"daub" poems
The twilight of the day draws near,
The blazing sun is laid to rest,
And dimming skies let stars appear
That twinkle in the bloodstained west.
The once warm air turns cold and still,
Long drawn out shadows gently fade,
While birdsong that before was shrill
Falls silent in a soft cascade.
The rooftops change from red to black,
So too the rising spiralled wisps
Of smoke churned up from chimney stacks
And stoves of wood burnt cinder crisp.
And everywhere nights velvet brush
Begins to daub the landscape whole,
Descending with a quiet hush
That calms the nerves and soothes the soul.
Until the end when all too soon
The final vestiges of day
Are bade farewell by the new moon
Who cannot help but smile away.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 10:40 PM UTC
I leaned on the rail, stared through
my mental zoom and wondered.
Were ther footprints in the sand
of that island to the windward?
No sign of man. Startled cliff caves
gaped at us, seagulls dived at us,
while whales schooled us and led us away.
We passed by and the North Channel sighed.
Now it's just a floater in my eye,
a landscape's distant daub of grey-green,
a mystery mote that still returns,
but I pass by praising Gaia.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 6:37 AM UTC
Therein lies the fur, filled with running wind,
Milkweed in the scruff, the scent of wild-wood,
Some mystery-hearted forest where pulse begins.
Therein lies the Centaur, satyr, and god-disguised swan,
Ageless wonders prowled upon by an age-old Parthenon.
You broke your wolf’s tooth through those haunches of lore.
Therein lies the fur, filled with barking dust and dandelion war,
With a spine that stretched back to the she-wolf and city-birth,
The peeled nerve of a howl once tremored your Aurelian lips.
Therein lies the serf, hunter, fairer hand, and lord,
From wattles and daub, the wandering-sands of Saracen, or Crusader’s moor.
You kept the path beside to remind that instinct shines as the holiest earth.
Therein lies the fur, the warm, ungovernable peasant of sleep,
Ever prophetic in your skies by eyeshut-trace of the hunting moon,
Twitching at the day’s thousand faces, all asleep in themselves.
Therein lies the soldier, nurse, chaplain, and fell-prayer,
Mange-like war is the whimpering season with its flea-bitten welts of stars.
You struck blind but true at the throat of gas-hissing war.
Therein lies the fur, outracing the rain and the spout,
Nested with more birds and Autumn song than rain,
Your sleeping ear pooled like cool eaves of the barn.
I sing once more like a boy into your unfolded ear.
Listen always for my ancient, choral voice and your chores of play,
And race earback to the sun in the belly-grass of your free-eyed fields.
Leave your last paw mark, torn on the red clay of my hand.
You are forever wrapped in human touch, ageless and aged,
And if ever the dark in madder darkness encroaches,
Leave black eternity to my faithful eyes.
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 1:23 PM UTC
I have no purpose any more.
I’m a painter who’s gone blind
And a singer who’s gone deaf.
There is no call for what I sell.
I still daub colors on a board
To smell the Linseed Oil again
I hear the music in my head
And mouth the words in silence.
There is no surgery or cure,
What’s gone is lost forever.
And I must find a way to live
In silent darkness, if I can.
ljm
May 6, 2023
May 6, 2023 at 1:07 PM UTC
Pantry shelves hold jars of jam
sweet spreads of life made from fruits and berries
so succulent drops of saliva
rain on each touch of tongues
Cautious people stack rows
of carefully canned fruit
preserved with small portions of honey,
sugar cane or molasses.
Tin lids eventually “pop”
leaving elastic bitters
for knives to daub and rub
against stale breads.
Must life endure until
only vinegary fills remain
and I am left to consume
sour roughage to sustain me?
When perdition creeps
across the sands to envelop me
what will become
of unopened jars?
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
See the golden orb,
Sunrise/sunset, it daubs,
The Earth goes round and round,
Sunlight does abound,
Our source of life is found,
Behold the golden orb,
Sunrise/sunset it does daub...
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 5:21 PM UTC
It is ok to be
not
what you are
still
becoming. She said
"you're not special." Grinding teeth and sodden rails. My car is exhausted--
downwind, held in the air like branches of birches and pines
humming with each blatant engine-stroke
which fall onto that bleakening
icedock and curl-- culled passengers tossed to sea;
unavoidably
sharp veer left, beyond surreptitious and frantic spectators
and through a once-pearl snowdrift straying into my mind.
M
C
M
L
V
Turtlenecks can't keep us warm and soup can't clear my throat.
I choke on
sliced rubber, seatbelts cut halfway-- from
Spring. pluck us like cattails
amongst my marshy solubles.
Exposes my larynx she-- ubiquitous sonnet spews forth.
What contrite aberration, wears Kalapodi temple dress
made of rose petals blown in beneath love's column
and presses with her thighs my vision?
There is nothing more to say-- meals served
raw on Winter holidays. Steaming
spoonfuls dried up on her palate--
Special in the way I left you there.
Special in being the same as I should have been.
And I, no-- I!
I can not talk any longer! The clouds I thought to taste
won't allow me to
rain
be-- once dangling from the ceiling, my dripping prevented
with a pale, cotton daub.
You see
the paramedics
even as they sheath my torso
and hold your head with thorped sieves:
The driver steered his vessel wrong
an action which robbed his passenger's breath.
Sep 25, 2011
Sep 25, 2011 at 9:34 PM UTC
I have no purpose any more.
I’m a painter who’s gone blind
And a singer who’s gone deaf.
There is no call for what I sell.
I still daub colors on a board
To smell the Linseed Oil again
I hear the music in my head
And mouth the words in silence.
There is no surgery or cure,
What’s gone is lost forever.
And I must find a way to live
In silent darkness, if I can.
ljm
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 8:51 AM UTC
Sometimes I feel like a walking calamity.
sort of unfinished-
like a painting missing just that last daub.
Like a sketch instead of a snapshot.
I'm clothes that don't totally fit.
I feel ungrateful- often.
Smarmy and altruistic.
A vain liar.
the princess ideal is not for me
nor is the martyr
but lately I feel I wear both the dress, the cross and the crown.
Invisible stigmatas staining my palms.
Bearing everyone's burdens but my own.
When did I decide that was my job?
Who chose to put me in this role?
If I am in charge of my own destiny, why did I choose such a lousy one?
in the final fight,
I won't walk to the light. I'll brandish my umbrella for the storm cloud.
I've painted on the silver lining for others. They've eaten my words.
But this is something I cannot swallow.
Oh life- you bitter pill.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
Take this seeing with thee--
paw it over...the beau-tifying Void.
Capable magick--drop...
of daub-n-be...beau-tifyingly so.
Note to All: what's outlasting
coasts... to still the aesthetical shock
o' yore.
Biding a time driven out of itself...
for the valiance of life-swap...so
pronounced with open arms...
Oneness, and all that jazz.
Bid you as I do...form's due...adieu...
beau-tifying The Void.
Konstantinos Mark
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
I’ve got five minutes
Then I must leave my verdant patch
On the skirt of a wind-rustled lake
hidden behind Logan's Roadhouse
Five minutes
to mentally finger with the fetal position
In which I awoke this morning,
there as the sun drew long shadows,
I, a diminutive daub of nautilus,
On a California King,
rippled plane of sand,
Sporadic shivers, beneath a chenille blanket
I, the town crier of dawn as
My own dreams ran screaming through the silence
Pointing a finger at
my sanctuary… “Here is your pearl thief!”
Men in hats, briefcases, heel-toe black clicky and shiny shoes
on leashes lugged,
Yanked by noisy hounds passing by
stop, sniff, snarl-toothed ********
then one caught my scent,
“Five minutes more sleep,” I implored
"Find another dreaming fleshy mess of bones!"
And leave me to my pearl.
But it’s a universe that simply will not wait
And suffer fools for sleepers,
not a moment more
Yet for my many sleepless minutes after,
Dusk till dawn, and still beyond,
it’s always,
five
minutes
more
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 4:54 PM UTC
Imagine an empty tower block,
High on hill, taking stock.
Watching us meandering by
Through each and every uncaring glass eye.
It knows that its usefulness has past
And a higher tower will be cast.
All that's left is fate worse than death
But wait, could this be new living breath ?
No, just a stay of execution
That alone is no solution.
After this and every fight
They daub their messages clear and bright.
When the demolition proper does begin
There is one hope to which we cling,
When we have reached our three score years and ten
There’ll be no one to degrade us then !
Sep 29, 2009
Sep 29, 2009 at 12:37 PM UTC
words to ether,
rhyme set on the winds.
what is needed now..
to break the rapid fires flow..
words come to nothing,
weary heart hears naught.
but the brachycardic
thump-thumping of
banal poetic bantering.
synapses, slipping, sideways,
into creative slumber.
ten and ten again,
ringing zen gongs, abide,
within,without,withall,
drowning the charismatic
chaotic, tidelike cleverness
of a thinking brain.
time is bought and sold,
in streetmarket stalls.
by spending precious pennies,
and bartering intelligence,
for slow, mudane,urban thoughts.
words to ether,
to mist, to fog,
blown to the ends,
of the earth.
to twist and turn,
and begin again,
as.... a sigh,
a whisper,
a stutter,
a keening in a soul,
a stroke upon a parchment,
a daub slashed on a canvas,
love etched into a heartstring,
a proclaimation allowed an utterance,
a life made a little more whole,
by kindness spent in letters.
written on a sigh of mercy
and sent forth, from the mouth of peace.
these are simply,
the motes of poetic grace
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
You cast your name over
like silted reeds in the river,
on land
a thick covering of daub and wattle
sought your intention;
the wish to encase others in your space.
Such foolhardy fascination bears a cost,
like ubiquitous cochineal dye pools
Your dreams harbour barriers
as wide as your course strides permit,
the wilderness of banishment beckons
for as long as your fortitude remains
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
An Artist chose to paint a piece
That spoke her very mind
And hopefully would be placed among
The great works of it’s kind.
So she placed carefully upon the easel
A canvas plain and bleak
She took a paintbrush in one hand
And the colours began to streak.
She smeared some colours onto the work
They did not want to blend,
Cerulean blue and a violent orange
Served only to offend.
She tried to daub the vicious reds
That she felt in her heart
Instead it did not suit so well
So she ripped the canvas apart.
A curious change came over her
As she tried again to paint
Her eyes took on a glow of joy
As if she were a Saint.
And finally, without a doubt
Her painting had to stop
And with a sigh of relief
She let the paintbrush drop
She stepped back, abject and weary
From the War she’d had to wage
And on the canvas, her painting was done-
A beautiful, blank page.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 10:38 AM UTC
1.
*"Oh Mighty Mighty!--you
sure look / Good tonight..."*
When James Brown Yelps
HEY!
And sometimes you got to
when you feel it
getting down
that funky-fresh-flow groovy
groove is in the heart
of hearts of mother
(of fathers - who also know - love)
We band
together under
One Sky-father-mother-Earth
Word?
For the birds... "So get on up!"
Be---a living machine
with dreams of all things
yet imagined / to be --scene, yet not seen...
You are home to me.
2.
Take a look-see
In and through your own telescope
the magic of galaxies
far away dreams
The rings of Saturn
cosmic stuff made of stars
beyond this drab daub of a pebble
Supernovae
That's what we become
un-imaginable - Wonders - Awe
by the Light / blinded / in the dark is
a mind with no heart.
So preacher what you know?
Take me to mass/service
***** Bible needle words
sticks out tongue
because the money pays the bills)*
And still,
Out there is Scary-big
Space-Time
The Infinite
Its cold vast Silence / Say nothing / shhh...
*you've gone (lost) to **** yourself*
Still the Masterpiece shines your light
Within Without (breaking nails)
Without sight we are merely
the Walking Dead gawking
attracted to Loud
explosion - sounds - brain - flesh
So desperate to reach it
so reach out...
At the light so bright / truth is:
3.
If you've got no Bic
any tiny flick
flash of candle-wick
Have no Halogen no halo glow
you're blind in the dark
absolutely
quality is unbecoming
when none of them have the truth / is
bright is light...
Who what when how
or where - are you now?
*Still only a mold of clay, waiting
for your hands*
Not yet even
a meteor floats amok
Nor yet from a dwarf --to a star...
oh lil Celebrity fire!
4.
The glow I see
Within you (beyond burning)
tho' outside of you unbecoming
your Heart of Gold
is still worthy of so
much
more than something
(going blind)
Oh Mighty Mighty!
I dance the body
Electric-you
Always still All my Love
is you
and someone else may
Hey-yelp!
"Just you was doing you!"
For you...
Rather I will paint the galaxies
Lovely
Art
The Quintessence
Above.
All.
You.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 3:25 PM UTC
You're intense as Einstein
as you brush that brush to
make some fanciful line
You're one of my ancestors
and I am proud of your kind
The designs you find
come directly from your mind
Designs garishly entwined
Shapes pleasingly sublime
You daub and lob
-a ******* intact-
While we observe with awe
your very talented knack
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 12:11 AM UTC
Earthier tones daub him/her...stuck upon their backs, arms overhanging a plinth.
On opposing ends, as the gnarled nubs of a broken olive branch--
forsworn to polarity, they extend a foot upon each other's fig leaf.
Mid the dead of adroit forestry, the more they think into silence a meandering blood reads them.
Naked not because they've forgotten clothes to two as one...just laying there to recall something--the bed's become a plinth, art implores make of, break of.
They just lay there, as if violently spit from the egg-shell
white of dashed ****** blank love letter.
Cigarettes rise...freeze for a bit, then rest at their sides--smoke cut up with endemic tension.
They could say something to get out of this...but they don't.
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 2:09 PM UTC
I
Vast hollow scraped
from land by the
slow cadence of some
retreating glacier.
Melt from high flows
larvic to fill the void.
Quiet invasion of
waters forming
stone quarrying
rivers until,
overfilled the
crystal clears
Overspills and
streams to ocean
lapping at milk-
white cliffs,
hungry as cats.
II
Quiet invasion
walking on
continental drift
Wattle and daub
blue-dyed men
lakeside.
III
Hush now the
quiet priest
hands out leaf
to cover the fig
fruit of fecundity
IV
Without sound
quiet bands move
always move and
increase until
Around the fire in
moonlit waters shown
the tom toms open
relentless beat
V
Too late
too late the quiet
invaders imitate
and mock
Then ****
Nations at war
within
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 5:06 AM UTC
resplendent the dawn
painted by a sunlit daub
a picture so grand
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 4:37 AM UTC
resplendent the dawn
painted by a sunlit daub
a picture so grand
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 8:31 AM UTC
toppling the gait
of trees in the bluster.
we do not like it when it rains.
under the melee, kamagong lay
idly with the gravity of fruit ripened.
at long last, touching ground.
in this knell
i regard you as plaything
take drippy measures and harness
cues for thrusts.
the span of the shadow plastered
to the wall means the silence is as deep
as the rain outside,
all up from the unfurling corner
of walled up tango-stride, ripping apart
the linoleum with dance.
i may become a daub of perfume
and you, maybe a smile on my face
passing as it rained.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 10:32 PM UTC
i wander along the walkways
where the tame animals are fenced
and where the loyal crowd climb
up to the big top
i'm paid a pittance
to put on a little show
before the big one starts
i never tire of
petting the elephants,
the tigers, even the
tiny black spiders
that crawl along
the picket fences
my hat is a paper mache affair
that keeps coming loose
till it looks like part of my hair
i have shoes too big for my feet
and most days my smile
is only half complete
people see me
think i'm a good **** for their jokes
let's taunt this
doddering, nerdy bloke
nobody laughs at me except
when i cry
it's like i'm back in school
the poor picked on guy
i'm silent like Keaton
quiet no riot
though sometimes i fear
a bully might sneak up
and give me a beatin'
but bravely i forge on
happy when i hear
the roustabouts warbling a song
or an elephant yawning in
the early dawn
i don't complain much
though i hunger occasionally
for a tender touch
i think of my lost loves
but that just makes me cry
i pull out my hanky
and daub while
the people get
a good laugh passing by
my life is here
but one day will go
and people will then say,
"you don't mean THAT poor Joe?"
and maybe the band
will strike up a tune
and maybe not
fame i have never sought
luck or no luck
life's just the way
the cookie crumbles
so let the acrobats tumble
the trapeze artists take
their flips and the
lions roar at every crack of the whip
i remain a clown
of no renown
who rarely hears the clapping sound
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 12:02 PM UTC