Held up by its wind, a flag will ******.
The motion, so liquid,
so solemn and yet lucid.
Floating in its own breath,
meandering,
unleashed along nature’s footpath.
The wind ponders with instinctive movement through and around this clothed vessel.
There are no regards nor any purpose. 
The movement, the romance within this dance with nature is fearless.
The wind has its sweetest of palette – a flag.

A Palette of Sunrise

Bronze spears waltz with pure aubergine
amid cauliflower cumulus –
gold touch-paper.

Sugar sprinkled wash with
candy pink bubble-burst
stains church spire and oak.

Saturated in spongy tangerine
night-shapes meld into broken egg yolk
coffee spills through fields.

Foggy wool tufts
grasp mushy-pea hillocks,
sweat drops from tired shoots.

If I was a mender of souls
I would prescribe
five minutes, twice a day.

I don't live in
a black and white world,
but there are days in which
my pallette is ******* up.

Love and passion
are no longer red,
but hues of grey
fill my soul.

Blues are no longer
beautiful,
but are muted versions
of angry self-loathing.

Nature is not reflected
in pastels,
but my mirror is broken,
for no light exists
in the shadow it creates.

If I truly cared to believe
that the grass is greener,
I could learn to look past
all the melancholic colors.

take some oils and a pallette knife
take a canvas and paint your life
make it how it wants to be
so very happy and trouble free
use the colors as you go
paint it easy nice and slow
make the back ground stand out loud
make your picture make you proud
paint it how your life should be
then in a frame for you to see.

The Gentle Pads Of My Finger Tips Are Frigid,
The Skin Under The Lip Of My Shoe Is Raw And Worn,
From All The Cautious Steps I've Taken,
The Leafy Green Of My Tired Eyes Is Dulled,
From Hours Of The Presence Of Vision,
The Fraile Glass Windows Are Frosted Over,
Crystallized Molecules Whisper To The Half Moon,
My Heart In A REM State Of Mind,
From All Of It's Beatings,
And The Color Which I Portray Is Black,
Because It Is The Absortion Of The Artist's Pallette

His silence screams like a searching wind
a death-hungry spirit painted in
pallette-knived smears of
grey and fear and crimson
streaking across the night sky of his heart,
lightning-bolt ricochets striking, incinerating
the solitary oak tree of his soul,
scattering his acorns down the hill where they
are lost among the weeds,
shocked into infertility,
But he is a seascape pine,
weather-worn but razor-straight,
Gargantua in wood and steel
establishes his personal space
like a rabid porcupine,
And he is a tower,
hiding his soap bubble dream
while she brushes her hair
one hundred times
one thousand times
one million times
until the dream is
lifeless, breathless, armless
and tucked neatly in a refrigerated drawer,
As his silence screams like a searching wind.

Today Is A Quiet Pallette Of Blue Which, In Fact,
Sits Secluded From Every Yellow, Pink, And Red,
It Is Cold And Quiet--Idle As An Afternoon Rain,
Lethargic And Angry, Hard Yet So.. So Silent...

Today Is A Blue Day, It Is Bluer Than My Very Soul,
It Is A Blue Tuesday, Darker Than A Saturday Night,
The Sky Is As Gray As The Sea, But It Is Twinkling,
The Notes It Sings Turquoise As Tropic Waters

Today Is A Soft Baby Blue, Contorted By A Tough Navy,
A Harsh Golden Sunrise Has Turned To A Gray,
The Mush Colored Sky Is Tamer For The Blue Eye,
And The Blue Eye, Is A Window To A Blue Heart

It's acold misty morning
The large grey cobblestones creating valleys by themselves
The old black lampposts casting the imaginings of light
The buildings shuffle between dark grey and black as if they were a depressed Chameleon
A man walks along this pathway
His dark black Brioni suit covered by the enveloping arms of his coat
The buttons undone as the coat ***** dramatically in the wind that isn't there
The outfit is completed with a black fedora which he wears upon his head
He walks down the pathway and passes a small man
With ragged clothes and a baggy hat
He barely notices the painter as he Iis consumed with his Own demons
The painter holds a brush in his right hand
An old thing with paint and chips on the wooden handle
The bristles are long
Not imacculate
But well used
In his left hand he holds his pallette
It has every colour imaginable
But only a small splotch of it
The painter walks behind the man with the fedora
And he painted
He painted galaxies on the cobblestones and valleys separating them
He painted patterns into the sidewalk and stories into the bricks
His style a rough painterly style
Jagged geometric lines creating organic spirals and waves
A Van Gogh style
Painfully wild strokes
That seem to contain the souls of suffering and pain
His flat yellows contrast to his vivid reds
Powerful imagery created by nothing but contrast
Emotions toyed with by jagged currants and swirls
The painter painted
Trying to catch up to the man with the fedora
Painting eruptions of beauty from the lampposts
And birds and flowers floating upon the air
As the fedora man's heels lifted paint was laid down in insane yellow
Driven insane by trying to catch up to this man
Driven insane by trying to show the man beauty
The painter ran out of paint
A masterpiece a mile long
Seen and admired by all who walked behind
But the artist had failed
His face Contorted as his emotional suffering manifested physically
His heart broke again as he realized that this man with the fedora wouldn't stop
He would live his whole life
Without seeing beauty
The painter was put in a nice jacket and a white padded room to live the rest of hus days
Forced to live in his misey....
His  emotion....
His failure...

chlorophyll green,
verdent, colour me trees
freeze dry to
amber, yellow, cardinal red liquid gold, titian, xanthous, carmine, deepwine burgandy, magenta, saffron, orange, rubicant, henna, bronze and copper burnished, cracked terracotta
and then finally...
bittersweet crumpled brown
what a pallette of cold night air painting daubed on wooded canvas'
life portrayed in leaf-ed glory
all before our autumnal eyes

I wanted to paint,
A trail of red,
Down your chest
leaving nothing but,
The stain of my lips,
To lay in contrast,
To your fair skin.
You brought forth,
A pallette in my eyes,
Birthed within a new,
Sight of purples,
Left behind,
By the lost ramblings,
I drown in after ***.

The cut is yet deep.

Standing in the crowd holding her hopes like a child with a balloon
the rain wet street mirrored on her cheek
she sees only ghosts and memories around her.
Her soul contorts and twists under the weight of her loss
weeping for that which was
and faded dreams lie in litter at her feet.

Shadowy solace hovers impotently
loath to approach lest he be burned in her cold fire.
Her thoughts hang in strands:
"O, fountain blood be my salve
for hollow loneliness is my home"
Unheard, unheeded, unreleased
they echo and play across her mind in metallic tones.

And the cut is yet deep.

Pain sings in her heart
marking her world with it's dissonant pallette.
Bright and brittle, with a lover's hunger
offering a seductive embrace she can no longer resist.
Siezing to it's sharpness and brilliance like a keepsake
she draws it to her willingly
and loves it.

But hers is not the step, the end, the sleep.
"I am queen here" she cries to an unknowing world
"Heed me, for I shine"
and shaking off the woe she turns from the path.
Fierce Nike takes her hand and leads her forward,
onward to a new beginning, a new season, a new hope.
For yes, the cut is yet deep
but cuts will heal with gentle touch
and even scars may fade in the sun.

Wild grapes grow on vines
From the trees next to the Fields
A bunch of us harvested the yield
Purple fingered in buckets

A Galvanized Antique
Wash Tub on Wheels
With the Hose at the Bottom
Filled up with The Make

A log of Firewood was used
To smash the grapes to pulp
As the Juice Drained out
Collecting in a  Bucket

Pounding the pulp up
Taking Turns, Arms Ached
In the Back Yard, Sun Baked
As we plied our Log to Make

In the Kitchen 20 Lbs of Sugar
And gallons of Water Boiled
Watched and Stirring Constantly
Till the Syrup Batch Roiled

A 50 Gallon Oak Wine Keg
Prepared a Wooden Peg
A Hole drilled through
Coiled copper Pipe put to...

An ancient wooden Spigot
Gently tapped into place
The warm Syrup is poured
Yeast Added and then Grape

The Plug with the copper Pipe
Tapped into the Top of the keg
Coiled up Copper Stretches Down
To water, in a Redwing Crock

Halloween party we
Tapped some pitchers
A Light and fruity Vin
Sweet Pallette of wine

Christmas we Tapped
Merry Pitchers to toast
A Fine Full bodied Note
It made a Merry toast

For New Years we
Tapped the Last
The Marc of Dregs
Potent as Sweet Sherry

The Winter Wine
Tasted Fine
With Merry Toasts
For a Good Time

i see today,
the first glimmering
of summer,
in the curl of green nails,
on the deadman fingers
of the frangipani.

i see today,
the last sighs of winter
in the dessicatted, crumbling, leaves being,
blown ever which way
by the gusting, September winds.

i see today spring,
coming up,
in shoots of green,
sprung from the rain softened soil.
all different hues,
of potential and expectation
rising from the ground.

i see today, the the last glimpse of autumn,
in that pallette of a leaf,
stubborn throughout the winter now finally,
come to grief and floating, serene in silent submission, on the pond of koi.
the oranges and browns
blending into the watered background.

i see today,
all the seasons,
in the sky
and all around me,
time moves forward
and every moment,
counted as precious
and noted by this poets eye...

Based off what you're telling me, you no longer believe in magic.
you have chosen to be forgotten
you have chosen to be fatigued.

Based off what I'm seeing, your a dying soul, a fogged out rainbow
greying out of the spectrum.

I'll pity you tomorrow
Im too busy sniffing flowers.

Come to me next week and I'll have your color pallette ready

I'll rub it in your face, your skin
I'll cover you with petals and daffodillies.

There now, go to sleep
rest your eyes
become obsolete

Rest your head, never wake up
your trapped in a world of grime and muck

This is what you have chosen.
this is what you believe.
leave me to my fairies, I'll be seeing you beneath the trees.

Persistent fever
And a hole in my pallette
God save me from this awful habit

Shy away
The beast will come another day
Maybe you won't believe the lie
It's not even a high

But in my warped mind
A lens of vision only on me
I've always been intrigued
With publicized insanity

I want to be the shooting star
Red carpet
Robert Downey Jr eyes
On a ****** not even fit for
Heath Ledger

I want to disengrate in the sky
A slow public suicide
Blame it on gravity
It's homocide

It seems some can escape mortality
And become grand deities
In the mind of humble losers

But I know its not my life
No spectacle too see
The only one who watches
Is me

As the revered taste of the Cuban
expertly rolls from his tongue
And the frivolous sounds of his friends and associates whisk
past his ears
And the bouquet of the wood cling to his pallette
The judge reminds himself ironically
As he confides in his  glittering blanket high above
Even retrospection is a needless visitor
And introspection is of no use
When you've brought the gavel down on your own life
And condemned yourself
to a Beachwood bench in the middle of nowhere
Where nobody gives a ****

A gliding entity between ecstasy, my eyes grew from seeds
to inversely unbounded trees, oxidizing, breathing into the collective
a collection eclectic; the ripening ages convene the gods' pallette
so mortal and clean.  From the vantage of mauve mountains,
beholders pressed through the ravine.  "The bewildered be wild"
She crooned on to me.  


Deepening the night, scintillant ancestors dug
with Light, unearthing cherished retinal prints.
The vulpine maw imposed no sin, indigo glow
and a patina sheen, feral bliss had greased
the chain.  Lineages span millennia as scions cast
the sacred Heron, spear of the World beyond
the eros plane.

So She crooned on to me
Her sybilline Dream.

It is seven o clock. This Thursday, the sun will set forty minutes from now. It is the becoming of seasons. My exit from Summer, steps closer to the true Fall.
Time's tainting of nature is shifting, not quite set in its normal, crystalline pattern. It is close. The leaves on the trees have oranges and yellowed. The air is crisp and its wind breathe but do not howl. The ocean is no longer a pleasant extension of one's self. It is chilling, a reminder to be wary of entering abysses.
The time is close to alter our physical clocks. The sun is setting earlier and earlier, the days and their light feel shorter.

Before my mutations, these things passed by me and I did not give them much thought. I would wake and notice the sun risen at irregular times. Feeling uncomfortable and something close to disoriented.

But now I feel the changes in every cell of me. I grow thin waiting for the day Death grants me mercy. I will then leave this existence which demands my tireless consciousness from what is to come and the effects of what was done.

I climb an impossible vine. This origin born in a deeper Hell, extending past Heaven.

My song is melody light and these rhythms churn complex.

And I seem to complicate every relationship silently.

Internally I am coarse meat. A withered pallette suited to last semester's tastes.

Yet externally, accidentally I am steel and wine. The simple beauty of complex

The first vision you ever had for me was blue,
albeit, a bit hazily speckled across my canvas,
sparsley separated from the rest of the daunting white,
but it wasn't enough.

You pondered it for a few minutes but thought better of yourself,
so you cleaned up the blue and added red instead.

Oh red, what a wonderous color,
but over the years you've diluted it to pink,
and that's okay, it suited me best anyway.

You couldn't be sure of your inital sketches,
lined in yellow across my sides,
and so you would work, rework,
and work again; and that was fine.

I've always found it funny,
you know,
how your pallette can be so so very small,
and yet create so many different works,
I wonder how you know which of us go together;
to line your halls with canvases, different and alike,
how are we to make such a satisfactory gallery?

Once, not too long ago,
I met a man, and I think you wrote him in green,
lathered the sides with a smooth ink,
and clumped, in oil, a bright orange near the bottom,
and I think he hopes no one notices the edge,
but I've always found it to be the most beautiful.

It's rather peculiar, really,
to see one color morph into another,
for a shape to become something much larger,
and to see the techniques mimicked in a chain,
a group of us, only linked by the initial movements,
brushed over so many times we might just forget.

Each of us,
a work of art,
separated only by years,
colors,
and life's rotations.

I splash my blood across my father's new *******


a woman now



his liver is thin

and his new lover


(he is whispering as he rapes me)


is an image of my brother


remove his cartridges alone and place the bullets in my heart



my mother cries

and my father mumbles to himself



i rise from the grave

remove my father's gums

i place my teeth in his mouth

and i collect sinew from my unborn brother




i order my father into the ground

i dash his newborn's face into a **** stained alley


i ask for my father's
full name, date of birth
and
his mother's most exciting fetish


with another larvae from my father's womb


another show of strength
here now i have absolute strength

..

a man came to me as a child
and that same man told me

enter me and you will love nothing but me

..

my mother and my father become a new awe.



into the soil a beautiful odor blossoms


where there was a palm of lilac,
a scene of gore.

and

where was an earful of ichor or
crested display of lilac?



my mother and i cry on her grandfather's grave


it is my first day free from prison
a great very loud exclamation


i remove what i feel to be an artery from leg


high up
above the knee
above the thigh


near my groin i bleed


and my mother does not see my pain



a
change of tone


a
change of pace



the undertaker is *****
the commitment is difficult

alas pride beckons
truth denies me



my own blood speaks and disgusts me



closing of my legs in 2029


with my father's ******* between my teeth

with my father's teeth swirling around my tongue

with my brother's cord now inside me

with my mother's tears on her grandfather's grave


with my unborn brother.


III.


with my son
with the one i love



IV.




i enjoy the moment
i do not splash my blood across my father's *******

i do not ingest my unborn brother


a
change of tone
a
change of pace



i am not released from prison.

i have not been released from prison







a second part beckons.







i continue consuming serpent's droppings.

my spider's egg-sac continues singing.


a terrible wave of violence.


my father's teeth swirl over,  altogether across my tongue.

into my pallette.

my new-york strength fighting.


a terrible wave of violence.








my father's new ******* between my teeth
and my splashes of blood on his hand-me-down mantle.

My heart is cold and empty,
Love has sapped me of love
In all the right places, rooted in me.
Time nourished me.
And it would be lonely for you there.

Scars bridged all fate I have,
Altogether. My poems--
Buoying me to the river
Of my mind, and out to finding you.

My heart is cold and empty.
So bring the world with you.
Your dream, your soul, your pride.
Bring the photo of your dearest smile,
The pallette of your eyes, that is
Also water, and sun, and sky.
Your discoveries and doubts--
Dear, take them with you,
For there would be many, there,
That are not. All is shadow within,
And burden, and gravity.

You would know what its like
To be the light or the feather,
A star, or hope
To one that is hopeful.
You would feel what it is
To be one, and being one,
And being all
With me.

You would kiss, as though
To love yourself. Embrace, as though
To set one free. And journey,
As though to settle on my heart,
Realigning all that is whole
With all imperfect pieces.

Now, live,
Love in faith.
Go after dreams,
And silly things,
Fail. Learn. Act.
Feel.
Drink coffee.
Sing Karaoke.
Be crazy.
Ignore poetry.
Believing,
That way,
Somehow,
You are loving me.*

© 2014 J.S.P.

so empty alone
my need

is to fill it with
anything

give it a texture like Van Gogh
painted

canvases with his ear

or paint a melody
a visual

song of Hey Jude

and someway in a trying
image

or a straining high
toned  

metaphor
talk to angels

which I do
between the lines

and forgive
my inability

to artistically capture
their immortal

words
but my

periods if
you examine

closely are
tears and my

pauses the blank
paper

of my soul
my heart the

pen writing
my foot an iamb

or a pallette knife
or violin.

Let me bask
In the excellence.
Let me wonder in the explosion
And add the new colors to my pallette.

This is mine
Such desolation
Can belong to none other
This is but another ode to my craftiness.

Pain is mine.
I create the victim
I conduct such an orchestra
And all these are players on my team.

I own it.
All destruction
That dare to befall me
Only adds to my repetoire of tricks.

[Please allow me to introduce myself...]

Art has ways to explore
You may be in dire need
But when it comes to art
You explore
In foreign cities
Sitting under yellow city lamps
Losing your way in the metro
But when it comes to art
You explore
Tokyo is such a place
I wish to visit
When I'm out of money
I explore
When it comes to sketching
Your grace
Your face
Your exotic charms
Make me clap my hands
And change my pallette
My love for the city has never changed
When the people degrade for their ruin
Get better by the years
The years change
Tokyo I need to dream about you
And explore
Hello people
How's the sunshine
In this cold weather
Love has traces of a past I can't recollect
But when it comes to loving women and friends
It's the same
Just like Tokyo dreaming

a wildfire of blue and azure
     eats a spread of buttery white
near the crawling cool of yellow
     which wounds the wistful waters,

wealthy waves of whiskery green
     dance and sing with the dark,
star-spun dreams from her mind,
     flaring over them, asleep,

envision the pink, flirty flag of hers,
     of flesh, ever so inviting, and
the soft, infinite red which bursts
     into pleasures, and flavors,
fine, fine flavors where this
     tongue, gladly,
          will dive into.

we were all impressed and deceived
     by the pallette of the world.
i say, mark that orange sphere
     as often as you could.
     remember it...
          ...with her...

...for our eyes, too, will wear off,
     abandoning the richest
     of life's colors.

from then on, hear me say,
     i love her,
for what are words, but
     a soul from my heart
          painting my soul,

and my very soul is love,
     what can i say?
the derivative of my works,
     my poetry, is from
     and is her.

she is the color purple
     in this slow burn
          at twilight,

     as i hang Blambitt's Peacock
          on the wall.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

As a watercolour artist
I drift into my world of colour
Watery stains from an indigo blue
An icy drop springs into view
A transparent green
nowhere to be seen
Has merged with umber
and for a tree to slumber
Wide awake, stand by your bed
here marches a military red
Stiff upper lip has he
as he merges with blue for a tree
Shadows passed, a ray of gold splashes
in the well, into the watery washes.
The long paint driven brush
has now seen quite enough
So it is back to the pallette for a while
Well for me, I am left with a smile.

I dreamt of you that summer night
Windows open ever so slight
We were together in a field of flowers
Your windswept hair dangling carelessly from the sides of your floppy, straw, hat
The warmth of the sun as radiant as your boundless smile

You took my hand, and paraded me through a pallette of petals
My clumsy boots stumbling with each step
In my stupor, I reached and plucked a flower
It was destined to be yours
The coppery-orange petals a perfect compliment to the hue of your hair
Both of us blushing as your lips met my cheek

It was a perfect dream
A testament to the time we shared
Ended by a morning sky, and a nostalgic cup of coffee
Staring vacantly at the blooming flowers in my overgrown-garden