"pastels" poems
~~~~English~~~~
Such beauty takes away my breath
As the sunrays shine across the peaceful path
The trees of this forest sway and nod in the dancing breeze
Which caresses my cheeks
Pastel clouds in the watercolor sky
Makes the forest with its path beautiful
And birds sing and warble in the tall treetops
God alone creates this beauty
The bluebells bordering the path
Are kissed by sparkling dewdrops
And snowdrops have long come out of
Their veil of snow
Lacy green leaves from the blowing trees
Provide shade in the sweet summer
And the breezes provide coolness on a hot day
At this lovely place of beauty
~~~~French~~~~
Une telle beauté enlève mon souffle
Comme les rayons du soleil brille à travers la voie pacifique
Les arbres de cette forêt se balancent et hocher la tête dans la brise dansante
Qui caresse mes joues
Pastels nuages dans le ciel aquarelle
Rend la forêt avec son chemin belle
Et les oiseaux chantent et modulées dans les hautes cimes
Dieu seul crée cette beauté
Les jacinthes qui bordent le chemin
Sont caressées par les gouttes de rosée mousseux
Perce-neige viennent depuis longtemps de
Leur voile de neige
Dentelles feuilles vertes des arbres de soufflage
Fournir de l'ombre en été douce
Et les brises offrent fraîcheur par une chaude journée
À ce bel endroit d'une beauté
~Hilda~
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 10:32 PM UTC
why a poet?
because a poet
hears the words
which sing the
purest harmonies
because a poet
paints their portraits
in pastels
of phrases
because a poet
dances their agonies
into leaps of faith
and pirouettes
of passion
because a poet
sees
the beauty
in the commonplace
and captures
the moment
in a snapshot
of ink and white
because a bloodless world
cuts itself
a thousand times
and the poet bleeds
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
i
a m
positive
that you
are made of
s t a r d u s t
and water balloons,
oil pastels and the
collection of
settled sugar
at the
b o t t o m
of my
c u p s
o f
t e a
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 4:51 AM UTC
Hands
Eyes
Feet
God
Charade
Pink
King
Dress
Blessed
Make up
Pastels
Ponies
Hearts
Carts
Darts
Future
Born
Torn
Plain
Wrapped
Trapped
Ice
Wings
Strings
Scissors
"Fallen angel"
Silhouette
Marionette
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC
The mourning doves sing their songs
about 3 miles away.
Chirping of despair, beauty, angst
and then of better days.
Mourning dove, thou is free!
The world is your cage,
and thy wings may take you beyond.
So why do you speak of sorrowful pleas?
Why sing at dusk, o mourning dove?
When the day is folding in,
and the sky drips pastels on its canvas;
perhaps falling from above.
I do not know why you sing, sad sad mourning doves.
Yet I still sing along, and rather leave questions unsaid.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 6:09 PM UTC
*On a bright and delightful Easter morning
A furry white rabbit, wiggled her pink adorable nose
Peeking through lush bushes
In a lovely and distinctive pose
And jiggled her cottony soft scut
Aiming into a vegetation
On this sunny day
With so much motivation
Quietly hopping into a blissful garden
Placing decorative filled eggs in pastels
With little time to rest
As she quickly inhales
Adding vibrant colours, to an emerald spiky blanket
And into a rainbow of unfolding tulips
Enlightening her way, like a dazzling carnival
For little peeps enjoyment, upon soft winds movement
Beginning in the latter daylight hours, as tots of all ages
Eagerly carried empty interwoven baskets, on their quest
Pacing through, as in peekaboo
And observing who competes the best*
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
the sunset imbues its last glance
as molten lavas cool into exotic crimson
painting the color of romance over the horizon.
the clouds flew,
and you closed your eyes,
cicada songs humming through your ears,
and pink hues glowing across your cheeks.
then, i saw your chocolate brown
eyes gazing out in awe.
your fawn satin skin seemed so delicate,
as did your jet black hair.
coral florets glowed among fluorescent orange, yellow, pink flavescent clouds, calm in migration.
the west reaches for clothes of new colors
which it passes to a row of ancient trees.
you open your eyes, and soon these two worlds both leave you;
one part climbs toward heaven, one sinks to earth.
it's nearly dark now, and the stars are peaking out amongst the clouds.
you're lying in the grass, feeling every strand tickle your bare legs.
you close your eyes again, and the air you're breathing is hot and heavy.
i strode my fingers through your hair, sighing softly
gazing away at
blue evening grandeur skies, and you smiled…
pastels in yellow flow around my scene
and i relish in the comely gold light for at last,
we are gazing at the same sun.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 9:41 PM UTC
I show the world my flowers,
daisies flowing from my fingertips,
smiling with the brightness of tulips,
and leaving a trail of poppy footprints
with each step I take.
I present this spring-themed Monet masterpiece,
careful to conceal the chaotic overcrowding
pushing, building pressure beneath the surface.
This rootbound torture belies the floral illusion,
and if you peer closely at the pretty pastels,
you'll see they're nothing more than
brush strokes and broken hopes.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 7:34 PM UTC
when i look at myself in the mirror
i see something blue, something dead-eyed.
she looks at me and sees something more,
something brighter, worth loving
i look at her and i think of the ocean
eternally beautiful, endless depth
sometimes i think i'll drown but
she keeps me afloat, makes me swim
we could spend hours talking
or not speak for a whole day;
no matter the number of words exchanged
not a minute goes by that she isn't on my brain
being with her feels like promise,
like an apology from life
it says, "here, this is your happiness"
i know i don't deserve her but i'll never take her heart for granted
it's been five months
but i already have our one year marked on my calendar
and i can count the days passed
by the number of smiles she gives me
emotion was never my thing
'til an angel dressed in humanity showed me
what feeling could be like,
what love could be like without pain
the clouds are mostly grey in england,
the sky muted by dreary weather
but these days i find myself looking at the flowers instead
and she is sunshine lighting my every step
you're enthralling, the way you captivate me
less than half a year but already
you've changed so many things
you are my most extraordinary experience
you're the constellations in my night sky
and the petals blooming brightly in a once barren garden
you make me see more; you're the pastels lightening my art
there's a spark in me and now i know warmth
if you could only see yourself the way i see you,
life is no longer just grey and blue
i need you to know that i love you
thank you for bringing colour to my world
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 12:19 AM UTC
I hold onto the hope that someday I will see them. Those lights drug across the sky by a goddess with her water colour brush. Greens and blues and pinks that dance a star's song into being while the sky stretches and wakes up and prepares to host this fit of brilliance. When people down below lift their eyes to the heavens. Irises are filled and reflect a dazzling champagne of pastels which God has created. He wants to say 'I love you' and could think of no better way than this expression. Where snow gives way to reflective ice and the shiny sparkles slide silently through the night. It is the visual of the heart when in love, and it lights up the night like the first beautiful moment of a stage being brought to life. The conductor lifts his hands and a radiant explosion surrounds the audience. Music is not needed and none will ever accurately describe it. Few will see this spectacularity because the auroras only reveal themselves to the minds that wander and the hands that reach towards heaven.
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 12:53 AM UTC
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.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
And it is tiresome to think
But most of all I drown in sad
Knowing you will never know, me
Like I wish, like I know you could have
To explore my midnight tendrils
To watch me, be
Broken wishes that left scars on my skin
Explore boundaries knowing
Home awaits inside my arms
It is tiresome, so tiresome
To always ponder and dream
Stuck on wishful thinking
So, please
Don't paint me troubled
Think of me in pastels, a breath of spring air
After the confusion of winter's numbness has melted away
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 4:50 AM UTC
There once was a boy who was lost to a frat
He loved his Sperry’s and his backwards hat,
He used to like sports and women you see,
He used to be normal, if you ask me.
Now all he did was hang with his bros,
He was constantly loud and put on a show,
His stomach got bigger from all the beer,
His ego got bigger—for no reason that’s clear.
He walked around campus in only pastels,
And spent time in the gym, lifting barbells.
His weekends were filled with ******* and *****
Class didn’t matter, he needed to snooze.
He needed his bros to feel like he belonged,
He loved his new family and thought others wrong,
When he graduated, he came to see,
There's no place for bros in society.
He said, “This isn’t right! How can this be?!”
The young man then whispered, “The problem is me.”
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 1:29 PM UTC
.
And I sit there
All ear, head to feet
Dear
Listening to his footsteps
As if a Santa Clause waiting for his deer
Painting his majesty
Through defenceless eyes' pastels
Asking for aid,
O' holy hands
There, hassles
I see a purple heart
Hiding blue dropes of hopes
as if a mask was to keep my face look like mokes
Over the balcony
Amongst the trees
Saw a friendly shadow
Of my ever lasting companion, on knees
O' Thy honor sir black hat gray shadow!
Real illusion, of whom art thee?
Chasing me through the looking glass balcony
Never mind, promise, not to miss a symphony...
.
Farzaneh.Qāf
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 4:40 PM UTC
Trace my curves in charcoal,
Sketch my lines in lead,
Fill in all my shadows,
As I lie naked on this bed.
Warm my hues in pastels,
Draw in every part,
Adore me with your paint brush,
Turn my body into art.
Mar 12, 2023
Mar 12, 2023 at 10:48 PM UTC
Pastels and pretty pictures,
I lean back in the couch,
The elephant in the room,
She'll never know about,
How the critics wail over the way the paint falls off her brush.
I would rather drop-dead,
Than ever talk about
That night back in 07'
Teeth flying out my mouth,
But I think you would've liked me better then anyhow,
I'm curious...
I'm curious...
...I'm curious....
..Cause
I
just
wanna
see
what
makes
you
tick
Each year he writes a note
and leaves it in his room,
Key lime pie, Saturdays at the zoo,
Reminiscing flashbacks of better fast food,
Dead the day,
He scurries home in the dead of night,
Dragging his will, whats left, shaking off the frostbite,
Volunteers to play drunken clown for another night,
I think of their eyes and everything that they've seen,
Nothing that I see could ever be unique,
So don't you lie and say you see it shining in me.
I'm curious...
I'm curious...
...I'm curious....
..Cause
I
just
wanna
see
what
makes
you
tick
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 10:41 AM UTC
Art class was a given
A bird course as they say
But, our teacher had gone awol
You could say he flew away
They found him at a campsite
Cross legged on a mat
Naked, drinking cool aid
And talking to his cat
He snapped while teaching concepts
beyond the grasp of teenage kids
Who only wanted to pass time
and be on ebay making bids
He taught them about structure
about lines and Bernard Frize
and now he's in the forest
sitting naked with the trees
Pastels, crayons and chalk sticks
littered where he sat
sitting naked, drinking kool aid
and talking to his cat
the kids, they drove him crazy
never doing what he told
Instead they sat and doodled
while the teacher...well...unrolled
they didn't draw the things he asked
didn't study all the masters
instead they were more intent
on creating art disasters
he came to class equipped one day
to show them some van gogh
instead they all got up
And told him he could blow
he snapped and left the class room
never stopping at the door
he went to his apartment
and picked the cat up off the floor
he went down to the locker
he took his tent back to the car
he was going to go camping
he wasn't going to a bar
he drove up to the campsite
made his kool aid, grabbed his cat
took his clothes off and got naked
and sat down upon his mat
this is where they found him
seven days since he walked out
he's now painting in nice place
where there's lots of staff about
most days he sits in silence
in his jacket, sleeves behind
zonked out on medication
to help him find his mind
they give him lots of kool aid
but his cat he does not see
he just paints with all his fingers
making pictures of a tree
once he was a teacher
of a bird course teaching art
now he gets all his excitement
drinking kool aid from the cart
in his mind there are da vincis
claude monets and rembrandts too
but, on paper he paints tree limbs
in black and grey and blue...
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
In her hands
We're magnesium
White--
As-she-tries-to
Touch pale
Pastels,
--We lie-
For ant-eater
Fires and croaking
-Frogs; I say nothing.
But she breathes in
Clicks-
Bedsheet maladies--
Her crab apple
-Transparency.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 11:03 PM UTC
There's spring and there's summer, there's all that's in between
no listless skies of anodyne; now nature flaunts and preens
What beauty fills the hungry eye 'neath a sky of blue, serene
verdant vales soaked in sun, awash in palettes of green
There are pastels that awaken and deep shades that passion brews
created hues that trickle...sprinkled with 'chartreuse'
There's the green of 'asparagus' and that of 'artichokes'
Of 'forest', 'ferns' , of 'moss', a brush of different strokes
Fragrant plants of 'mint', then 'myrtle' and 'green tea'
'Emerald', 'jade' or 'harlequin' and 'malachites' that be
Off creamy shells, just 'pistachio', 'green apples', then of 'pines'
It lies too in 'sap' and 'teal', in 'avocados' and tangy 'lime'
There's green of the 'mantis', in 'jungle', 'hunters' and 'shamrock'
The lithe 'parakeet' fluttering and the lazy sanguine 'croc'
In blessed 'basil', ' pickle', in 'pear', 'olives' in 'bottle green'
'Gourds' and 'peas' that farmers grow in cultivars pristine
'Tis there in 'aqua' and 'seaweed', in the ripple of 'sea green' waves
In 'turtles', 'sea foam', 'anemone' and a 'tropical glistening lake'
From 'laurel green' to an 'army green' , in 'sage' ( a shade of grey )
The color of 'grass' , the murky 'swamp' , hues in array
There's 'neon' and an 'Indian green', a 'Persian' one to mystify
A 'midnight green' to bright 'fluorescent', oh, for green rainbows in the eye
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 10:30 AM UTC
Trophies for last place,
And a Holiday for every weekend.
A taste of this and that...
OF Italy and Ireland and Asia and Germany
and every township in the county,
and 3 collective Miles of
Portable Toilets,
Strategically Positioned
throughout each event.
cause there is going to be a Lot of ****
Hooray for whatever we are celebrating this weekend.
Whichever one of the 30 different Woodstocks
Or week long Music Festivals
That exist only so
the Hippest of Hipsters
can congratulate each other
on how Indie they are.
Ya know, it's happy hour somewhere...
Why not party
All Day, Everyday?
Devalue the weekend
Like we have thanksgiving
And New Years.
A Five Kay For the Common Cold,
And We'll even give trophies for last place.
Cause we're all winners here.
and we're all hungry.
And What represents your heritage better than
Pizza or sauerkraut or General Tso's
And endless flowing barrels of refreshing, Ice cold, Domestically brewed and Nationally brand recognized Alcoholic Beverages?
IT's The Great Dumb Down, Charlie Brown!!!
A symptom of the Universe
If there ever was one.
Mass anesthesia to keep us all content
With our collective mediocrities,
our Forfeit Potential,
Our Day Job that doesn't pay very well,
But kind has benefits.
So we stay on.
In fear of nothing better.
It makes feel important.
Like Wheel of Fortune makes us feel smart.
(Wow, you can spell?!)...
Dwindling returns in a world of Beige and Pastels
And the Muted Grays of limestone concrete.
We Accept less and we Get less and we accept less and we Get less
And On And on and on,
till we hit that lowest common cultural denominator,
where your race is what food you eat,
And we all qualify for the special Olympics.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
Pretty pastels
Make my heart melt
But you’re a deeper shade
A love that won’t fade
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 8:20 PM UTC
If I stole your art, could you blame me?
The melodic curves
or rhythmic edges,
organic pastels,
or heart-throbbing neon,
awake as the eyes that envisioned them.
My muses all run to you with eager,
little fingers,
pinching and plucking at your sketches,
protruding tongues, and rolling sneaky, spiteful eyes in my direction,
******* on your creations with humming bird vigilance.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 9:14 PM UTC
I am cursing the rain in bright black and grey ink in beautiful cursive writing. I know you're questioning how black and grey can be bright but If you don't know, you'll never know.
I am painting sunsets on canvas but with pastels instead of neons. It's almost a bit too sad instead of a bit to happy; so fitting for a sun that's disappearing, right ?
I am swallowing pills mixing them with liquor, testing out theories to see if I can find the right way to write. All I see is blurry candle light and a dragon on my wall telling me my writing *****
And it's sad to think how pessimistic this poem started but how within a 15 minute drive home I've come to see....
That all the rain cleared up the night sky and out came those glimmering ***** of fire we call stars. I've caught myself staring but I always have different emotions with each glance.
Tonight..I guess the world isn't so sad after all.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 12:15 AM UTC
I am in cold. I watch that garish ward brimming with false light. Bleached air from his lips touching hers. He hides in her mane, sterile and alone. Why is it so hard, such an insurmountable task for you to see how I lather my face with paint each day just to smile at you?
My face, my heart, my mind not a blank canvas that I hide with these diluted pastels but a deep, rich chorus of colors and oils that were never meant to be hidden. But the ward will never know.
There are thoughts and opinions rolling like a torrent behind this mask I call a face. This world was against me from day one, don’t you dare say I’ve given way to cynicism. Nor optimism, pessimism, or God-forsaken realism. Can't I think the earth is beautiful, God is good, I am right, and people are wrong without someone putting an -ism behind me? Of course not. That's narcissism. Egoism. Egalitarianism.
It is what I unknowingly wrote across my mask. But I never chose to attend this outdated ball, masquerades are cliched. Pure romanticism...surrealism, the kin of commercialism whose visage is a polychromatic wheel of logotypes that you just have to know en masse.
What if I stop believing that compassion Himself can hate me? No, no that's atheism. Agnosticism. And if I'm better than someone because He said so then that is monotheism in all it's delicate flavors.
Can't I breathe alone in a quiet corner? Isolationism. Can't I want to simply be a follower, and think about life, literature, and art? Incomprehensible, that would be totalitarianism, absolutism, authoritarianism. What if I want to give God all the power He gave us, and watch the world change? Fascism. Revolutionism. Extremism, because releasing the wheel is extremism. Existentialism.
And what if I choose to remove the mask, break the levees, release the floodgates, my thoughts and opinions, never watch my tongue, and speak the world as it is: A capital M-madman's schism of logic and faith. As it has always been, and always will be. I will always be in love with the counterfeit ward. And yes, there's a label for that: Catastrophism.
So I watch Beauty and his Beast touching in fluorescence. Bleached breath, save for the smoke of his lungs in hers. Sterile and alone; I am in cold, and cold hurts me.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:15 AM UTC
#*
The sunset sky
Wore lovely colours
Pale blue with streaks of white
A trace of pink
Skipping violets and reds
Embracing the faint peach
A rainbow somewhere arched
The other side adorned
Pastels and soft golden yellow
Changing hues
To twinkling twilight blue*#
Sep 8, 2021
Sep 8, 2021 at 11:05 AM UTC