"stipples" poems
~~~
Quivering horizons
A palette of picturesque love
stipples weary seascapes
in amethyst ribbons,
pink carnation reflections
blush upon lip glossed beaches
caressing blue skies' gaze
and flip flop yearnings,
quivering horizons
of bougainvillea blooms
drench our hearts,
so we pause silently
as a poetic sunset
paints a masterpiece
in twilight brushstrokes
inspired by our
euphoric daydreams
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 7:08 PM UTC
The wind's fingers reached into his collar,
pinching him with the cold
With another stroke of the paintbrush
The blue mixed with the gold
The walkers who ventured o’re the shore
Stared at the mumbling man
Whose teeth were stained with yellow
And drank to calm shaking hands
The burning lights blurred in the water
Pooling refractions and ripples
He captured the heavenly bodies
As the canvas he covered in stipples
Azure he blended with the indigo,
canary and honey and flax
The cool and the warm melded in one
candle and moon, wane and wax
Soft falls the light in the harbor
The stillness of night overcast
In the river he cleans off his brushes
And turns round for home at the last.
Mar 9, 2021
Mar 9, 2021 at 11:15 PM UTC
after the rain
tide out
the sea
a sliver of mauve silk
in the distance
sand pockmarked
with footprints
like paintbrush stipples
a mishmash of patterns
naked to the sky
all pastel hues blended
with a slippery finger
ultramarine
into a violet yawn
into a lavender blush
into an apricot kiss
the mellow slosh of water
chatter
sun setting
as a pinkish glimmer
slithers over the beach
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 10:34 AM UTC
Visualizing marbles, closing my eyes I see a few at a time
Indigo blue mysterious and impenetrable shooter
Bubbling and flowing honey colored amber marbles
Perfectly clear crystal ball-like marbles
Translucent jade green sphere-like marbles
Multicolored with white stipples - Earth-like
Practicing over and over still cannot visualize them without word labels.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
feeling sultry,
the air encircles the fan palm trees
afflicted stray cloud,
stipples in vain on banal sky
the presence beside the window,
hangs between sleeping and awakening
the soul starts to chat
with your images on window glass
the lithe summer night journey,
embraces the creaks of mind
the thirsty sleep,
drinks the dreams heartily
the grieved ship,
itself becomes the consoling sea
this summer night-
this journey-
the first inclination
towards each other-
these senses recall you
as i tie my heart-beat to your anklet
as i accomplish the wings to meditating caterpillar
as i trim the curves of rainbow in water-drop
as i gift the freedom to the breeze
you become my word
you become my journey
you become my love
you become the wait at my destination!
the lithe summer night journey,
embraces the creaks of mind
negotiates with the memories of bodies
it is an attractive incomplete devout journey !
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC
Rings on rosewood linger
from a cold glass of ice
that warmed but soon after,
whose contents evaporated away.
My chaser became the room,
matching it twice
in form and temperature,
Would never have stayed.
So I roll the glass
with a retrograde tilt,
but keep it in place,
but keep it at hilt
such that knurls on the crystal,
jagged knuckles on the base,
make it thump in a path
and it steps and it stilts
in its own kind of track
while connection with the ground
through multiple laps
stipples neatly on a plane—
infinite curve by singular tack.
And this motion is contained
to the confines of the round
of a bullseye-mark stain
where a highball was put down.
Reminds the afternoon patina,
the hunching over my piano,
the warmth of its shade of cocoa.
And the mug I placed on its bench,
where subsequently the lacquer
gave way to warmer matter
and a matte “O” was forever etched in print.
Reminds of sap-stuck fingers
that ailed us backwoods explorers,
that neither the soap nor the hottest water
could manage to separate.
Reminds of the smell of the road
that gashed through wild mint
with its tire-milled dirt pounded thin,
and the hazel dust that arose
and managed to stay ever close
when the little Sahara was traversed again.
Those clouds would form and move and clove,
and the dry would pinch in your nose;
yet it seemed the only stretch of land
to never see any rain.
And now it strikes as strange,
and I’d love to explain, but can’t—
the green was never killed,
while cleaved, and beaten, and grilled;
it managed to weather the dust
and ride on the cusp
of the electric months after May.
These things don’t peel away.
Reminds how none of this strays
too far from the path,
or too far out of mind,
and the nature of present and past,
how inseparably they bind.
Like the light to the glass,
one moves through the next,
and all the moments hug tight,
each forebears another's context.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 5:51 AM UTC