our individualized containers,
un~lidded, uncovered, eager for the fuel of sunrays replenish-
ing the length of our lives by the elixir of the summer
it is a chill 63 Fahrenheit at this time of day as we crossover
to the nigh day, from the cooling air conditions of dark,
the occasional helicopter intrudes upon the morning's calm,
the water placid, the geese honking regarding my watchful
rewarding presence, a slew, a bevy, of female vocalists, to
ease this transitory performance unfolding, and though one
feels the existential of his solitary singularity, as he thinks,
nay believes, he is the only one in attendance at this ritualized
emergence, he takes in the cool of, the heat of, the admixture
of both, the clashing integers of each, and he, fully invigorated,
goes silent, for once more, he has uncovered new combinations of
old words to accept and describe a new day's creation, miracle of miraculous, defying the odds of this ventures's success, his own continuance on this sheltered but open all around island implanted tween two tines of land, as if all the surroundings were created just to protect this, wholly holy place…
7:00am
Silver Beach
Shelter Island
Aug 19 2025
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 8:00 AM UTC
I bleed letters, breathe words--
lived in utero with a pen.
Creative gypsies & outcasts
are brethren.
I will die
for their plaid sky brushstrokes
&/or verbal slip-bang poetry.
That's my religion.
Self-doubt is my sin.
I have a habit of overstaying my welcome,
another is coming on a little strong.
Communication is my mantra,
my philosophy is intelectual stimulation.
Putting up with ****
is second nature.
Spit in my face.
Call me names.
Don't give me that promotion.
I'll survive--
probably even laugh about it later...
But...
take advantage of me--
or those I hold close--
if I even see a glint
of the knife
you're going to put in my back
I promise--
I promise
the pain you will feel
leaves a scar much worse
than whatever could happen to me.
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 1:38 PM UTC
I’ll paint the colour of your eyes
toffee brown
contrasting the crinkles beside
that always appear when you lie
I’ll paint the blue of your smile
the corners of your mouth
slightly upturned
with a quirk of your brow
I’ll paint the yellow in your laugh
your cheeks slightly tinged pink
the way your eyes twinkle
without uncertainty
Every tone and every hue
captured in brushstrokes that end too soon
But darling
I’ll always draw you gently, like a soft croon
Here is the finished
portrait of you.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 1:35 AM UTC
scarlet, vermillion, saffron, in air
samhain sacrifice for the coming night
brushstrokes 'cross limbs soon laid bare
arcane characters for the fair
symbols ward them till distant light
scarlet, vermillion, saffron, in air
offered to old gods in ritual prayer
last colors of autumn before winter's white
brushstrokes 'cross limbs soon laid bare
an iron will to survive, they do declare
a solemn pact and a sacred rite
scarlet, vermillion, saffron, in air
herald the end of summer's affair
golden head bowed to geimhreadh's might
brushstrokes 'cross limbs soon laid bare
still stand proud they do, with defiant glare
the trees of the forrest an enchanting sight
scarlet, vermillion, saffron, in air
brushstrokes 'cross limbs soon laid bare
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 10:31 AM UTC
a lover by day
and an artist by night
the epitome of perfection
let me paint you like you are
the heavenly piece of art you are
let the world see you through my eyes
the likes of an angel of love
sculpted by michelangelo
blessed by venus herself
brushstrokes simply cannot do you justice
50mm lens still cannot show the world the truth
cold clay cannot compare to eucalyptus eyes
forget these superficial takes
let's make art, my love
let's make love
Mar 22, 2021
Mar 22, 2021 at 7:55 AM UTC
Can't talk about, can't write about, a single thing but loving you
Don't mean to schmooze, my shameless muse, always down for aimless cruise
stare through window glass at tunnel lights that zoom straight past our heads
I walk on air, dodge solar flares, ignites my mind when I'm in bed
I can't stop, cotton to moth
brushstrokes swirl upon the backdrop
slumping over center console
dream about centaurs and scary monsters
shake me awake and tell me its okay
I know it is but it feels better that way
And I feel a nostalgia a sense of old security
the same I got when I was young and fell asleep to the TV
underneath the afghan with unwravled threads and fraying ends
hold onto me while I nitpick the same old **** inside my head
I can't stop, cotton to moth
brushstrokes swirl upon the backdrop
slumping over center console
dream about centaurs and scary monsters
shake me awake and tell me its okay
I know it is but it feels better that way
Tell me baby is it true?
Should I ride or die for you?
can I be your passenger?
or do you find me lackluster?
I can't let it be the thought of you and me
scared that our future is tragic history
and every time I find myself ready to shift gears
something holds me back, some aching type of fear
I can't stop, cotton to moth
brushstrokes swirl upon the backdrop
slumping over center console
dream about centaurs and scary monsters
shake me awake and tell me its okay
I know it is but it feels better that way
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 6:03 PM UTC
Slick grass glistened heavy
After summer showers fell before a sun
That trickled veiled toward transcendent trees
Towered on the outskirts of the demesne - It unsheathed
A pearlescent canvas for a dreamer who paints ideals;
A reader finding signs in smiles and glances
Strolling paths free of fear to free imagination;
Summoning hopes against a fresh red/orange
Backdrop, and ignoring perilous heights to cast
A thought to moments yet unlived -
This fool's masterpiece.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 8:07 AM UTC
~~~
Quivering horizons
A palette of picturesque love
stipples weary seascapes
in amethyst ribbons,
pink carnation reflections
blush upon lip glossed beaches
caressing blue skies' gaze
and flip flop yearnings,
quivering horizons
of bougainvillea blooms
drench our hearts,
so we pause silently
as a poetic sunset
paints a masterpiece
in twilight brushstrokes
inspired by our
euphoric daydreams
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 7:08 PM UTC
I see you
I've seen those eyes before
Drowning in patched-up paddle boats
With promises of tomorrow slipping down your face
Like saline shipwrecks fleeing harbor
And greeting the ocean floor with damaged handshakes
And now you're hopeless
Focused on could have been's and maybe one day's
Knowing one day
Swelled up storm clouds
Could slide through your cheek bones
Like sunshowers preventing your skyline parades
But I see you still searching for rainbows
Covering your face with two handfuls of imagination
Daydreaming of days where technicolor dreamcoats
Become wrapped around your soul
Like tuxedos for the bold
I've seen those arms before
Deafeated willow branches in the moonlight
Rebellious to rise upright
And now you're tired
Only fired up when your flesh
Converts to kindling on a campfire
Building sparks that shimmer for seconds
When your light deserves a lifetime
But I see you still inclined to shine brightly
Trying to assign meaning to your life with two inspired limbs
That can freely build bridges or climb mountaintops
Clinging onto hope with sturdy fists
Exploring the peaks of your potential
I've seen those legs before
Tattered toothpicks on prom night
Frozen in stage fright on the dance floor
Pressing muted prayers with each footstep
Into creaky floorboards waiting for silence to ensue
And now you're nervous
You're certain those two left feet can't possibly find the rhythm
So your shoes are the victims of bashfulness
Fearing one false step will uproot your jitterbugs
And place them alongside the butterflies in your stomach
But I see you still owning your insecurities
Because you know you're alive just fine
I see you
You are who I envisioned you to be
I see you
Brushstrokes of imperfections shaded in perfectly
I see you
It's more than just your typical hello
It's a phrase for all of us to speak solely with our souls
It can make you feel at home at the center of your bones
When all your hope is lost and there's no where left to go
So when I greet you
Listen carefully
This is a reminder that your eyes can be thunderous
Your arms can be victorious
And your legs can be ambitious
Your presence is necessary for this discussion
And your essence is accepted here
Let me speak your spirit into existence
Seeing is believing
And believe me
I see you
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
A crumpled dress thrown like rags
upon the floor.
The hopeless, desperate appeal
of rumpled bed sheets, a fortress of
your own.
Waiting for a message in silence,
curled and surrounded by your
dismembered pieces.
The days when you shy away from
the light;
Wrapped in a wall of quiet,
except this isn’t calm.
It’s an unbearable weight,
marking impressions on your skin.
It’s a deep, roaring stillness;
gushing, rolling and sweeping around
everything you touch.
People can leer,
eyes prying to find what
little cracks you speak of.
But they are immune to what you feel,
layered beneath your skin;
what you see etched in coloured mixes,
painted brushstrokes making art around you;
what you hear and sense;
what you think, to yourself,
the countless visions and places you peek
behind doors unknown to them.
The freedom you alone shall know;
yet all the painful days to follow.
The brilliance you alone can seek;
yet the relentless torments you are to meet.
The feats of strength, russet desire and
hidden depths you could show;
yet all the nervous energy,
self conscious woe you show.
You can be the exhibit of both worlds.
You know what it is to feel the deep burn
of quiet pain inside,
yet the warmth of healing and the
fiery blaze of strength.
Be the exhibit you know you are.
Render even the most lonely and heartbreaking
of your moments beautiful.
Because they truly are.
You may feel broken, torn and ripped in places
you long forgot could be wounded.
You may feel empty, insides carved out for
another’s purposes.
You may feel bereft, lost, confused and vague,
feeling the frightening gaze of the unknown making you
their favourite puppet.
But burdens can be treasures.
Use them and invite people to your show.
Make them laugh, cry and grow.
Your burdens and treasures are necessary,
to be the exact person you are.
Without them there is numbing, nothing.
And you,
you can be more beautiful than that.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 5:57 AM UTC
Kiss my cheek,
Again. Tell me
I’m pretty. Whisper
to me, again
the parting of
your lips
they crack
so wicked ****
Move my hips
they stand still
for most of the day
Let them know
Its o.k to hulahoop
A love tale. Go Ahead,
wisk by me,
Temptation works best
In brushstrokes
And dial tones.
Just don’t shun
falling tears,
they soak your face
and make it brighter
before morning coffee.
Jan 17, 2012
Jan 17, 2012 at 2:40 PM UTC
It was the day before Thanksgiving
and we stood outside across the street
from my home. The sun was shining
in the distance and the deep solid
clouds were frozen in silence. I
lit my cigarette with a lighter
and tried to breathe in the words
that were running out of your mouth.
You were tired of being with me.
The love that we had was running
it's course. You were losing your
balance and creativity. I paused
with each breathless beat, letting
the diction rise in the shadows
and fall upon my chest, letting
its existence settle inside
my veins, as I flicked the
embers on the gray pavement.
My soul was fading yellow with
scarred and stretched surfaces,
aching brushstrokes beginning
with no meaning, while I shook
my head and turned away towards
the silent trees. A part of me wanted
it back, the tender love that we used
to share over midnight poetry, the
********** we used to do over
R. Kelly's song, Bump and Grind.
But I knew that we were too far
gone across the distant seas.
And as you kissed me on my cheeks
one last time, I knew I would never
see you again. I watched you walk
away in the distance, a smoky love
diminishing in the ashes.
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 2:06 PM UTC
yesterday my feet rested comfortably on the bar of someone else's chair
and my eyelids slid heavy and the world seemed slow
a graph of survivorship curves glowing blurry on the whiteboard
and then words slid from behind a neatly trimmed white beard
". . . .as our bodies are programmed to die."
as our bodies are programmed to die.
*thousands of miles away
one gleaming thought against a murky sky
(that's how i imagine it anyway--murky, cold,
stagnant air)
a frantic explosion of lean muscle power
and a body launching into the lake.
he was 17 and in that moment gears somewhere in this world shifted,
numbers were crunched and
some profound device processed the seconds, linking and unlinking them with an automatic, well-oiled certainty
he was 17 and the number on his football jersey suited him like wool socks on winter feet
his stride under the lights a weekly prize to all hungry, bleacher-ed, washed-up life-hunters bundled against october-night chill-streaked skies
they drank hot cocoa and he took three sips of gatorade
he was 17 and his smile
and his curls
and we all hear about hospitals but
this feels different because
he was 17 and suddenly,
instantaneously
his body was just a beep
and his skin turned the color of the walls
first the ICU painted quick brushstrokes across his wrists
then it stopped giving a **** at all
and the water rushed endlessly, heartlessly.
when I shift through memories and
find his seven-year old face in my mind, i remember a gap
where he'd lost a front tooth and i remember sunlight streaming behind his hair
it was valentine's day and he gave me a small smile and a silver charm bracelet in a powder blue box.*
i shifted my feet
heard the snap of a binder closing
and all i could think about was
the oversimplification of words
and survivorship curves
and 17 years
and
and
piles of numbers spurting from a computer
and an echo of a splash.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
She was like art still and silent
Beauty in the water, like a mirror
The essence of her shone from the
Halogen lights above.
She was like a picture, motionless
But still, her brushstrokes were
Grace upon skin, her moment
Was in this place, pictures taken
Of her pose of her posture frozen
in this place.
She was a beauty in the bath tub,
Her face in this lake of red, hiding
The deed, buried in temped water,
No longer pure, tainted by a final
Motion, claiming a last breath.
She was a beauty of refined allure,
But now her crimson glistened, refracted
Upon the light shining down a rainbow
Of shaded reds now greets all through
The heaven white doors.
She is the bath tub beauty now dead..
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
Paint me a way home
I no longer want to be alone.
Use your yellow paint
And engulf me,
Into a beautiful world
Without any restraint.
That blue can be used
As the new sea,
Full of life
and full of being.
I will no longer be afraid
Of the wideness of the sea.
I will be comforted by the brushstrokes
Of the new beginning.
Paint me a home
White, with no mistakes.
No smudges
No gray.
Most importantly
Will you paint me?
With no mistakes, no smudges
A pair of new eyes
as blue as the sea.
Paint me and my being.
Make me feel yellow.
Make me happy.
I don’t want to feel lonely.
I want to be painted lovely.
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 11:15 PM UTC
A nature scene memorialized
in brushstrokes and pigments of color.
A painting to be hung on a wall
and admired from across the room
There’s no longer a need to visit
a habitat that is gone too soon.
While urbanization continues
placing wildness behind the dollar.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 12:44 AM UTC
brushstrokes, some broad,
some as narrow as one fine hair,
are often red
scarlet and scattered
across the canvas, splattered
against a crumbling wall, where,
for no rhyme or reason, the artist
may place a wilted wreath of flowers,
pallid, yellow
horses and people, babes
and the ancient not spared
their share of the crimson cream
the painter heaped munificently
on their mangled remains
Paris, Beirut, Yola yet to be painted
but there is still time: in its abundance
someone else will need only lift a hand
to spill the ubiquitous blood
our palettes do own other hues
black for charred crosses, white,
the lightning streaked screaming sky
but none so plentiful as the red
none so plentiful as the red
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 11:04 PM UTC
Drawn on strings of moonlight visions are whispered in love notes and poetry
Future brushstrokes on the echoes of eternity
Enigmas in candid but if you look closely
Sun petals
Soft tempos
Giving solace and solstice to the sun-kissed and weary
Delicate and hardly above skylines and kiss me’s
Daydreams and the uncanny act of tripping on galaxies never lasts through the laughter and the sadness in the symmetry
Despite the next level of genesis in trinity
Stands the heretic consumed with the brevity of setting free
Amassed and exhumed the expanses of longevity
Sporadically bloomed now the tragic is ahead of dreams and shivers in the night
Unparalleled and strung by kites and carousels and river streams
Never made of sense in seems the abstract is the kin that breathes in metaphors and similes
Terraforms and then it leaves entranced within lost reverie
Such is love and loss and finding peace
And across the stars I’m still finding me
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC
"We are the witnesses to how alike all men bleed."
Man our easel, we stretch clean canvas over scarlet brushstrokes,
We work stitchings like guitar strings,
find a melody in the mending,
hide scars like bass, in clean skin,
and hide the pain from each ending.
Their lungs sing.
An alto for death's row,
its sound makes your heart slow.
Let's see what you have inside,
with open eyes, your mother cried,
in toupe-walled rooms, we cut the cord,
no savage mark by a doctor's sword.
Just silence and sadness,
greyness and madness,
long halls and dancers,
small windows and glances.
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 4:51 AM UTC
Blank canvass,
Then colour brings it to life
Shades and tones scratch in to picture
It bleeds creativity,
Moments become minutes
Which consume the hours of the day,
A picture is formed by
Impressions,
Outlines ,
Engraving.
Life upon the page,
One last brush stoke, shading put there
Complete,
But what did my brush strokes create
A hand, as if reaching out the page
Ominous,
Distressing,
Sinister,
Is what covered this canvas of white
To look upon it,
"Did my eyes deserve me"
Moving forward as if to clench
I move, but to slow
As what was inanimate,
Now paint drips off as it has hold
Upon my hand,
The paint seeps up as I am consumed
By the canvas
Holding on to the frame,
My finger scratch upon the wood
As I scream,
The terror frozen within the paint,
I am but brush stokes
My face painted on canvas
The hand upon my shoulder
I am cold now,
I am for eternity now the paints prisoner,
The hand is my guard
Such vivid brushstrokes
As if she painted fear upon the canvass
A master piece of cloth and paint
Not knowing I am trapped now for eternity
Terror painted within this frame.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 6:07 PM UTC
Behold the smooth transition of brushstrokes and bristles to the field of marigolds.
The sweet friction brought by divine hands, is the depth you were searching for.
And as the storm rolls in, high on the technicolor clouds, you take a moment to catch your breathe.
Next thing you know the rainbow wildfire blooms from the painted raindrops, setting the flowers ablaze.
It is a world created of mind made matter, and if you cannot see the parallels, then you lack the imagination!
Any fiction can carve its way into reality, that is the truth of all worlds.
That is the key, forge your ambitions and blow the doors wide open.
Sep 15, 2021
Sep 15, 2021 at 7:48 AM UTC