"repainting" poems
The gleaming moonshine on your hair,
fragmented star splitters in your eye,
your smile repainting supernova's glare
appoint you the ruler of my sky.
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 5:26 AM UTC
Tell me why it has to be this way. I don’t want to hold on to one side of this conversation and have the other person falling off a ladder. Yeah, down there on the ground. Get up and look at me!
I wasn’t sleeping, I swear—he said hastily.
Yeah, whatever, buddy. Tell me what you’re doing in my head?
Repainting. Repainting over the old spots, the worn out spots.
But those are the best spots, the only ones with character. Can you tell me who sent you?
No sir, I cannot.
Then it is ok. I suppose I’ll have to watch as you put varnish on top of every dream and aspiration I have ever had. Do you know who the girl was that I first loved in the springtime of youth’s blossom?
It was Ashley, sir.
I believe I did not love her, guest worker. What are you wearing there?
A pair of overalls, a cape. What’s the difference?
I’m the one who speaks to you first, and don’t be short with me. I don’t like you standing there in an open room with no windows. How is that possible?
I’m sorry, boss. It’s just, I finished painting over that memory but the paint’s still wet. You loved her very much, I’m afraid.
Ashley? I never gave her a second thought. Perhaps you are right. I only remember kissing her shyly and asking permission to see her ******* They were the biggest of all.
Yes sir, I thought so too. She was a sweet girl though.
Sweet? I’ll tell you Mr. Painter; Ashley was the first girl I kissed. I kissed her in my first love’s house, a different girl. I loved Ashley more than that first love and I’m serious. No one can ever make me forget the day we lay on her mother’s sofa in the basement.
--I’m sorry, sir.
No, say it is impossible. Say you have some form of soap that can make up for your treachery!
No, I’m only wearing orange overalls and marching on the word from above.
But who sent you!!!? I have to know. I’m crying.
Justin, it’s ok. It’s Ashley. She said you need to stop crying. She has a family now.
Well, alright. That house. That basement. That unconscious.
We are worms, sir. Worms, slithering and boundless. Please accept my apologies.
No, it’s quite alright. If you must take every memory of my second love, take my third. And take my fourth and every other woman who crosses my path. It’s not my choice to keep them captive in the imagination of what could have been. You know, it’s been years since I truly cared about someone—
Since Ashley?
Who’s that?
Ashley.
Goodbye forever, harlot.
Sir, you’re being brash.
No, I don’t remember that name and I hold you at an arm’s length in my mind. Please, finish what you’re doing and allow me to rest. What color are you painting the room?
Green, I’m afraid.
Then so it is. Goodbye, good friend. Goodbye sweet love. Forever, in the spring. Temporal boundaries and endless playlists. Be the verve, be the melody. I love you!
So it is. Sleep well, sir.
Oct 18, 2010
Oct 18, 2010 at 10:24 PM UTC
She visits us every time
The building needs repainting
And every time she visits us
We ask her:
“When will you be back?”
You say you will only be
A jeepney ride away.
We sing; the choral chimes with the wind.
Dry leaves always settle down
Where the wind stops.
Only it does not. But, it settles, and always
Wherever the wind leads them to grow
Apart.
Maybe that’s the purpose of apartments.
Always seeming to leave, to stay only
For sleep, not rest.
We kept talking every time
How our phones ring each other.
You answer questions, always you do so
Not with a no, it was difficult for you;
Nor a yes; but always you say:
“I’m right here”
“5 minutes”
passing through regular public commute;
you are always nearby,
always stuck in heavy traffic.
I can even see you every time,
Always there,
And always smiling.
The last time we smiled together
You told us:
“I am always here – a whisper away”
Only you are there
Not here.
(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / July 25 2013 - Parañaque)
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 9:44 PM UTC
there are vanilla scented candles
and plaid scarves,
acrylic paints of every ******* colour
and wool socks,
a closet full of pretty dresses
and a bookshelf full of good reads
but I’m not happy
there is laughing
there is smiling
there is feeling good
sometimes
but I’m so unsatisfied
with what I’ve got
though I seem to have just about
everything
I have a good mother
I have friends that care
I have blankets
I have good teeth
I have rubber boots
some people say I have nice legs
I have compassion
I have the drive to create
I have trees
I have long hair
some people say I have kindness
I have a bus pass
I have a new job
I have flexibility
I have enough money
some people say I have talent
but I’m unappreciative
and hard on myself
still
there are booked gigs
and improv shows,
interesting conversations
and instruments,
trees and leaves and twigs
and pinecones,
the sky,
the zoo,
the cafes
but I get insecure most of the time
there are long hot baths
and biting nails,
then painting nails,
then repainting nails
and biding time,
then hating time,
then being okay with time,
there are long stares in the mirror
sometimes glares
sometimes there are puffy eyes
there is frustration
in my fingers
in my head
in my voice
at the piano
on stage
being vulnerable in a crowd of cool actors and musicians
fear of being seen
fear of being unseen
fear of doing it WRONG
fear of looking stupid
looking ugly
looking pathetic
sounding stupid
sounding ugly
sounding pathetic
there are dreams of leaving
this city
this head
these people I have known
for what seems like forever
there are dreams of healing
and loving my skin
and the natural amount of fat
that is underneath it
there are dreams out there
there are so many of them
that I’m afraid to wish
that I’m afraid to think of
from caution of them not happening
from caution of disappointment
and loneliness
and neediness,
then purposelessness
there is wanting
and wanting
and wanting
something better
I don’t know what
just something better
but waiting
and waiting
and waiting
for it to come to me
instead of
trying
and going
and getting
it myself
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 4:30 AM UTC
It could be the end of the world as you know it,
When change is a crisis that decolours your life,
If you choose in your blindness to only see grey.
You know nothing has changed, and it’s just
Your perspective that turns day into night, but
It could be the end of the world as you know it.
It’s hard to see good when the news is so bad,
With everyone nervous about what is to come,
If you choose in your blindness to only see grey.
Go back to a place when colours were bright,
Unless you can see that things are not really grey,
It could be the end of the world as you know it.
Try recolouring your life with Instagram intensity,
And switch back and forth to see it’s your choice,
If you choose in your blindness to only see grey.
Repainting your world with your mystical mind,
A perspective that is more balanced than true, or
It could be the end of the world as you know it,
If you choose in your blindness to only see grey.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 5:58 AM UTC
Tear out my eyes
repainting them shades of purple puke
and send me off back to work
Snip the curious child
from my gut
and paint the walls pink with his feet
pour drano into my ears
so that i may not have to think anymore
lobotomize my fingernail biting fetishes
till i only get hard-on's from my skull
dragging its skin across the pavement
you pitiful excuse for a poet
you hope to dazzle them with dayglo frosting
caked like mold in the corners of your mouth
you sick hopeless perfectionist
knitting cellophane walls
of hands slapping your face
so you can close your eyes
and lose yourself in the confines
of your stalagmites
you with your cut and paste philosophies
which leave gaping holes
stretching across everybody's pupils
huh?
exactly you ******* pustule of plastic bubbles
you are an empty bud
no flower could rise from soil as rank as yours
no love will ever find comfort in a heart as prickly as yours
i can only be ashamed
that i share your body
i'm better off getting aborted
next time you sneeze
so that i could infect another's fragile flesh
passing our sick parasite
at least something of yours will be left
for others to cherish
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 12:11 PM UTC
liturgical language of wind whispers in the pines.
the sky filled with the pearly puffs of Her word.
the hymnal call of the mountains.
angles rise from the depths of lakes.
the taps of rain on the ground proclaim the Almighty.
cavernous churches entombed within the minerals
of Her love.
upon Her watery canvas She paints portraits
of Her ardent, blue dreams of eyes, and erases them
with each passing kernel of time
repainting them just as fast.
paradise.
pinnacle of unselfish endeavors.
untainted beauty encapsulated in Her smile
She is good; She is infinite; She is yes.
my only escape,
ever-faithful,
unchanging beauty.
all is held within the womb of Nature,
waiting for birthing death into the ethereal.
thank god for Nature.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 4:54 AM UTC
Captain,
suit jacket still beneath your tremor-less hands,
dark jeans as classy as any suit,
blue and black tie radiating calmness,
confidence,
you are our best.
Captain,
how you speak with such careless finesse,
words painting a picture and cutting it to shreds
and repainting it in new light,
you respond and counter questions,
a mongoose attacking an ancient cobra,
striking, winning,
grinning and frowning in perfect rhythm,
ever in control.
Captain,
you cannot win an uphill battle
when your opponent walks on air,
when spectators throw to them machine guns
and step on your fallen spears,
nor can your army
(ever willing, ever ready)
fight without you and your words
drilling through enemy lines,
ever calm,
confident.
Captain,
I have suffered the sting of defeat,
as have we all,
and I have felt the shame and fear
that flows in your blood as you hear the result,
and I see the look in your eyes
as you walk, ever steady, from the room,
foot itching to kick the walls with your radiant deliberateness,
and then you come back,
the look in your eyes one of exhaustion,
for you are tired,
Captain.
Captain,
rest your mind, hold your tongue,
let sleep and lethargy be your's for a day,
for the weekend,
for we all shall,
we, your army, who are tired and worn
from the conflict,
who have come out as victors or failures
and who cry in your dreary shadow.
Captain,
ten days remain till next we fight,
papers as swords and numbers as shields
beneath fire from questions like missiles
which we must deflect,
somehow,
and we will be ready, Captain,
we, your army,
in our suit jackets and clicking heals,
will lead you as you lead us:
to victory.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
Colours have faded
off the walls
but the walls remain.
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC
A haptic response
Lightly tactile
From something as
soft as your breathe
As gentle as your eye
Tracing lines over me
Repainting your memories
With laughter
As I reorient mine
To the curvature of your smile
We lie back to back
Connected
Fingers entwined
But not carnal
unattached
With finality I understand that
I now no longer seek
What you cannot give
My purpose made clear
To care for your heart
From afar
As none but I can
Because I dowse and define
What this means to me
With care for myself
I carve away these old memories
Destroy the internal shrine
Free this heart once entombed
By my loss and my fear
Unbidden, one perfect tear
Traces a salt line to my lips
To rest in my smile
A haptic response
The soft flow of breathe
Gently tactile
Like love undefined
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 9:14 AM UTC
Packetfuls of some morning long gone
Celebrations of some relations long lost
Appraisals of youth long withered
Dying of some laughter long forgotten
Yellowed photographs newly rediscovered.
As if after the hesitation of two decades
They’ve resurfaced out of a rusty old box
Freshly etching old patterns, repainting innocence
A revision of life… what if….what if not….
Some strange spirit of myself smiles back at me
“Is that me?” leading on to “Who am I?”
Existential discomfort set alight
The sleepless questions- twisting and turning
Memories in my head- swimming and swirling
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
16/06/2007
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 12:40 AM UTC
.Daylight rolls off sequestered petals of the rose,dewdrops smile with guilt in their teeth.Shoulders of the road bend, aching withasphalt arthritis.A blind dog crossed the autobahn at high noon,kidneys and intestines criss and cross the double yellow line-like skull and cross-bones. Fur knocks down butterfliesas archangels drop a line into the river Styx."Come sail away!", I heard one say as a small fish escapedthe wrath of hook-in-mouth hell. Amen!Goodbye jolly roger. That has to hurt.I've always said,"Peeling paint only looks good to the professionaltrying to make a buck repainting." Honestly.Yet, a bucket full of fragrant flopping fishsits out back of an abortion clinic,( or was that fish?)while only static played on every FM station.The world wasn't prepared forMozart's misery.
Feb 25, 2010
Feb 25, 2010 at 10:48 PM UTC
382 days and counting
Since I've last seen you
Not a day has gone by since then
That I don't incredibly miss you
Hardly a single breath of fresh air has been
Inhaled without even the slightest hint of you
And all I seem to do is drink more without you
382 days checked off the calendar but I still keep waiting
Anticipating for the morning I wake up when I'm no longer waiting
Waiting to let go or the day I stop wasting
Wasting these days away, erasing the images I keep repainting
Beautiful mural images all over my mind and I can't stop retracing
Remembering all of our bitter night endings
are better than this empty bed that I'm facing
382 days have passed and I'm trying to let go
Clenching my fists toward my stomach and taking a blow
Pulling my hair out from the roots just to watch it regrow
Smiling in front of the world and screaming into my pillow
Going crazy and wishing I could go back to 382 days ago.
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 12:18 AM UTC
You don't think like me
And I don't think like you
But it seems to me
We're both *******
We can do the math
In our various ways
And we sum the total
To the end of days.
I am right
And you are wrong
But you'll play the numbers
Like it's all your song.
I don't care
So long as they hear
The same sad song
Of everything going wrong.
But you spin out the bliss
Like a drunken fairy wish
Disregarding all the facts
And sending us all back.
It's a redo, people
**** the ice age
Get reacquainted with your dogs
And repaint the steeples.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 12:13 AM UTC
waking up without a care,
flannel unbuttoned in the sun,
freedom's overgrown hair,
barefoot until winter has won.
repainting the streets with my board
when all the cars have gone to sleep
exploring abandoned buildings
with flashlights and reckless fear.
who cares about tomorrow
as long as I make it today?
Forever is living in the moment
and realizing the future will never come.
I miss home
and all that used to be.
I miss those things
which will never return.
m.w.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 1:16 AM UTC
You lay sleeping upon my arm
your hair
repainting old tattoos
with soft
new shapes...
your warm breath
re-writing old messages
with fresh
I love you's.
My life reformed forever
in this quiet moment alone
watching you sleep
my favourite
tattoo.
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 6:15 AM UTC
Pull your mask out
Let your guard down,
You need not hide anymore
I see you for who you are
Not what I desire to see you as
And I've got to say:
From where I'm standing
You couldn't be more bare.
Finally, stripped off of your facade
I see you for what you are
You're just as clueless as I:
Here to discover life!
Now, let's take this plunge into the abyss
And realize all our forgotten realities,
Sketch on each other's silences, we will,
For repainting these faded colors is fill;
For we know: time there's none absolute
But for our time together made of absolutes.
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 3:46 PM UTC
decided why waiting, my name, my curse, my retrocognition,
last week, was sore-spent, from abusing discontinuation, retribution,
lovers who took more, too much, left contentedly, not looking back
over their shoulder, at the wasted wake left behind, nothing to them
just was their “been here, now, just a hereafter” remainder reminder
can’t believe I’m writing, in these blues lyrics electrified,
my ribs, plucked like guitar strings for “pic”ing demand wailing,
my own hereafter starts now, past days eradicated, freshened up,
these aren’t the days of reminiscing, these are the days of no más!
of my hereafter, now I understand, did not know how, clarity arrived
but now will love only in equality, no worshiping, no portraits
to be admired hanging on hallway walls, got rollers and pan,
repainting walls crazy whites, starting again, coming out today,
the hiding separated, put in trash bags on the street, for takeaway
in crazy notions, commencing my hereafter, is inviting you,
join me, improve my cadence, my rhymes, finish my sentences,
with periods of laughter, commas of words of perfect additions,
waiting no more, from here after and ever more so, my name
hereafter, is now my retrofitted futures, no longer waiting...
Jun 13, 2020
Jun 13, 2020 at 11:44 AM UTC
I tried to imagine leaving,
And all I could think of was coming back.
It’s not so much that the idea of departure frightens me,
I can easily imagine existing somewhere else,
I just cannot picture my home existing without me,
Call me self centered if you will.
Just answer me this,
What would become of my room?
There is so much of me in there,
Permanent fixtures that would annoy anyone.
My friends painted on the walls,
Ink staining my carpet,
The broken power outlets, used to such extent that all cords must be at a certain angle to work,
To me these things mean home,
To anyone else they would be annoyance in need of repair.
I think of all the effort it would take to expel my presence from my room,
The repainting, recarpeting, redoing, just to get me out,
Would it be worth the effort?
Then I think of the holes I’ll leave behind me.
The books I’ll have to take with me,
Because leaving even one dog-eared whether worn volume is an utter impossibility.
That alone will leave my room nearly empty.
What about the smell of a freshly baked dessert
Will my pie tins be forced into early retirement?
Or even worse,
Will my lovely dishes be sold?
Given to someone who doesn’t appreciate their scorch marks and abundant cracks.
Will my parents try to fill my rickety bookshelf with their own alien tombs?
The thought disgust me, like if someone else were to use my toothbrush.
But worse than the holes I’ll leave are the things I cannot take with me,
The view from my window,
The prodigal richness of my meadow in spring,
The sledding hill in winter.
For every season, very month, practically everyday there is some joy,
Will I ever be able to recover from the loss?
Yet the core of my being seems to call me away,
Begs me to ascend beyond this cluttered and twisted reminiscence of childhood,
This broken version of a shrinking paradise, to small, to old, to painfully familiar.
Is that what home really,
Somewhere so lived in you cannot bear to leave,
or comprehend staying?
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 2:17 AM UTC
in my own world
repainting the walls
dying my hair
combat the urge to make it all fall.
how could I make you see
this isn’t a limited belief
silent
your expectations of me
Sep 22, 2019
Sep 22, 2019 at 2:12 PM UTC
Tonight my anxiety is too bad to sleep
so I am repainting the walls of my heart,
so long over-due
and I have already decorated pink
over the scars you left,
and blue
on the fresh wounds
he cut me with tonight
and I've put both your names in the shredder,
because I just tidied up the living space
and I'm through
with all this ******* chaos.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 5:19 AM UTC
They always say not to let your happiness
Be dependent on something
Or someone
That can leave in an instant
But that's exactly what I find myself doing.
You are the cause of my smile
And the repellent of my frown.
The way your touch covers me
In a seran wrap layer of
Happiness that warms me
Both inside and out,
The way your voice ignites
A fire in my cheeks
And unlocks the cage to a million insects
That fly around my intestines
Bumping into the walls of my organs,
That is something I have become dependent on.
I don't do this,
I don't let down my walls
Usually.
But then you came in,
And knocked them down with every sledgehammer of a smile,
Every bulldozer of a kiss,
And now you're the remodeling team,
Repainting
And heating
The darkest room in the house.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 5:08 PM UTC
It swallowed a dictionary..
It did, it was a hexagonal lexicon,
It got stuck in the oesophagus of the great white whale.
He choked and choked deciding that he needed to clear his throat,
It was getting quite distressed,
Poor thing.
Threw him a packet of PPIs (proton pump inhibitor's,
(Rennie or the like)
Have you ever witnessed a whale ***** before?
The whale's throat was rather sore.
Sea dogs and skippers hold on to your hats.
There's a tidal wave coming and that's about that!
Watching the whale a rumbling and grumbling,
"Below decks the captain said"
The vessels rocked and rolled,
Tossed on the swell,
Good gracious me,
What a terrible smell.
The sea subsided,
The whale felt better,
The crew came on deck.
No need to get wetter.
The sea dogs all shivered as they looked at their boat.
The paint was all stripped off from the juices as noted.
Needed repainting saved them a job.
Gastric juice of the whale had finished the task.
Sick whales are most useful at times,
Especially in one of my little rhymes.
(C) LIVVI
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 5:27 PM UTC
I paint my fingernails
A fresh coat of polish
I cannot afford a construction
Cannot, in this state
Fix my life
So I repaint myself
The tips of my fingers
Now a lavish turquoise
In hopes that by alienating my fingers
I will be able to alienate myself
From myself.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 3:52 AM UTC