"canvases" poems
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
Everyday, hell every minute I get to call him mine
I fall deeper and deeper in love.
I decide that I'm going to give myself to him.
Time doesn't slow down,
And so I decide to follow my heart.
Trusting him with everything.
We pick a playlist, a date, and a time;
Then we make love for the first time.
It was everything I wanted and so much more. His gentle embrace afterwards assured me that I had picked the right guy.
But life happens, and and after a few more times, my parents find out.
Two months.
We had only been dating two months
And what seemed like the end of my world had begun.
Tears fell like snowflakes on a cold December night
I expected him to leave me
But see, this is the first time my luck changed when I needed it too.
He held me through the tears
Picked me up when I was hurt
Reassured me that he would never leave
He was strong for the both of us and made me smile when he could
Possibly the biggest obstacle a high school couple could face was thrown at us early in our relationship
I guess we should've waited.
But I don't regret my actions.
We endured it, grew closer, and loved each other like nothing had changed.
Loving him was the biggest epiphany I've ever had,
I stopped trusting the universe and put some faith in myself
And the ones I loved
The world has been brighter ever since.
Hard months pass.
We attend his Junior Prom
I slow dance for the first time
And the Star Wars series is completed.
Before we realize it, summer is in the air, along with it our half year milestone.
6 months pass with this boy and I feel as if he asked me out just yesterday.
We spend the day together and I thank him for the wonderful date and kiss him goodnight
Under that full moon which has watched my relationships end, he holds me close after our kiss.
With teary eyes he thanks me for the best 6 months of his life.
I hug him teary eyed as well.
I shut my eyes and take the moment in.
His scent, the cold breeze, and the cicadas singing to us in the dark.
If there is a love anymore true than this, please tell me.
I look up at the night sky at the distant worlds and ponder our own
Earth may be my home planet
But I know that I'm holding the other half of my life in my arms.
My parents begin to ease up
Theres talk of college in the air
I start to feel happy once more.
I paint my canvases with bright colors
And begin to stain blank pages with my life story once again.
A new sun is rising.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 2:44 AM UTC
You will always be able to have what you want
Unlimited canvases of soft inner thighs and painted lips, curled hair
I saw into you and found that you will always be content
I saw this in the way you slept
Have you ever looked at someone and thought they were too attractive to ever deserve to be sad
Your cheekbones and chest, your arms and back are better than anything specifically crafted
Your words are sugar
Unbleached but naturally craving
Your voice is one of my favourite things
I don't know if I believe you when you call me beautiful
I should be too embarrassed to write you notes
I prefer your blue eyes to the sea and sky.
I would always choose to look at them over the static nature
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 3:32 PM UTC
Poet, be not afraid.
There are far worse things than
Bad poetry.
Keep writing; like a child keeps
Drawing with the purest of
Disregards to likeness.
The more stones you turn, the more
Gems you produce.
The more ink you rain,
The more gracious your written
Children grow.
All flexing builds muscle.
Rough bricks form castles.
Even Dalì carved canvases to shreds
And started anew
Not caring too much.
Not caring
Too much
To keep painting.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 4:20 AM UTC
Turquoise blues guitars
Laughing baby elephants (that paint)
Melodies singing lullabies to sleepy baby elephants
(tired from painting all day)
Blank canvases full of blackberries on the inside
The antidote to love
All the dotes that didn't get doted
And all the ones that did
Playing badminton in the backyard of Cupid's summer home in Manarola
The ruby that died to make Dorothy's slippers
And the shortest hair from the Lion's tail
Wine filled grapes
Water balloons filled from hot springs and melted mountain snow
Two spokes from Steve McQueen's "Great Escape" motorcycle
Three kisses from Ilsa Lund
And a smile from Sabrina Fairchild
Tom Robbins' typewriter (it's magic)
A flying dragon
A dragonfly (grounded for not doing her homework)
Jenny's phone number
The pillow that hit the floor at Cecilia's that afternoon
The third stair from the top of the Stairway to Heaven (best view)
One of the lost souls swimming in a fish bowl
And a grain of salt from the sea the other is swimming in
An olympic size pool full of melted crayons
A vile of sweat from the ever fleeing muse
A refrigerator the size of Rhode Island
Full of magnificent lines of magnetic poetry
Poetry (all of it)
The monster under the monster's bed
Every foul ball ever caught by any kid
Hammocks (any and every)
The cardboard boat that never stopped sailing down the gutter of the world
The secret to everything
(kept securely under the bed of the monster, under the monster's bed)
Santa's real address (you won't believe this)
The blue ink from the blueprints of Atlantis
Golf carts with no maximum speed
The energy dust left from dancing, hugging and smiling
Freshly climbed trees
A warehouse the size of Antarctica completely filled
Wall to wall with raw, unfiltered laughter
Beer
Everything that was left on the field
Passionate embraces and embracing a passion
Apology free, but full of forgiveness
The wild of the wilderness
The tame of the un-tame
Language
Intuition
Conception
First kisses, waves and winks
Goodbye hugs and thrown in kitchen sinks
Art
Music
Pain
Puddles that have been danced in under pouring rain
Empty film cans
Films on screens
All of these ingredients
Are what makes up
Dreams
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
Loving is inevitable.
Yet somehow, people say that love is a choice. You can choose to love or
not love somebody. I never wanted to, but I did. Loving you was not my choice—
not mine to begin with. But I did. I love how your calloused fingers, all beaten
up because of your love for paintbrushes and canvases, held mine tightly and
intertwined with them; dancing along with mine, which smelled like the enticing scent
of old, wrinkling books due to my love for reading. I love how your eyes are
lighter in color, more radiant and distinct than anybody else's. I love that scar of
yours placed just atop your crescent-shaped eyes. I love the way your crooked
teeth is still perfectly misaligned; not too much and not too little. I love how
your breath brushed against mine, smelling of nothing but you. I love how you
make yourself be like you and you alone. And I know that art is never supposed to
look beautiful, and that art is supposed to make you feel something, and that
you are. It's not my choice to begin with, but I did. Loving you was beyond my control.
Letting go isn't.
To let go of someone is a choice you can make. You can't let skies, or stars,
or moons, or signs to tell you when it has to happen. You either let go and free
someone, or cling onto someone you know will eventually get hurt or hurt you.
Letting go is something you can grasp onto with your fingertips and decide upon.
It is the fact that you have to let a part of you stray away that makes it hard to
do so, because loving you made me take a part of myself just so I could make
you feel as if you were mine and I was yours. Because once a part of you is given
to someone, you never truly get it back. It stays with them, long after you've
both moved on and fell apart. It sticks with their souls, reminding them of what
you two have had and have been. Once. I could've chosen to not let you go, but I
did, because we never should've been together in the first place—*ironic how first
place even appeared here, because we both knew I never was*—for a second. Letting
go of you was my choice. It always has been to begin with.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC
It was reflecting—slowly creeping into the small, cracked part of my window. Running his cold, sweaty palm on my forehead and onto the crevasses of my already fragile soul. It is growing like small plants waiting to sprout in dry concrete, blossoming into a wild forest waiting for the blessing of the sun and being showered by the rain.
It creeps softly, masked by the greenery, sometimes vibrant and with a scent of fresh linen sheets and apple slices or newly painted canvases dried out by the cool breeze of the weather, and everyone is smiling, glorious, and incandescent.
But it was also reflecting—slowly creeping into the small crack of my window. Where my room speaks a foreign language and my pillow beats achingly; where breathing morphs into a shadow—eventually walking by your side, so quietly you couldn’t even notice.
Apr 28, 2023
Apr 28, 2023 at 2:09 PM UTC
Dead fish do not move.
They lay there,
Dead.
Dead fish do not breathe,
They lay there,
Dead.
Dead fish do not speak.
They lay there,
Dead.
But the dead fish do wander.
They wander around fish heaven,
Or fish hell.
Dead fish's minds, lasting longer than their physical bodies do,
Explore crevices of the universe that people aren't even familiar with.
Well, at least not people from Earth.
Dead fish not only wander, but they do this thing that sounds like wander and is spelled like wander but is called "wonder."
Their minds forever wonder about things.
Like seaweed, ah the good ol' days of eating seaweed.
Or maybe dead fish wonder about what life is like now that they are gone.
They might wonder if it's raining, or if it's sunny.
But they're fish, so what the hell matters if it's raining or sunny?
You see, dead fish also do this thing.
It sounds much like wander and wonder but it's different.
The thing is "nothing."
Well, I assume "nothing" would sound like the words "wander" and "wonder" to a dead fish.
Considering dead fish can do nothing.
They just lay there,
Dead.
But we are not dead fish.
We are alive people, well at least some of us.
We can do things.
Like ride a rollercoaster, or eat a sandwich.
We can watch televisions shows probably longer than most other human beings can.
We can write poetry books that only five and a half people will read.
(One of those hits home for this author.)
We can go out and live lives livelier than those dead fish.
We can live for those dead fish.
We can wander and wonder and do nothing all at the same time.
We are all given life to live and lives to breathe life into.
Alive humans and dead fish.
At one point in time, we all have the opportunity to be someone who does something maybe even with somebody.
Alive humans and dead fish.
Dead humans and alive fish.
Alive humans and alive fish.
Dead human and dead fish.
Creatures have beautiful and blank canvases on which they can spill beautiful masterpieces on.
Or even blank masterpieces.
It just depends on who you're asking to paint you a picture.
An alive human, or a dead fish.
Both have some type of story to tell.
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
I am up at night
sending my prayers to anonymous strangers
because maybe they have the answers
maybe not the ones I want, but the ones I need
there is something beautiful about them
human blank canvases
potential for beauty
comedy or interest
their nameless faces
playing on the projector of my mind’s eye
the closest I have come to finding God
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 3:49 AM UTC
Pi, at the end of its endless decimals' grandeur,
meets a human being—who holds a mirror!
Until now, the number, knowing only sway,
has been lost in discovery’s polished way.
No more: it begins—on a human—in front of its eye.
Patterns and unique precision, patternless waves,
new math tides soar, pivot at the cosmos' height,
only to bag the ultimate truth:
Fathima—the first spiritual woman—mooned there first!
Fathima steps forward where nature falls behind,
across the dead end, the irrational chasm she strides.
For the cosmos' deep mind, Earth, the ocean is but a drop;
the rope to the top is the lead—the feminine Fathima’s lock!
Raw Fathima moves; in shadow, nature follows,
clustering atoms span between the two,
only to witness her encrypted, secured fashion—
intact, uncharted, yet fully functioning,
in Makkah and Medina, while she lived.
The red fairies at midday’s spot-on,
the black swans arching rainbows in wonder—
marvel how Fathima deduces, straw by straw,
the maestros’ dream of ascension,
potion-polished, taking Ma pauses in liminal crescendos,
between past and future, here and hereafter—a circular duo.
Limning out chiaroscuro in light and shadow—
nothing like it exists, in plain sight or the world in toto!
Rainbows shaded in, sparking out,
the scent of roses in her veiled black hair:
the cosmos anew glinting off her edge,
deeper quintessence than dark matter!
The blueprint, the intelligent pre-design, rests in her elements.
The breakthrough exponent—hidden in her eyes.
Yet beyond the masses’ gaze,
she remains Zahra—light upon the original way.
Truly, only one feminine form has reached across
the other end of the cosmos' endless highway,
zooming past nature’s hidden gems—the irrational Pi,
the complex chasm—a mathematical goldmine.
Beyond the masses’ eyes and their painted canvases,
shine the daylight and the glowing fireflies of the night.
Viva Mankind! Fathima is the Moon at the highest high!
Dec 12, 2021
Dec 12, 2021 at 11:53 PM UTC
*A magical world
bleeding through
to other realities
longings
pains
joys
dreams
canvases
****** of muses
drama and rescue
symphony of wands*
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 9:15 PM UTC
i filled my notebooks with your words,
my canvases with your spirit
you're in my soul, my heart, my being
you eternally inspire me.
you may be gone,
but i still have you.
Mar 19, 2019
Mar 19, 2019 at 3:14 PM UTC
Canvases.......layered on floor and ready to go.
Brushes.........no need we used your body parts.
Lighting........soft and turned dim then very low.
Ready willing and able to create works of art.
Waited with shallow breaths in deep anticipation.
Drew back curtain to expose my Nubian queen.
I was breathless as you stood before me naked.
Art creating will never be the same after that.
Still thinking of all the memories we created Betty
and your smile and **** voice saying you loved me. : )
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 10:00 AM UTC
I am a vast dichotomy of tasteful ideals.
I desire to dream the dreams most people deterred.
Paintbrushes touch canvases then lift
as if unsure if they should grace the world with their
beauty or hold back with chagrin.
Bodies burrow under blankets with
banned books instead of men.
I warm myself with beverages in a coffee mug on a
rainy day rather than
a body lying next to me.
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 12:58 AM UTC
She romanticize the orchestra of her muffled cries, caught her canvases
bruised with purple and red,
Her bare chest was beautifully wounded by a serrated cage, arranging her disorganized open heart.
Her heart is malleable from tragic delights, she ripped herself open, willing to give it whole.
Will you take it all and leave it as it is?
Does it oblige you to wrap your arms around me like a tightening noose?
And as she draw marks of red stains and carve on her skin, her limbs were perched perfectly, as you adore it with a painful stare.
And her hands were pure certainty, remained untouched.
Mar 31, 2022
Mar 31, 2022 at 4:56 AM UTC
Anxiously awaiting atomic assimilation
Basing me on belligerent and boorish bastardization
Capsizing cargo with careful consideration as to
Deciding which day is decay's destination
Everyone embrace the elevated expiration
Forget my face and follow fabrication
Go to the gallows with grace and gravitation
He will hold you and hinder alienation
I, however, hold insignificance in interest
Justifiable jackhammers jacking fighter jets
Killing Californians who are kissing canvases
Lying without laughing and lighting cigarettes
My master makes me move my mundane mind
Never knowing next to nothing with nothing else inside
Overly offering operating override
Practicing patiently pulling peoples' pride
Quickly questioning quizzical quietness
Rationalizing raging reinventions ridiculous
Stapling this summer to my (still) sick subconscious
Traveling tunnelers trading tides for tiredness
Under the umbrella my undertow untangles
Violently vibrating like varying violin angles
Waiting with wandering whispers under the table
Xylophonist x-rays, excruciating fables
You yellow youngling, you who screams in my dreams
Zebras zoom by every single night, it seems
Let's chant my enchantments, the alliteration song!
And untie your tongue
So you don't take it wrong.
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 6:59 PM UTC
The rooster swivels on its axis returning
coarse wind into the pyre of mad, mad tongues
raving alongside charred ivory. Lifted by sorry hands
from dying embers’ embrace and eased with foreign pity,
ceremoniously, into a cardboard crate wheeled against
the traffic, stumbling backwards through yellow canvases,
between my family dressed in black, to dress the void (deck),
mourners spitting soda into their cups, as word paddle upstream,
onto a thin futon within four walls stained with unfinished ghosts.
The doctor removes the white shroud like God coaxing pink light
on the first day and wine oozes through elastic veins to the far corners of my skin thin ventricular walls. One crack, in the doors and in my chest, paramedics in white blur in, heel first,
Pan-island couriers on reverse gear to the corner
of a numbered street, where I am delivered like a gladiator
thrown into the arena of nosy gazes, with the urgency of
hens clucking away from premeditated slaughter:
deep Christmas red on the tessellated parking lot.
Clumsy thumbs dialing 599, I moan inwardly
to the concentric circles of strangers retreating, erasing
me from cell-phone cameras. Then like a flip animation I
snap backwards, up 21 floors,
pause for about an hour on the ledge before smashing
backwards, back down, past kids scratching graffiti off the cement
and growing cigarettes in their mouths. The rain ascends and I take
wet cash from the driver while I fidget on the leather and throw up
mediocre coffee into my cup. I dig into my throat and return the bread
to its plastic bag and when the cab stops I fall left out onto another parking lot,
moonwalk up the stairs to where I unwrite my name in the
annals of failure and
shove the Fs of my past back
then
I take the bus instead.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 3:24 AM UTC
Intricate pattern of the night
Brought to life by silver rays
Close mesh of designs
Filigreed artistry all over
Softened sighs wake up desires
Splashing the colors of night
Dripping with passionate fervor
Both the canvases pristine
Waiting to be exploited
By the artistry of the suave artists
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
There was a canvas lying on the floor,
his canvas was lying on the floor.
There was a canvas lying on the floor,
his canvas was covered in red,
painted by his blades.
There was a canvas lying on the floor,
his canvas was covered in blue,
painted by his fists.
There was a canvas lying on the floor,
his canvas was ruined, and overused.
He needed to get a new one,
since he loved painting so much.
He always had a smile on while painting his canvases.
Apr 25, 2021
Apr 25, 2021 at 1:34 AM UTC
*Fall In Love Or Fall In Lust.
Make Plans, Or Make Cookies.
There Is Living To Do Here.
There Are Books To Read, And Movies To Watch.
There Are Art Museums Meant To Wonder Through, And Ocean Waters To Taste.
There Are Plays That Deserve Standing Ovations, And Musicals With Words That Need To Be Sung, There Are Girls That Need To Be Kissed, There Are Boys That Need To Know What It Feels Like To Have Their Hands Held.
There Are Poems That Need To Be Screamed At The Tops Of Someone's Lungs. There Are History Books With Frayed Edges, And Broken Tea Pots That Died Before Their First Breath.
There Are Heart Throbs Waiting To Make Teenage Girls Swoon.
There Are Jeans, With Knees That Are Begging To Be Ripped Open.
There Are Sunflowers That Have Never Been Told “You Are My Sunshine”.
There Are Grandfathers With Empty Laps, And Mothers With Empty Wallets.
There Are Law Students, With Hearts Ready For Humanity, There Are Babies With Broken Families.
There Are Fortune Cookies With Untold Wisdom, And Grandmothers With The Best Rhubarb Crisp Recipe You Have Ever Tasted.
There Are Undiscovered Passions, And Ancient Ruins.
There Are Empty Canvases And Blank White Walls.
There Are Silences, Recorded And Played Back For The Ears Of The Empty. There Are Places On This Earth Where The Sky Is The Color Of Bleeding Tissue Paper. There Are Places On This Earth, Where Dry Lightening Storms, Are As If God Himself Is Snapping Photos.
There Are Lost Valentines, And Flickering Lampposts. There Are Forgotten Dates And Remember Birthdays.
There Are Lost Puppies And One Man Bands.
There Are Butterflies With Missing Wings, And Eagles That Mate For Life.
There Are Places We Put Our Insane, And Others We Place Our Sick.
We Have Tattooed Our Mistakes On Skin, And Branded Cattle To The Same Tune.
There Are Times We Fall Together, And Others In Witch We Fall Apart.
There Are Moments When We Gage Our Existence In The Breaths We Take, And Moments When We Gage It In The Moments That Take Our Breath Away.
There Are Times We Take Chances And Times We Take Pills.
There Are Moments When We Bruise Our Knees While Praying, And Others Where We Break Kneecaps For Dollar Bills.
There Is Living To Be Done Here.
There Are Words To Be Spoken, And Even More To Be Written.*
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 8:26 PM UTC
Am I boiling beneath your skin yet
You waged war
When all I wanted was peace
Let's explode
Paint all over our bodies like canvases
I promised to paint you
And you promised me pianos and voices
Loudly roaring and softly muttering
I'm tired of all these promises to never lie
Never hurt me
You can't guarantee your future
Sure as hell not mine
So now that your skin
Bleeds purple and green
From my brush and needle
Are you ready
To believe me
Don't forget to breathe when I boil you through
For it was all you
You waged war
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 1:13 PM UTC
Oh, why do I sit here staring into my screen wasting my time when I've lived such a life? I look around me and see nothing but memories. Memories. Filling the walls, living in not just photos hanging on the walls but in the books. Bent pages reminding me of when I was younger and used to bend them despite what the librarian told us all before we checked out our first books. Memories in the knick knacks on my shelves, telling me stories that only I can hear.
Stories of when I was little and my grandfather bought me a tiny glass frog with a crown on its head to sit on my shelf and be my prince. Memories in my pallet. I feel the layers of paint caked onto and into the wood displaying different colors and mountains of texture from the years of dried paint, years of dried ideas and creativity that were thrown onto various canvases and papers, also hanging on my walls screaming memories, memories, memories.
My life has been nothing but them. For after one moment passes, it is only a memory, yes? Just think, if every moment is to only be transformed into a memory, that could be forgotten, or disguised as a useless object on your shelves or your walls, why waste them? For objects grow dust. But my life should not.
I will dust my memories off and bring them to life. I will start living, making memories out of every moment and not wasting them. And every day I will dust them off and keep them clean, remembering the wonderful life I have lived.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 3:15 PM UTC
The silenced weep on pastel colors
While rainbows pass through windowed thoughts
Deep within my mind is a trail leading to a universe
Stellar happiness draped upon rivers of joy
Going out on a limb, to jump from dreams
Onto pages of hopes written ravishingly
Imagination runs away from me wildly
Remaining intact with its childlike ways
Jumping into puddles of mirages
Swimming in pools of fantasy
Hallucinating on what may come
Imaginary imagery dancing upon moonbeams
Jarred in glass jars held upon windowed shelves
Closing eyes tightly around the glimpses of sweet serenades
While musical tones create beautifully painted canvases
Once blank without any reflection
Mirrored images of the future grants introduction
While paintbrushes meet color tones in seduction
Secluded rendezvous leading into ****** sensation
Alluring lust into temptation, leading away from separation
An everlasting desire of dreams entering reality
When morality grows a deepened mortality
A work of art is born on vacant sheets
As contentment drives on desolate streets
Harmonious melodies playing through radio beats
Creating muffled brightness through dusk’s doorway
Sun shining in through my mind in a magical way
A beginning to a brand new day
Has started, Today!
Apr 9, 2010
Apr 9, 2010 at 2:58 PM UTC