"paintless" poems
Solace comes down from the sky;
A calmly chaotic cascade,
With scattered whispers & sighs.
A delightful dance displayed.
The ground becomes satin sand,
The trees adorn in white gowns,
A peaceful hush wraps the land
To harmonize the night sounds.
"It is bleak, too cold and chilling!"
Some complain with awful groan;
But, see, that's the standard way of living
When you've spent your years alone.
Silence floods your position,
As you evade the mental cuffs
That try to blur your vision
Like the blitz of falling fluffs.
The world is calm, safe in harness.
Crystals kiss me as in love,
Melt when they absorb the warmness
That this world could not remove.
In this world falls are painless;
Frolic freely for forever
In beauty painted paintless.
Thrills triumph there together.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 1:04 PM UTC
it’s late
or early,
depends how you
look at it,
only my hands and
heart are cold,
smoke filled garage,
rusted tools
hang themselves
in front of me,
paintless brushes,
painted brushes and
baseless screwdrivers
ashy floors and drywall
painted with holes
from fists and hockey
pucks, church pews
of razor-slit,
spray painted
by angsty young
i sit upon,
unfinished projects
are suppose to sit on
the other side of
the workbench.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 6:14 PM UTC
You must miss me
must miss the kiss of me
The break had to make You ache
MISTAKE
I can write now what will still be
years after You've forgotten about me
in the myriad of mirrors in my mind
Yur diamonds shall be the sole soul shine
every bit as real and raw and radiant as the first moment
they raced and rained and raised their reign within clint
reflections refuse to fade
each an inflection of Yur voice
a forever of Yur face
a reminder there ain't never been noe choice
every pissant poignant poet
weaving emotion images with their words
all the cunning linguist lyricists
singing lies and lines they think you've never heard
didn't actually feel any ******* thing
knew not one iota beyond nothing
of life
of love
of living in love
pathetic paintless portraits
(tattoos on a corpse)
empty echoes of nothing notes
(dealt by the deaf and the dead)
but I bet it's not their fault
they probably never felt a real fall
a feather float race up the rapids
with the fluffy grace of rabid rabbits
Not so for this man who be me
my feather has done dancin' shakin' in anti-gravity
I have sung sacred songs as angels swum along
our feather mountain biking heaven-strong
Of course our river was an awesome flow
(a hot-tub raft in moonlit snow)
And Our Poems were always best in show guitar glow
cuz I had You to Noe
yet the Mostest WOW was not enough somehow
the Bestest LOVE of this Life is not alive now
here I am again
a millennium worse than i've ever been
fetal black rose petals
dead dull dried
all their thorns' tears cried
no light left in my once bright blue eyes
dead and drowned and dried out
cried out
ashen grey
nothing evermore to say
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC
Because of you I held the pen again
in its every stroke
comes the memory you inked
deep in this throbbing heart.
For years, words groped like
a traveller void of map,
like a candle without wick,
like a paintless canvas.
Because of you
the flame burns again
rekindling the feelings that once lost their fire.
It could ignite a bonfire in the cold now
or a wildfire in the snow.
How sublime!
When these longings
create masterpieces of words--
etched through the magnificence of your beauty in the ********** of the pen and paper.
And when the passion enflames this poesy once more--let the fire burn so high so it reaches the gods and answer my plea.
May 19, 2023
May 19, 2023 at 11:16 AM UTC
In the times of my fragile heart, I imagine myself at a train-stop, a faraway train-stop at 2 AM, or in a country not mine, listening to the streets and Nico, wondering when it will rain next, or one block away from here at the bar with wood panels, drinking blues on a Tuesday afternoon.
In the days after I left home, where my brothers sleep on torn couches, in paintless rooms or ripped wallpaper. The dishes there were always ***** The curtains were always closed and the living-room would be coated in darkness of day. The poor kids are fine, but so far from okay.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 12:55 PM UTC