"stippling" poems
Get out your sponges, stippling brushes and pens,
It’s time for makeover-Monday-night to begin.
Think Winky Lux, L’Oréal, Urban Decay,
Maybelline, Armani and Fabergé
It’s a black magic realm where brushes are wands,
where a carnival of colors are carefully crayoned.
We have palettes aplenty, in kaleidoscope hues,
to create fashion looks, both bold and subdued.
In the realm of makeup fashion, where trends never end,
we remodel each other - for fun - when we can.
Tonight, our new friend Jammie has come to watch us play,
and he even brought two bottles of chardonnay.
Lisa has a ‘Miss Rose’ case, like she saw in Bernadette Peters’
dressing room, on a backstage tour of the Shubert Theatre.
Konjac, Kabuki, Doe foots, Spoolie, Lisa’s got legit tools to use.
“When it comes to makeup,” she says, “always avoid dupes.”
That night I was the chosen face, the excited living canvas.
Lisa’s a practiced artist, her process is brisk and never tedious.
She painted my lips a crimson cherry, alluring and brightly sensuous,
my brows were moonlit art, my cheeks a midnight adumbrated edifice.
Lisa created a special look, where rebellious edge met elegance.
We took some snaps, then I washed it off - but Jammie was impressed!
Jun 6, 2023
Jun 6, 2023 at 10:51 PM UTC
Racing thoughts are not an
internal contradiction.
It's not crying while laughing.
It most certainly is not an inept,
young adult that describes
their mood-swings as being "bipolar."
Don't fret,
because I will explain,
in depth.
At this given moment I can list pages upon pages of what it isn't. And that's the point, maybe, considering that these racing thoughts have created enough points to produce a stippling picture of an overall paranoia.
Four days into this headache, an unattainable inquiry is not reason.
It's not reason.
Not reason.
Not reason.
At this point in my life there is nothing to achieve by convincing strangers of my sanity. No matter how many times I may try and blink a person away, it just leaves me with tired eyes, and in the end, less credibility. I'm gasping for air with a plastic bag wrapped around my head, praying that my body can find peace and not twitch. But I'm fooling myself, like a friend, your friend. One that exclaims love and intimacy, but is given a kiss on the forehead, blocking my third eye.
Then after a tumultuous day of unknowing and racing thought, I'm left in a neurotic state, waiting for a cool down period before I'm left
toxic and unwanted.
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 2:13 AM UTC
The weight of the world
Sits on his chest
As he breaths
He grasps for it
Rose petals fall
Straight from his head
As his eyes burn
Like fire, again, and again
Mouth sewed shut
Her needle pokes through
Stippling his heart
Like a car wreck
The moment his hands left
He can't remember
When he lost control
Drunk driving
Into her soul
E.s.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 12:40 PM UTC
A hollow stippling of a soul in the breeze
hiding in the bushes of perilous vexing
there are days when the wind howls
whispers darkly at the ominous night
feel the chill that passes through
dances coolly on pressed eyelids
floats tepid beyond the senses
know it's the emptiness that comes
right before realities' disenchantment
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC
such sweet stippling
painted to perfection
your fresh face
in love and like
our altered age
distanced by difference
this conundrum
separated by space
Aug 9, 2011
Aug 9, 2011 at 8:44 PM UTC
“Mysterious Waters of the Naked and Nervous”
She begins her life
along with nine-thousand seven hundred fourteen siblings
in the shallowest part of the pond,
just four days after being laid as a jelly egg
attached to a fern leaf bent over humid water.
On day seven she sallies to neighboring weeds
using a very circular route
quietly clings to **** watches with terror
as brothers and sisters are attacked
by sharp beaked birds
swooping down to chew helpless tadpoles,
devouring membranes that cover their gills and necks.
One of few tadpoles to survive to day ten.
officially becomes a tiny pitch black pollywog
with continuously wiggling tail and small round mouth
of ***** jaws that scrapes across tiny plants,
searching for something to eat.
She greedily swallows microscopic animals
found inside pond bottom ooze
and slime which clings to pond’s surface.
Devouring a particularly tasty ooze meal,
she is horrified to witness
tadpole brothers and sisters eating each other,
siblings extending their bellies
by swallowing extended family.
Mostly tail with fine stippling of gold,
within twenty-four hours she breathes
from two gills at each side of her throat
as hind legs suddenly sprout
rounded buds that soon turn into toes
amazing her how fast she can propel
away from murderous dive bombing birds of color.
She first demonstrates courage
by a successful attack of black fish that menaces her for hours.,
******* on its fish fins until they are ragged,
not in anger or self-defense
more for tasty algae trapped within them.
But it does feel good to be able to destroy instead of being destroyed.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 8:22 AM UTC
my heart was a monotonous beeping
a soft old grandfather clock,
background noise at dinner parties
and a focal point for insomniacs
it droned on, neither increasing or decreasing,
neither rising or falling,
a steady beat of a steel drum on a hot summer night
i moved an inch closer to you
my heart was a ticking time bomb,
still steady as clockwork
but adding drama to the movie screen
it was stippling and a connect-the-dot photo of a sailboat
if you wired me up to a machine,
the line of my heart would be a steadily increasing mountain,
closer and closer to the destination
which is you
three inches closer
my heart was alla turca on piano
and impressionist paint strokes
it was dashed-dotted-dashed-dashed
it was swift like wind and current
it was nearly hummingbird wing
nearly death defying
you are two inches away
my heart has broken metronomes,
the tempo reached over five hundred
and chatter flooded into it
speaking words so fast
it sounds like a language from another planet
sometimes i wonder if my heart is really like mount rushmore
but it's not the head of founding fathers carved into the side
but the way you look when you look at me
you are here, i am here
the love i feel for you is plotted out on graph paper covering my floors but it keeps running off the page and i don't have enough paper
(a.m.c.)
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 4:15 PM UTC
When I pass into the wall of the glass..
..everything ripples.
A stippling effect which is no doubt due
To the movement of the mirror as it lets me on through.
Alice did it a long time ago and she showed me that
..if I tried really hard..
..I could fold myself flat and no one would see..
..Except the reflection of me
As I went into the looking glass.
She was right as ever.
Alice was seldom wrong but she didn't belong where this world resides
Locked behind images that hide behind faces
that look into places where no one should go.
I should not be here I know but..
..I had to go see.
And looking at me that is looking at me behind the mirrors that free all illusion
I'm confused by the notion that the mirror's an ocean
An imperfection in the reflection?
Am I just a section..a rip in the ripple that I thought due to the stippling effect,
Affecting an air of nonchalance
I try to balance my act as I'm attacked by an idea
I should be a
Circus performer.
I can't stay here forever..Alice never..nor will I.
I've got my eye on the glass
Wonder if it's thinking of letting me pass..
..back on through.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 2:57 PM UTC
Sterile white cast a sharp sillhouette
Againt burgundy--
That swam with shadowy velvet
And creamy blurs of silk
Each so like a soft brush stroke
Save for that sterile white
In its clean geometry;
And the carpet installed short and durable
By hopeful design it would last
Through years of dance-worthy occasions
Ballroom turf bled into my hiding place
Stippling my palms pink
As my weight shifted
And I leaned into the wafting scents
Of ladies' perfumes and catered delicacies
Every time the table cloth rippled
Out of fear or respect from passerby
Even shimmied with the clinking of glasses
Above the dull congratulatory murmur of guests
Later they would all be drunk
And murmur would turn to ruckus
But then, only indistinguishable voices
Too they were far away, drifting almost
Enough
I imagined nothing but that white
Sterile still, pure
And matrimonially sweet
The tiny bride and groom testifying from atop
But a plan was already in motion
To hide and wait;
The waiting was done
So young, as I was
Finding nothing so sacred I couldn't soil it
Found the oppurtunity to touch my tongue to it
That white, I wouldn't say sterile
But oh so sweet.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
I am sure the unintended consequence of mixing past and present tense is in the future,hence I shall go on to see
what tomorrow holds for me.
A thought,the brother to each other wraps itself around me tightly.
I tread lightly on the stair leading off and up somewhere, where I will no doubt find the sisters to these thoughts in mind.
Pay no heed,
I lead to a cul de sac,don't follow there's no coming back,I am the stippling of your day,stay where you are or spread your wings and look to what tomorrow brings. the mountains sing your name,the eagles dare play games with time,floating points within the rhyme of life.
Unwrap your hope upon the slopes of gentle rolling hills and still your dreams until it all seems
all right.
I walk the line between the good and bad time that we all will know in time,shaving whiskers off the hours until the year that comes overpowers me,
falling free, how from these chains I shall be now,
the spit of rain
feeling nothing
but the feel of your face and the touching of skin,
pinned to consequence of intensity and your elegance
unashamedly.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 4:15 AM UTC
Away from the scent you love the most,
Eccentricities that cannot anyone host,
Laughs that **** the excruciating woes,
Smiles that swoon the tangled furrows,
Persiflages hidden in the frivolous boasts,
Fleeting skirmishes drenching with Rose,
Trenchant wits stippling Eros.
How can you be extant, my love, I'm a ghost.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
a duck
**** her
foot by
daphne there
to clear
stream on
a day
to walk
to wood
with stippling
and catch
breeze ashore
as tiny
men here
are nice
to see
him play
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 8:09 AM UTC
Forget the seasons
Their flavors hold no inherent meaning
Manufactured frostbite
Fleeting
Overpaid cosmeticians mask our ugly dealings
How cripplingly demeaning
Forget the seasons
Their flavors still hold no real meaning
Amputated tree limbs
Seating
Underpriced prostitution builds translucent ceilings
How cripplingly demeaning
Was it worth the price of heaven?
To view angels as the demons
To build a sulfur kingdom far away from sheepish bleating
Though joyful sound resounds around the fallen flock I've found, I cannot make a sound that permeates when I'm not bleeding.
Take your trivial differings draw, them up in stippling and call it meaningfully crippling.
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 7:03 AM UTC
You are so much more
than a drunk writer's anthology
of rough verses and mismatched rhymes
of broken sonnets and unsent letters
You are so much more
than the woes of a hopeless romantic
strewn across papers against Juliet's walls
and heavy locks weighing over the Seine
You are so much more
than the regrets pushed back and forth
between the empty gazes of our swollen eyes
as you pull back tears in time for dinner
You are so much more
than the seams unraveling from that sweater
you wear to hide the scars covering your empty arms
and to somehow feel the warmth of being held again
Darling, you are so much more
than you could ever see right now
You are a ballad
boldly written with songs played by angels
and the graceful sorrows of unsung heroes
quietly tugging heartstrings at the break of dawn
You are the moss
tracing cracks along forgotten walls
and worn-out sidewalks reminding us how to bloom
in places we never thought we could
You are the light
spilling through half smiles and broken laughs
stippling agonizing voids with luminous diamonds
that draw constellations of faith and hope
You are the shooting star
stumbling across this dark and infinite sky
as I close my eyes and desperately wish
that you finally see yourself the way I do
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 10:25 AM UTC
This room, a field of shattered daisies
Stalks of withered doubt break in the breeze
Wishing wells of hope lie drained and rank
It all falls to the rhythm of your lies
Storms melt the ozone above
Stippling the rain as it falls on my tongue
Burning me with fire cold as your blood
And the dark cadence of your voice
Raggedy songs twist like vines over the rooftops
Shivering me as they echo down forever streets
Drawing musty shadows from forgotten gardens
Lavished with neglect
While l, clad in dry withered leaves and
A sulk of brambles
Fall with the Seasons, trembling like a leaf
Under coverlets, sewn with promises of comfort
Stitches undone by deceit
Night’s peace yields to floods of unquiet
Squalls of questioning
And a tree tap tapping staccato sympathy
On the window, the wall, my bones
Time slips through tangles of sleep
And stubborn naive obsession
My heart beats a hailstorm of disillusion
Watching mirrors fox all your reflections
My innocent love lies crucified
In the orbs of your Narcissus eyes
Jun 1, 2019
Jun 1, 2019 at 9:23 AM UTC