"watercolor" poems
I'd like to think that she's thinking:
"How far have I fallen?"
As she sits on the corner of her bed,
Listening to the soft buzz of his battery-powered toothbrush.
I imagine her,
Running her fingers through her clumsy, coagulated hair.
Glancing at her chipped, crimson toe nails,
Then looking to her class ring,
Made entirely of imitation ingredients,
Wondering when is the proper time to trash it.
When she was still a friend of mine,
I never saw her wear make up,
I never saw her show off in tight jeans
or low-cut tees.
But as he spews the toothpaste into the sink,
Skinny jeans lay tussled on the floor,
Next to the side door
that leads to his sister's side room.
The make up she wears
is from the night before.
It's skewed and shows evidence of running,
Like a wasted watercolor.
I'd like to think he isn't that handsome,
And that he's obsessed with Paul Walker.
I'd like to think when he re-enters the room,
He's in grey sweatpants,
He's wearing a black tank top,
With a Confederate flag backdrop,
With two barely dressed babes looking ******
in the foreground.
His hair, unwashed and greasy.
He rubs his belly,
And bears an idiot grin
on his face.
Looking like he just learned how to smile
at this pace.
"Did it feel good?"
feel good.
After he asks, he scans her body,
Beginning at those crimson toes,
And Ending at that clumsy hair.
Every second he scans,
He still wears that drawn-on
Idiot grin.
I'd like to think at this point she thinks of me.
Of my warnings and prophesy.
Her eyes start at the chipped toe nails,
Course over her tanning bed-inspired legs.
And finally reach the only thing she has on,
A t-shirt that belongs to his sister.
A t-shirt, when given by him,
It was mentioned, "thanks, mister".
Though she didn't satisfy all his redneck intentions,
During last night's expedition.
He still paid her back with a morning
one-sided session.
"It felt good" she says.
In reference to the ten minute **********
When her body was strummed and plucked,
Underneath his sister's Terri Clark T-shirt.
As she sits in the filth and the ****** fallout,
On a bed that is six days *****
While he is grinning,
Being everything but wordy.
I'd like to think she's thinking:
"How far have I fallen?"
Jun 4, 2010
Jun 4, 2010 at 10:31 PM UTC
I am adept
In the art of being okay
I have mastered the craft
Of covering my troubles
I use all sorts of fancy facades
Acrylic, oil, watercolor
You name it.
I can paint over nearly anything
You will never know
How late I was up last night
Or why.
My eyes flicker
Like candlelight
But you couldn’t see
You couldn’t possibly see
I’m too good
For that.
I can dance, too
Waltzing away my sorrows
Carefully tip toe-ing the
Pas-de-I-am-fine
I get a standing ovation every time
I’m very talented, you see.
But my all time favorite
Is my disappearing act
I’m still perfecting it
Right now
But one of these days
I’ll show you
How I
Slip
Slip
Slip
Away
Right through your fingers.
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 4:37 PM UTC
Filter the perfect shade of the forenoon sun,
Not too bright, not too dull.
For with ease and carefree thoughts,
You let the sunbeam-drizzling fairies play
As the beauty reflected in your retinas.
Capture this scenic view:
Where the burnt chestnut colored oaks
And mudstained sweetheart sundress of yours
Dance in three-four beats of waltz.
The Crayola strokes of the skies
And the watercolor streaks of daydreams and nightmares
Paint the canvas of your disquited thoughts.
This is the peripheral view from your suncrashed irises and corners,
This is your world.
Let your knees down to your sore feet
Be engulfed by the chasms of the bewildered grass,
As the smile makes it way to your plump spring lips;
Callused fingers from guitar strings
Twirl and twist the blades,
Cutting through flesh
And green and red and blue and yellow,
All sorts of color came spilling from your playful bruise.
From this panoramic view of yours
Of a wonder wonderland,
Where the ticks of clock
Follow the sunflower throughout time and forever,
This is the beauty of that stem:
A key to escapism
To a well-dreamt lovely world.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 6:30 AM UTC
~~~~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
nostalgia
as soft sun filters through palm leaves
and the clouds purple, the skies painted pastel pinks
surfboards stand seven feet tall
the salt water glowing, sparkling
a dark watercolor blue hue
i am reminded of the spring and summertime
of happier days
as I drive by the sea that glints waves to me
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 4:09 PM UTC
Oh sunset, your aura still lingers,
A charming shade across the sky,
A perfect watercolor painting,
The first sign of day waving goodbye.
Oh sunset, you're so beautiful,
Your colors paint the air,
Flashes of the brightest hues,
You leave traces everywhere.
Oh sunset, how you grin,
With such a cheerful light,
Your lovely warmth is always,
An unexpected delight.
Oh sunset how you have lit my path,
Tolerated my blurry tears,
You're a familiar place, where I've loved and lost,
But still you remain, despite the cruel years.
Oh sunset, now you're dancing,
Alive, and carelessly free,
Sunset im feeling jealous,
Oh I wish that could be me.
Oh sunset, how fleeting, mysterious,
You never do stay for long,
Just enough moments to make me realize,
What in my life is so very wrong.
Oh sunset I despise your tricks,
The way you flirt with the sky,
I am not as easily deceived,
I see right through your lie.
Oh sunset i see youre wilting,
but please don't go just yet,
I need your flimsy arms to hold me,
and im scared i will forget.
Oh sunset, you fade, silent as always,
A trickle of fear touches my heart,
A sliver of doubt is all that I need,
To tear this beauty apart.
Oh sunset, you smile, wink, just play,
Deciding it's time to make haste,
So gone is the promise of comfort and love,
All hopes, all dreams; a silly waste.
The treetops aloft are golden,
but shadows are closing in,
Oh sunset i would love you more,
If you werent so weak, such a coward, a fool,
To let the darkness win.
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 12:56 AM UTC
pony-tailed playmate
head tucked in her shirt
gazing steadily down
at her toes in the dirt
chaos tiptoes around her
naive oblivion
journeys in far away lands
just west of the meridian
watercolor fairy tales
bleeding outside the lines
unaware of the danger
unaware of the signs
let me sit with you, darling
in the dampened flower beds
and paint a new world
for us in our heads
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 11:25 PM UTC
Watercolor raindrops
Feathery clouds doodled on the sky
Opened windows scared of accidental suicides
A melody of soap bubbles dancing in the wind
Lazy days stretching on forever
Sometimes summer wins
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
The sky turned navy, while
saltwater dreams threaded through shipwrecks on the sea floor
Darkness haunted the ruins like ink-stained ghosts
and you couldn't see the stars under the waves and the jellyfish and the rust
because we were all too scared to swim away from the
familiar, beautiful
nauseating darkness
Our footsteps were heavy, as if we
were weighted down by bricks
The ethereal electricity of the ocean's embrace
dragged wandering pieces of thought back into consciousness
as the fading stars left our veins flowing a
broken-watercolor-aquamarine
Dawn began to dust the clouds with her coral-rose blush
light rained down on fluttering eyelashes
so we became moths, flinging ourselves
onto street-lamps and into fires and through windows of hearts
The jellyfish drowned in its own phosphor and
up
we
fell
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 1:31 AM UTC
The morning sun rays bathing the soul
Waking it up from the dreaming consciousness
Eyes soaking in the awakened beauty
Taking off the cover of night, to reveal a new day
Sun rays swathing over the valley
A watercolor painting over the Earth’s canvas
Vivid colors are splashed to create a spectacle to behold
A wave of warm embrace caresses us
As we get ready to rise up to the occasion
To usher a new day and new dreams in our heart
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 7:47 AM UTC
Solemnly and silent
In subtleties she calls to me
Falling into my heart caverns
And running through my veins
Through my body
And where I am she’s close to me
Exuding watercolor dreams
Like a painter reacquainting me
With once greyish reality
And every morn, I hear her sing
In voice that constructs melody
As if to say to newest sun
To shine ever still
All subconsciously
And I would follow lyrically
Each instruction as they ring
Like notes in my mind harboring
This subtle, silent calls to me
Aug 11, 2021
Aug 11, 2021 at 12:53 AM UTC
we both had two different painting styles. he was into calligraphy, the bold and gentle strokes of black ink on white paper; i was into watercolor, the translucent colors slowly spreading to a gradient on a Canson. we were two painters with brush styles of stark contrasts.
three objects. a flower arrangement, an antique vase and grecian sculpture. we were asked to pick the most eye-catching one out of the three, paint it in our of style of representation. and so we began.
him: what will you be painting?
me: i can't tell, you might judge me for it.
him: alright, but promise me you'll show it to me once you're done.
me: okay. same to you too, then.
hours passed, and while i often discreetly glimpsed at him, he caught my eye sometimes and would make funny faces or just softly smiled at me. i could not deny that my hands were shaking as i dunked my brushes into the watercolor jar and continued to finish my painting.
him: i'm finally done. this is a masterpiece.
me: i believe it's the same for me too.
him: should we count down as we turn our boards to each other?
me: nothing better than a surprise of what's the most beautiful thing out of all the objects before us.
we flipped our boards to each other's viewpoint, and we were both shocked to be looking at ourselves, a painting of ourselves, one done by the other. he painted me in black and white, a figure-ground influenced painting, strong in lines, simplicity in its finest state, rendering me bare and raw. i painted him in pale colors, a positive reflection of him lighting up life, and soft shadings to give depth to the meaning of his existence.
after knowing this and scrutinizing our works, his cheeks turned pink as the pink on my palette, while i covered my eyes with my hair as dark as his ink. we burst out laughing and blushing at the fact that the most beautiful object before our eyes was each other.
sometimes, i wonder if he's my muse, the art or the artist. and i felt like a watercolor jar at that exact moment, as if brushes soaked with different colors were being dipped into me all at once, the tint, hue and vibrancy bleeding into the clear liquid, getting murky. it was like those colors are my emotions, and with every emotion mixing, my thoughts get murky. i guess this is how it feels to be in love with all forms of art at once.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 12:58 PM UTC
You are the velvet to my lace, the freckles on your face, the rocket to outer space when i’m forgetting why my feet need to hit the ground.
You are three seconds away from a sunrise when I desperately need the light, you are a cup of tea and wisdom, and you are a giggle at just the right moment while the blood exchanges ideas between my wide-eyed fanatic manic panic mind and my static acrobatic heart.
You are love and a smile when everything around has fallen dark. We fall down the seasons, each leaf turned to green as the time is subjective as valued.
we fall down the winter of broken glass and torn kneecaps and into the summer of understanding and patched hearts.
We fall down the stairs of the boy who was the blank slate and into the arms of the boy who painted his stone happy.
You are the living room of my soul, where all the pictures make us smile just to look at them and the quilt on the couch is beautiful enough to make up for the small tear in the corner. Where the cups of tea sipped are innumerable as the curls on your head and the watercolor windows open past our souls and into our worlds.
Someday we’ll be able to keep track of our socks and get enough sleep but right now I’m still figuring it out. I’m still trying to connect the sky to the tree to the earth to the tesseracted interaction theatrical statement of who I am and what I will be. We will become.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
She is so weird
She is so weird
She is so weird
The other girls all float around with their eyes painted like cats,
Rounded with black and flicked up at the end, but she
Swims with
her eyes painted like fish
One little flick down
One little flick up at the
End and
The other girls whisper about her
Saying
She is so weird
She is so weird
she is so weird
because
She has watercolor lips
In pretty shades of pink
Not sharp
And
Red
Like the other girls
She is not a collection of edges and shadows, she is
Soft and
She is so weird
She is so weird
She is so weird
She looks dreamy
And sometimes
Confused
The other guys whisper that
There is
Not much there
In her head
And that
she is So weird
She is so weird
She is so weird
She has three black lines embedded in the
Side of the
skin on her neck
Stacked like deep
Vs lined under
Each other and once I asked her
If they were birds in flight
Or gills
And she laughed
It wasn’t cruel
She pulled me close
And whispered both
With a smirk
And then she smiled wide
And shook her head and told me
That
I Am so weird
I am so weird
I am So weird
And though I knew it was an insult
When the cats whispered it
It wasn’t one when it came from the fish
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 1:58 AM UTC
the long day
has given itself into evening
she and i lay in eachother's arms
beneath the traces of stars
watching the lights of passing ships in the sea
listen to the waves rock our skiff
taste the salt air in our every sense
and slowly the rest of the worlds fades from view
to just us
as our soft talking drifts through the hours
she caresses my arm and laughs
i breath her hair and all the scents of her womanhood
and i feel like i could break with all the love i feel inside of me for her
like a window to all the hopes and dreams i ever had
telescopes into one moment
any moment she and her hippie girlfriends are gonna
roll in with sandwich's and green tea
for the hungry masses
and smiling they will pass the time talking
and laughin with young voices
and my neighbor catches them in watercolor
a bright flowing device and masterpiece
his old fingers dart over the canvas
and you can feel the sunlight in his images
you can hear the sweet laughter
we wander long the back street
with the open air market
they are callin out in happy voices
in the strong trade winds
and don't cha know that its so easy to forget all your troubles
and leave the whole world behind
here in the ocean breeze
here under a tropical moon
they all end up sleeping in a pile on the bed
i slept there too
one hippie chick is living on a carnival ride with lifetime
supply of cotton candy
a couple of hippie chicks
is nothing short of
well....everything you could have ever wanted
rolled up on your bed a tangle of dreadlocks arms and legs
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 4:41 PM UTC
She's high fashion on a budget,
capturing the world from her own angles.
Watercolor stains on anything she touches,
but vibrancy is not for her.
Her voice is the texture of heavy-duty paper,
and something about her seems littered in floral,
But she is too industrial for that to make sense,
as the city breaths her in and out.
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 10:59 PM UTC
in
Tanzania
where
migrating herds of
wildebeests, gazelles, zebras and buffalos
stampeding across
the
vast Serengeti Plains
ignite the world
then
write
their names
in gold
ignite
the
skyline of earth
create
a painted
watercolor sunset
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 8:30 PM UTC
i saw you the way an artist does
brilliant and bathed in holy fire
your scars
the strokes of a brush
your anatomy every medium
your smile
a photograph in
black and white
your lips
oil on canvas
your eyes
watercolor on paper
your hair
texture and dimension
on a portrait
you and i
an unfinished graffiti
an unorthodox art form
fleeting and reflective
but a masterpiece
nonetheless
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 6:23 AM UTC
blue wash
watercolor sky
and cactus-covered
rolling hills on the horizon.
only going 50 in a 45
because we want to get
there quickly, but not
too quickly.
or maybe we're just
trying to keep up.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 1:28 PM UTC
My body is a canvas
The type you get at Michael's in a pack of three
For $12.99
Pre-gessoed and ready to go
Though they probably won't last forever,
Hanging on a nail in your grandpa's home
I paint my wrists with watercolor bruises,
Purple and blue
Like clouds drifting by a setting sun
I sketch out lines across my thighs
My every action amplified into a performance art piece
I draw with little dots of ink, until I get a picture as permanent than I am
I cut and dye my hair like cloth
Knowing one day
I will figure out how to stitch myself back together
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 8:40 AM UTC
The Picture Window
The vista view never changes but daily.
The naked eye, registers the same distances,
resting objects unmoved, modest alterations
by wind and water are noted, but for intent,
for purpose, the watercolor one would paint
be invariably unvarying as a Swiss Alp.
The subtle nuanced worldview, where the sky
stretches from ceiling to a foot above ground, as
I lay prone neath the coverlet, vista always subtly differing,
from its prior reincarnation, self-reflection demands to know.
Alive & Awake? Yes.
Breathing steady? Yes.
Toes? Still can wiggly to & fro.
My soul?
Presumably ok, as I write, because I write, the
picture window into to my insight, though oft blurry,
yet intact, making discernible the changes in light,
temperature and heart rate, as the body/soul contraption modulates, just as the gradient of daylight shifts lighter and higher, with a rising sun bringing more clarity to our interactive encounters with our environments..
The picture window internalized, much the same,as
the vista, subtle modest changes, colorations variegated,
are registered. Today is mostly cloudy overcast, and shall remain so for the foreseeable future, which be about two days hence. Not unsurprisingly, methinks, the future tends to be cloudy.
Beyond that peripheral, no one can say, our macular envisioning only gets weaker,time is a tough taskmaster
and uncertainty is it’s own principle.
But I can say, forecast from well under the comforter,
that more than less, where less is more, this picture window,
ex and in, shall remain, unchanged for the remainder of my years that fortune shall provide, and will & would grant me awakenings to the ex-sight and in-sight of a sculpted landscape, of negative entropy, where disorder minimal.
My musings end here, unless you still wish, come the morrow,
what the marrow the day reveals, what the window will spill,
new and exciting, subtly unchanged, and always different.
Caution: The injection of caffeine may dramatically alter
the windows perspective, as the exogenous always trumps the
endogenous.
5:50 AM
P.S. Making coffee clarifies: If the vista in +/- unchanging,
then, all my personal, own horizons are immortal as well.
Jun 4, 2023
Jun 4, 2023 at 6:34 AM UTC
She walked out of the watercolor storm of a fresco
Like a cowl-bound form in a light drizzle of rain,
Her mosaic tiles of ancient lovers’ eyes, ceramic-borne,
Just as her hips held the curves of the urn, kiln-fired,
The coiled heat of Greece still stinging through her flesh.
For her, the treetops had been the summoners of storm,
In kind, she poured down the wet grove of her hair, electral,
Pantheress of humid breath and fanged flair of lightning,
Tamed once in the cloudy cage of Pentelic marble of the Parthenon.
But the world piled dust before her, baiting with its groveled roads,
For her black mullings, much-tasted rain, and heaven’s leaves to fall.
If only the Michelango-to-come had carved the clouds of her
For the light to remain, shining its centuries,
Then maybe the thunder would have been left undone.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 2:17 PM UTC