"watercolored" poems
love
its a beautiful thing really,
its brutal, its strong
it so deep, and so heartwarming,
and at the same time,
it makes me want to cry, scream
pound my bed,
punch the white cement wall until my knuckles are ****** raw
and the wall has a display of reds.
it makes me want to break an elegant expensive vase, and crush it in my hand.
its destructive, desired, dangerous,
and yet
i want to laugh
i want to sing
and dance!
dance to oh what a night
dance with my yellow watercolored pillow case, with my favorite pillow stuffed inside
oh, love is so peculiar isn’t it?
its spectacular,
and its like standing in the middle of a ballroom
where dresses and suit ties of different hues reflect the chandelier light hanging from the ceiling,
an array of rainbows cast on the walls.
and yet, theres an emptiness…
one I’m afraid i cannot fill, and rely on you to.
its like standing in an ocean of chaos, of excitement and watching it from afar at the same time.
i can see myself swimming with the sharks, yet i am a bystander
as the thread of my life is strung tautly,
i watch myself bleed, gruesomely torn to pieces
i watch as the water darkens from spilt wine,
the wine that was once salty becomes sickly sweet around me
but i continue watching myself become bones stuck in their teeth.
its like being in an aquarium, encased in water,
and yet, still not a part of it, a distance, yet, a proximity
i watch myself drown through the looking glass, unable to help.
the sign says don’t tap the glass, but i pound and pound.
I am the only one watching myself slowly slow, and slowly stop.
stop breathing, stop fighting.
love is holding your breath, being cautious, yet careless.
Its diving recklessly, unsure whether to be sober, or drunk,
and being both.
its like seeing myself on a high diving board, the water beneath is so deep,
it seems to never start, and never end at the same time.
I can see myself, on the edge peering over,
scared to take a leap of faith,
yet relived i can still feel the sharp breaths,
nervous stomach,
because it means i can still feel, i am still capable of human emotions
i thought had left me long ago, before you.
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 9:07 PM UTC
*stepping back into the west
chills reverberate up and down my spine
chiseling open obsolescent padlocks
dangling with dust
on ancient treasure chests
pallid colors in the attic release
a blossoming familiarity
faint hints of retrospections float on faded paper
granting me access to roads
where no map is needed
as i peruse the streets
my heart flows coalescing with the vicinity
caressing each detail i transform to fluid
and fuse with the past
through fresh strokes of watercolored memories
recollections flash before my eyes
revealing antiquated stories
though thought forgotten
an etched history endeavors to define me
renewing itself as i turn each corner
i shudder at some remembrances while encompassing others
through synchronicity realization hits
that I am all of it
yet none of it
at the same time
familiar faces paint meaning onto me
no longer do they know me
yet they airbrush vestiges of yesteryear
and coat me with connotations
i allow them to think i am whatever they imagine
i morph into their canvas temporarily
then break free in multi-dimensionality
they don't hear me with a new listening
no longer invested in their projections
once sharp triggers now appear in soft focus
an auspicious mist lies around the edges
of my former life
it is as if i never left
yet traces of the east lie sandpapered in me
a maturation commingles with my former self
flushing out on my skin
tethering newfound emotions
a gentle gratitude for home territory
nestles softly
inward
i listen to the clicks
of my scuffed cowboy boots
on acquainted yet somehow distant sidewalks
the echoes layering multiple impressions
glimmering with the utter beauty of this terrain
as I wander through the majestic rocky mountains
drinking in the quaking aspen's crimson edges
interfacing the evergreens
hushed whispers of autumn loftily rest
juxtaposed neatly against futures waiting to unfurl in the wind
an amalgamation of intimate sights and scents
dance in open wounds
dazzling
homesickness cured
a wholeness returned
as winter's crystal dawn blooms
i realize the depth of my growth
for in leaving here and returning
i cherish the west
my home
©2016 janetaylor
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 3:50 AM UTC
Tonight, in the darkness of this dimly lit earth,
The infinite stars burn with a translucent color of yellow
resembling the
bulbous moon
shifting, watching.
The trees stretch their willowy spines
over sprouting flowers
against a backdrop of watercolored silhouettes.
A cold rush of air trickles through
leaving behind drops of dew;
lilies, laburnum, larkspur.
Dawn, with her elongated fingers and wispy breath,
steals away into the night.
Patterned and fixated on the early hours of
rose colored reveries when all the earth
bows to the morning star.
And here we lie.
Broken people eclipsed
with secrets, wishes, dreams.
Waiting for our chance
to mask, to revel in the beauty
of a single muse.
Kara Troglin
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 12:35 AM UTC
blaring down at me
sinking me with fired density
the Sun
against watercolored galaxies
I lift a hand
to keep me afloat?
To block out the rays.
I stare up into the cup of my fingers
the background makes it as though I
somehow
left fingerprint molds into the view
I lower my hand to admire the work
but it is not my hand, only birds
scattering in uniform
soft raven and charcoal against ripped blue paper
broad of daylight, I
stand in the middle of the world
every inch of skin
goosebumps rise
to greet the warmth with a kiss.
Apr 1, 2021
Apr 1, 2021 at 8:21 AM UTC
chilly morning wind awakens my skin
her mystical electric blue cat
dances in the daylight
me green fox spirit yogas on the hill
dilly-dallying licking air droplets
dreaming of a sacred light,
the mirror meadow is a sphere of reflection,
A rasta moose and a few gnostic bunnies sit in a drum circle
hashing and workin out a rhythm for the dawn....
Bebop bear bares it's soul in the lapis lake,
meditating on his thankful Mother Nature and her blacklight berry provisions,
Technicolor roses nuzzle together by the water,
velvet vines hug willow trees created of patched fabric
as prink energy embraces the wise tai-chi eagles
atop the ruby mountains.
Serene gardens brush away dirt blankets
fire flowers,
light flowers
lilac compassion illuminate the shade
autumn leaves of time flutter toward sky horizons ......
watercolored wickiups
and spray-paint thipis rest closeby
as the timeline continues to be sewn.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 9:40 AM UTC
He wore nothing other than black even in the summer, his crystal blue eyes reflected ocean-hues and had jet black ink that could slightly be seen under the sleeve of his tattered and torn Rolling Stones tee. That boy, he was quite a mystery, had the body language of a jigsaw puzzle not wanting to be mended, although it was all opaque to me, others saw him impenetrable, however, I read him like my favorite book. This boy is exactly like me intelligent yet covert, impassive and esoteric yet a universe full of secrets and unspoken thoughts. It seemed as if his soul was somber and consumed nothing but vacuity. But I saw a masterpiece, a messily painted work of art, and that was the beauty of it. Others saw chaos on a canvas while I saw every watercolored hue that completed the exotic illustration that was, Luke.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 6:13 AM UTC
"What are you doing here?"
It was the wrong place
for pale, blonde Ms. Molly.
She was into God and other holy things
like Sundays.
2 a.m.
Everybody turned a shade of grey,
meaning nothing to me,
only Molly,
her crystal blue eyes watercolored
by murky bongwater,
at my personal Mother Superior's home.
"What?"
"I said, 'What are you doing here?'"
"Just bored, I guess."
**** Really?"
"Yeah, this guy-um...shit...Chris-no-"
"Brooks" said Brooks.
"Brooks is like a friend of mine. He sits
by me n'stuff."
Somebody put on Neutral Milk Hotel's
"O Comely" and we all sang along.
Innocent, our melody felt like
a jagged kaleidoscope.
I passed the **** no hit for me, not tonight,
to appreciate Molly's smiles I wanted to be
coherent.
"You know, Josh, it's ******* weird."
"What?"
"That I haven't talked to you in four years,
and then we end up at the same campus,
and we are best friends."
She leaned over and kissed my smokey, worn
cheek. Her lips smooth, fine.
No one around said a word.
Everyone knew she had a man.
But are best friends allowed to
be lovers from time to time?
I ******* hope so.
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 10:28 PM UTC
Garden to my left,
colors so bright
the snapdragons and sweet peas
nod their watercolored heads
in the morning's silken light
chutney-colored wall
leading to my door
shoes neatly stacked
with toys in baskets
upon the concrete-patterned floor
plants align the window sill,
marking the flipside to my kitchen
reminding me of wafting tastes
in the form of stir-fry
or juicy chicken
to the right
a pumpkin-spiced ball of fur
my Ginger nestled tight
body rising and falling
in deep slumber's purr
his springtime pillow
puffed just right
The laughter I hear
fills my ears and heart
as children, (mine, too)….play
and I sit with my legs upon the
Tupperware chair
and contemplate the day
Between my palms Turkish coffee
entices with its delicious steam
and here come the thought police
to interrupt my desert dream
Back off *************
I'm not going to jail.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 5:30 PM UTC
As if we’re the first two brushstrokes.
As if our hands
together clasped emerging out of serene water
everything. Spending our time
chasing light in shadow
acting nonchalant about it.
From her window we saw
headlights moving up and
down the city. Their light
against the glass watercolored
by raindrops.
I remember how the curtains held her.
If I could peel just the flowers
off her wallpaper, suspend
them over us in midair and
have them come to life––
In the heat of it all, I’d let them
fall in slow motion.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
my memory of you
of us
of me
now seems like a watercolored painting.
a messy canvas
in which the colors are all blending together.
Yet it is still a bright one
with reds and oranges
just like my dress
the one that you loved
the one that you took off of me with your mouth
you hands barley touching me
yet I craved them
I craved to be in that small warm space
between your breath and my skin.
Now
we are
only what we were:
A beautiful painting.
Every now and then
I take the painting out
dust it off
hang it up.
I hang it up on the various walls in my new home.
The yellow wall in my living room
The lilac walls of my bedroom.
I cannot seem to find a place for it.
In my memory it shall stay.
In my memory is where
your strong hands
your tender smell
your beautiful face
your energy
that shook me
that took me
for the ride of my young life
shall stay.
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 8:58 PM UTC
the city lights
press their wings
against the glass,
watercolored
by raindrops.
her walls a profusion
of coral rich
carnations getting lost
in them remembering
how the curtains held her.
in the heat of it all,
the flowers begin
to peel themselves
off the wallpaper,
suspend themselves
over us in midair,
coming to life,
falling in slow motion.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
flat washes of ink in blue and pink
dragged fingers across the sky
leaving fuzz and glitter in their touch
heavy colors leave me feeling light
the trees give me breath in the morning crisp light and i am mist
floating and twinkling in the air
feet touch the floor
the cool air with its hands
interlocks with my fingers
my hand wishes for yours
it reaches and it falls
empty promises that i’d wish you made
so maybe i can hope for someday
the sky wasnt made- with its pretty pastel shades
to enjoy on my own
pretend with me
take my hand like you can
walk with me like our feet can eat the miles between us
let our lungs fill with freshness
let your lips touch mine
i know you cant but
please step into this painting of a world with me
hold my hand and smile at the watercolored sky
dont tell me yes or no or why
just kiss me under inky pink skies
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 7:40 AM UTC
I remember those poignant
vignettes she wrote last year
they watercolored my heart
and made my pride so delicate
at a time when the sun set
every day and I watched it
thinking of her and the music
played and overflowing
nostalgia trickled down
my cheeks illuminated
by the oh god sun please
I dont want to grow up
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
I am a work of art,
A colorful canvas now shaded gray,
I am suddenly clueless in my own dementia,
Wrinkled paper mache,
Stories to tell but long forgotten,
Faded memories make me smile,
My complex concentration so frustrating,
Everything should be a no brainer but it's not,
Peace of mind is a struggle inside my head,
My visual perception is altered and is watercolored and muted,
Youth was a blunder to me,
I have more wrinkles but fewer doubts,
My fear is my vanity,
Growing old is a privilege, denied by many.
Not I.
I am a classic beauty.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 7:07 PM UTC
The Funeral of Daniel Adams
We gather today,
Under granite sky,
To mourn and pray,
To celebrate and cry,
Daniel was a haunted soul,
Who loved his friends and kin,
Weight of the worlds toll,
Who bottled it all within,
An keen eye for art,
For beauty, music and life,
A large, giving heart,
Watercolored with strife,
Last time we spoke,
He promised he was okay,
Even ended on a joke,
Thinking it a good end to the day,
Daniel thought everyone was lying,
Wanted him around to use and pity,
Inside he was crying,
Hours, absently cruising the city,
Always answered his phone,
Any hour of the night,
Forgiving, but not one to condone,
Always had my back in a fight,
In the end,
He never sought care,
Only others he’d defend,
His plain truth, life isn’t fair,
Given this world a lot of good,
Even lost, he was there,
Lost in would’ve and should,
A dreamer, one to dare,
He dreamt of peace,
Of distant shores and bays,
His demons shackled, no cease,
Screaming at them in empty hallways,
I wish he sought someone out,
Reach out, when he was drowning,
Backup in his mental bout,
Before dark thought started crowning,
I would’ve listened,
If you needed aid, or to cry,
Now our eyes glisten,
You didn’t have to die,
You left a hole,
On my phone but not here,
Not just your own time stole,
Leaving us sorrow and a tear,
Celebrate your life, weep your death,
I wish you decided not to leave,
Shaking under my breath,
We love and grieve,
Just another year...
Instead we sing your song,
Thinking you’d always be near,
We’re confused, scared, hurt, we were wrong,
You were a good son,
A good brother,
Quick with a joke or pun,
Preaching peace among one another,
But drowned in his demons screams,
Droning out the song he sung,
Haunted in fever dreams,
When he turned his own gun,
Daniel, you know me,
I don’t easily rattle,
Just can’t believe I didn’t see,
Grieving you lost your battle,
We’ll always have your memory set,
Venting, emotions to release,
Know we’ll never forget,
Wherever you are, find your peace,
Aug 28, 2019
Aug 28, 2019 at 6:31 AM UTC
it is the ides of march
and i might not be caesar but
i want to be stabbed
******* **** me
and bury me in a cerulean lake
alone and cold and kissed
saddened by the puckers of a watercolored paper
and emptied by a lovers hollow email
telling me goodbye
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 8:43 PM UTC
laughter
weaves
herself
through
the
watercolored
autumn leaves
then
catapults
herself
through
the
pink cotton candy clouds
with
laughter
i
believe
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 5:37 PM UTC
my mind was the canvas
soaking up your words
like paint
leaving me with a watercolored picture
of a love.
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 8:37 PM UTC
life
is a patch of light
watercolored canvas
with
autumn leaves
pumpkin orange
red gold indigo
and
mustard green
made of
odd and even
brush strokes
that
color my dreams
that
a patch of light
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 11:43 PM UTC
where does the line between rose and blue lies
opposite directions meet me at the edging spot
is it a coma or a dot?
melody swings like bird sings swimming in sun dust
some silent men and women clear that noise in the time sun rises hold their brushes
clean streets today have no smell of spring
i paint a lot for that, the smell of start
my hands are aching drying out black inks formed to letters
formed into paws
long pauses
and a quick jump of a cat
chasing birds feathers
cry of help
breath in paint smell ,crush, cross, ruin that line
Imagination is fooling you
start the lies.
no cream can help to cure your featherless skin
Sunburns are breaking walls. isn’t it heartbreaking?
i bite my hands to the blood
meeting dead birds
they are the first flowers in spring
victims of unclear hands
turned out to be dusty paws
last breath of aching winter
long long time before rose blooms
it has her spines
sharpened before strike
no one can get inside your mind
line of thought is under words
line of rose is under spine
line of blue is under song
of a bird
carryied away with the gentle touch of a watercolored brush
of a woman
or a man.
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 10:56 AM UTC