"paintbrush" poems
Hidden within the earthy depth
only emerges with time
only dances in tangent
now slips out with the butterflies.
Now the nightingales singing aloud!
One has spoken out, one blew
a kiss out off the dark seed.
Ah, what then broke through?
Up from the sky the blue-nymph
dropped down on the scene!
One that hid blurring that's image
on the mirror is that now been seen?
Pouring rain singing down to primulas
paints it with all the colours of the wind
now the Spring picked up her paintbrush.
Rain some colour blow a kiss of the flower
paint it out of the mirror!
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 12:07 PM UTC
The sun is with the paintbrush
ambling down the river blue.
See, your eyes are the mirror
in between the earth and sky duo.
Bask in the open air theatre
eye on spread out with colour.
Indulge in, with a slice of summer
you got the brightest star, the light
on your canvas, you got the clue.
Now draw your way through
art yours in between the two!
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 1:27 PM UTC
The woman makes a house the home
and fills the man's horizontal spread with dreams.
Four walls can’t hold a woman inside
she is veiled but not tied!
The arch in her back hits the mark
virtually dwarfs the pyramid dwarfs the sunup.
The light at the end of the tunnel here is love.
Her inner mystery is her paintbrush.
The colour on her canvas
is a far cry from the rainbow.
It doesn’t fade nor falls on the floor
keeping it up the time lingers on.
Every star here from far and near
feels at home with a mirror!
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 7:34 PM UTC
.
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's the tears that trickle with radiance through words.
It's a treasure trove that hides but longs to
be found.
It's a book shelved high that wants to
be read.
It's the freest of all birds caged but
unbound...
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't beat to the capable strokes of the artist.
It doesn't pump in the most vibrant of
colours.
It doesn't wield a paintbrush to
translate its thoughts.
But it can see through the eyes of
painters...
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't conform to the conventional parameters of lyrics.
It doesn't bind itself to the requirements
of musical harmony.
It doesn't follow the conventions of
genres.
But it sings its voice loud without
restrictions of melody...
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's an open secret, that whispers in metaphoric codes.
It's an exploding universe, that merges
back into galaxies.
It's a sought after painting, that boasts
of unfathomable beauty.
It's an everlasting song, that echoes
within the poet that embodies...
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 10:54 AM UTC
#
*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
I am slowly learning to disregard the insatiable desire to be special. I think it began, the soft piano ballad of epiphanic freedom that danced in my head, when you mentioned that “Van Gogh was her thing” while I stood there in my overall dress, admiring his sunflowers at the art museum. And then again on South Street, while we thumbed through old records and I picked up Morrissey and you mentioned her name like it was stuck in your teeth. Each time, I felt a paintbrush on my cheeks, covering my skin in grey and fading me into a quiet, concealed background that hummed “everything you’ve ever loved has been loved before, and everything you are has already been,” on an endless loop. It echoed in your wrists that I stared at, walking (home) in the middle of the street, and I felt like a ghost moving forward in an eternal line, waiting to haunt anyone who thought I was worth it. But no one keeps my name folded in their wallet. Only girls who are able to carve their names into paintings and vinyl live in pockets and dust bunnies and bathroom mirrors. And so be it, that I am grey and humming in the background. I am forgotten Sundays and chipped fingernail polish and borrowed sheets. I’m the song you’ll get stuck in your head, but it will remind you of someone else. I am 2 in the afternoon, I am the last day of winter, I am a face on the sidewalk that won’t show up in your dreams. And I am everywhere, and I am nothing at all.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
At times I heard the songs of the giants
who opted to sing for a glass of wine!
Like Omar Khayyam would sing to the grove of vine,
while singing their lullabies they wouldn’t mind,
defying the bloomer stars in the moonlights
gladly treading on the black alleys of the night.
Didn't they budge, didn't they bend to pick up
a potion of the sea, billowing in the dark?
But they opted out, just for a glass of wine!
To paint a glimpse of that gorgeous Saqi
till now they shun, lending the sun a paintbrush,
‘cause "if only it was colourful enough,” yet the sun
paints the enduring shades of the blue yonder.
But they turned around—just for a glass of wine!
The moon hanging low over the ocean took a pause.
The earth weighed down so deep is brimful!
Every sunrise paints new, loves to shine on once more
That delved-deep earth vintage taste, cooled in age-old,
now close by the hands breathe in, full of warm south.
Yet they opted out—just for a glass of wine!
Even the time is speechless, ask me not but why.
Still keeps an ear bent on the wall of the leaning sky.
Nor those who pop out with an inside scoop are ever drunk.
Nor they leak out, it’s a sea off the sea or Abe-Hayath.
It ain’t that small, it is the deathless spring of elixir!
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 9:16 PM UTC
She paints a pretty picture
But the story has a twist
Her paintbrush was her razor
And her canvas was her wrist
She paints a pretty picture
In a color that's blood red
And using her sharp paintbrush
She ends up finally dead
Her pretty pictures fading
Quite slowly up her arm
Blood no longer flows through her
She can no longer do her harm
Yes, she painted a pretty picture
But the story has a twist
You see, her mind was just her razor
And her heart was just her wrist
- Unknown
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC
It’s a coloured and shaded broad daylight.
Bring me my hourglass, my paintbrush.
Keeping a timepiece, how soon my brush
strokes become finer it is not the task.
Try once more, strike a fine chord in time,
ever ticking but doesn't make a sound!
Let’s read the small prints, the shadow lines
on the pitch of the slit sun shines!
A dark spot in the light, some dotted lines
on a blank paper, however witty you might
describe it, count on the tweeting birds
short and cute, singing in the open air.
Light and dark the two tallies, ins and outs.
The times come and go, flowing fine.
For now, let’s take a look inside.
Tint and shade nor tone them now.
Zoom in and out, just watch them as they are.
This cool sleek shade on the sunny slate
is it a shadow, or some quivering curly hairs
or are these reflections of flocking clouds,
diligent sea eyeing deep down on the ground?
Read the small prints, shadows in the daylight,
before the show is wrapped up.
And down the evening pool, the sun
parts away with the black swan.
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 9:11 AM UTC
Bring me my palette board.
Bring me my paintbrush.
Look wide open, ask me not
if it’s full or a half glass.
The sea is babbling high,
The clouds swimming on the go.
Reach out to the sky!
Be quick, before a raindrop
spills off the rainbow bowl,
stirs the dew on the rosebud
at first sight of the
spring blooming fast.
So what if the sky won't
lend a blue patch away,
catch that close by,
slips through the fingers:
a pair of butterflies.
Does it matter if you say yes or no?
A piece of heaven is on earth!
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 8:28 PM UTC
Don’t go, hold onto your colour bowl,
never lose your paintbrush,
not even at the twilight.
Someone's smiling on earth.
It can’t hide forever.
Maybe hidden but not far—
could be only behind a lock of hair.
Black is not only black.
Look beyond, it could be all fair.
Gently raised and softly lit
on the moonlight’s field
These forever-calm shady groves,
piled up on the night's pitch-black scene,
are ahead of the curve in silent reading.
Behind these out of the box line-ups
by the middle, the stage composed
for the thrillers that rock and roll
An incense is still burning
the sundown burns down into ashes,
is still breathing, smelling the scent.
Yesterday will revive and comes tomorrow
keep an eye for a moment or two.
Follow the glow, gazing in the night
and slip into the grove
for they are in the know
is a veiled beauty, earth’s silhouette,
drawn down to the moon!
All the starry fireflies on the stardom
love to drop down and join the moths
Around this tucked away silhouette,
charming beauty down the moon.
Only on the earthen ground it grooms!
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 6:06 PM UTC
Wide open are your arms
the sun is a small paintbrush
every daybreak it draws
exposes you as new as ever!
The surges in the billows
blow out swimming clouds
across the globe.
No they don’t splash out to
the starry thrillers on the sky
they all are a dwarf bunch
draws down to you kind Moon:
Down to earth on the ground
spares the heap for all
for the day for the noon.
Then you are there too
far afar, where is nothing
but you the lotus in bloom
on uncharted water.
Who can describe it better
everyone is lost for words!
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 10:11 PM UTC
I am an artist,
Though I cannot paint.
I cannot write a novel.
I cannot act in a film.
Yet I am an artist,
My paintbrush is my razor.
My story is told through my tears.
My film is life and my smile-
is the main character.
I am an artist,
An artist with a dark truth.
A hidden story,
And a made up happy ending.
I am an artist,
An artist that has ran out of space-
for my crimson creativity.
An artist that has cried my last story;
An artist that has pretended for the last day.
I am an artist,
An artist who has done my time,
And has been beaten by sadness.
I am an artist,
An artist who’s art is not appreciated.
An artist who never reach the height of- worlds noticeability,
An artist whose art will die as I do.
I was an artist,
Until my art took over me,
And now – I exist not.
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 11:00 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
There's an awkward thrill I feel
like wicked-wet rabies –
Oh. Ah. Oh.
To gaze over photos of the woman I created.
With my warped perception,
saturating and cropping everything into delicious
oblivion.
I am the knife as well as the ingredients
that sauteed her together in a camera flash.
She sits hot like heaven.
And I want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.
The woman I created, I hang up like perfected rotisserie
and fall in love with her accidentally every day.
Looking into those precisely underlined
tiger-sex eyes of startling navy. Knowing their true dullness.
Hissing at the free-swinging curls
and the hours behind them. Loving the lie.
The flowy top and sleek trousers gliding down lovely as Niagara
over chaffing chub; all hidden. And thighs; unshaven.
And that topical smile everyone likes to see, waiting to plummet
into suicide like a kite hanging in one tight second.
Her image is my greatest
False accomplishment.
I hang my portrait up on a wall of the internet
for people of the world to migrate to
the photo exhibit, my little show-off room.
They make offers and toss compliments
with their “I like this. I like this." nonsense.
They don't know that the girl in the portrait, she
isn't organic. They seem not to notice
that she is something of a chemical flower.
Her face is my face, only with whiteout poison-paste
smoothed over twice.
And they want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.
Gazing upon her believed-to-be beauty, as I hang my paintbrush,
she bites her body still as a painting,
bruised and needled
into perfect frame. She cries
like Jesus Christ, as she is stared at, but not seen.
I am the artist as well as the object.
And the woman in the portrait is
nothing,
but dot after dot of manipulated color.
And we want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
Just once I whisper
so I pick up the silver and watch as it turns to red
its easy
quick
done
First it was anger
next it was the voices
then
addiction
Before I know it
the silver gets bigger
and the red gets deeper
then
The red fades
and I
fade
with
it.
Its the only thing that keeps me alive now
without it I don't know what to do
how to function
how to make it all go away
Its my Artist's Addiction
So the now blades are bigger
the cuts are deeper
the sleeves
are
longer
and the scars last forever.
*When everything feels like the movies
You bleed just to know you're alive*
I can paint prettier pictures now
pictures I like
pictures I can't live without
but there's a twist
The paintbrush, its my razor
silver
screaming at me
use me I can take it all away
The canvas, its my wrist
that screams out to me
I know you want to
Even when I'm at my best
they both scream out at me
Its my Artist's Addiction
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 10:08 PM UTC
Dont be so stuck-up, i'm just bein' nice.
Jus tryin' to have an intelligent conversation...
Maybe I'm fairly flirtatious, but...
Im bein' polite.
Not tryin to take you home tonight.
Unless you give me the green light, then maybe I might...
C'mon, I'm just playin...
Y'know...
I could make you blush in a few minutes time.
Could get you naked in a few moments...
Dont...
Be...
No...
Fun.
Dont tell me you dont like it...
I know when I hear lies.
Dont call me if you dont lick it...
'Cause I know what I like.
If you don wanna practice makin babies...
**** it.
I'll just **** it 'til I dribble.
That one's for you ladies;-p
I can paint a clear mental picture...
A perverted portrait with my paintbrush...
Of your hot, soft, wet flesh before me...
I could show you a few things.
A perverted portrait...
My.
Paint.
Gets.
You.
Wet.
A perverted picture.
Your body wincing...
Pinching me.
Every inch of me.
A few more than 3 or 4...
You'll find...
A couple more...
If...
You...
Want...
To...
Score.
Dec 8, 2009
Dec 8, 2009 at 8:05 AM UTC
My freckle flecked love
stirs the speckled paintbrush soft, dousing it's hairs so that,
as I pull it back,
all the bristles bend
seamlessly, and when I let go
they ping forwards,
smattering
a scattering of stars,
onto snowy canvas.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
I keep my paintbrush with me
Wherever I may go
In case I need to cover up
So the real me doesn’t show.
I’m so afraid to show you me
Afraid of what you’ll do-
That you might laugh or say mean things;
I’m afraid I might lose you.
But if you be patient and close your eyes
I’ll strip off my paint coats real slow.
Please understand how much it hurts
To let the real me show.
Now my coats are all stripped off-
I feel naked, bare, and cold.
But if you still love me with all that you see
You are my friend, pure as gold.
I need to keep my paintbrush, though,
And hold it in my hand.
I need to keep it handy
In case someone doesn’t understand.
So please protect me, my dear friend,
And thanks for loving me true.
But, please, let me keep my paintbrush with me
Until I love me too.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 3:43 PM UTC
Your skin is the canvas
My fingertips are the paintbrush
Every touch, every stroke, every glide upon it creates a mark
For what I am becomes what you are
And what you are becomes the purpose of me
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 11:57 PM UTC
"One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way."
-Vincent van Gogh in a letter to his younger brother Theo van Gogh in July of 1880"
I've taken the straight razor
to my ear like a third-rate
van Gogh.
Impressionism bleeding
into Expressionism.
Mania trickling into
an unmitigated need
to find the beauty
and grace he only
found with a paintbrush.
Blood clinging to the
horse hair bristles
like the blood splattered
in the margins of every
page I've ever filled.
Each line and brush
stroke choking out
a futile cry for help
as the wheat fields burn
and the sunflowers wither.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 6:21 AM UTC
What can I tell you
About how I feel?
I can express that I'm aware
of each one of my emotions..
And that I know I need to heal.
I can tell you exactly where they came from
And what exactly caused them.
I can describe the unbearable pain they've given
And that I'm working to resolve them
I can explain in the most specific
and descriptive ways
How hard it is to face these emotions,
Each and every day.
I can weave my words on how I feel,
In ways no one else can say
Just to make you comprehend the stress
That my mind and body pays
I’m a thousand miles from my own words
But the first to understand
It's like I'm fixing you a puzzle,
But the pieces are too far
from my reaching hand.
It's like I'm writing you a story,
But run out of ink to write the end.
It's like I'm without a paintbrush
While I paint an image in your head
So although I'm self-aware
Of every emotion that I've expressed..
I'd rather be completely clueless,
And unaware instead.
Even though I can explain my emotions
Down to the finite and specifics,
Even though
I can admit that I know
That I've become undone
and feel unfinished..
this entire time
I know you’ve tried
But there's a point that you've been missing.
I want so badly to feel completed
But the tools required
...are non-existent.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC
The Rockies sing to us at sunrise
when crystal snow-capped peaks
chant iridescent matins to the dawn,
the dawn of a fresh new mountain day.
Luminous pastel clouds
hover across the horizon
painting the hills and valleys below
in mysterial shades of
lavendar, amber and rose.
The Rockies sing to us at daybreak
when every crest and vale
unites in raising anthems to the dawn,
The dawn of a bright new mountain morn.
Forests and fields awaken.
A bull elk grazes by an alpine lake.
An eagle soars through the morning mist
over rainbows of Indian paintbrush.
A hilltop lake spills over its rim
and cascades down the slope
etching serpentine streams in the valley below.
We can hear the mountains singing.
In every creature, ridge and flower
They bring to us their jublilant songs
of wilderness, wildlife and wonder
.
We can hear the Rockies singing.
The mountains sing forever!
June, 2009
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 3:58 PM UTC
Purple
It was your favourite colour
You made me wear it,
you made me
When you was painting
Deep colours like
Purple
were your pallet
Your canvas was pale white
clean and pure
Innocent almost
but your aggressive ruined it
Your paintbrush
you held it with power, pride
dominance
with brutal force
i was your canvas
and your brush your fist
you smothered me now
i am your favourite colour
purple.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 5:34 PM UTC
For my 11th birthday I bought myself the prettiest gift.
A paintbrush.
It was a shiny silver.
When I used it for the first time, I felt relieved.
The burdens fell off my shoulders onto my wrists.
I created the most beautiful crimson artworks.
I packed my burdens into fine lines, drawing the red of their weight.
I am an artist.
I am covered in my creations, from my wrists to my thighs.
Now, forever.
Oct 20, 2023
Oct 20, 2023 at 1:57 PM UTC