"watercoloring" poems
Spending Nights cheaply,
television doesn't work,
rats or moths,
have chewed the wires,
now a black square,
sits quiet,
Monk like,
Enlightened,
reflecting me,
dust layer,
my plastic texas radio,
calmly,
oozes,
discharges,
Jazz,
my final cigarette,
silently waiting,
like the television,
like the *****
patiently watercoloring on red lipstick,
seducing not me,
but my lungs,
the ego.
And I fantasize being in an Italian cafe,
smoking,
with low eyes,
like a hill,
with a Gold hungry man
excavating for Fortune,
or bones of Glory,
and maybe a leaking pipe line,
dripping wisdom.
And a tall Italian goddess,
walks,
appears like a ****** magician,
into the cafe,
as the Italian Night,
dances ****
the stars like beauty marks,
and quaint street lamps illuminating,
sidewalk puddles,
like jewelry,
worn by an immortal belly dancing siren singer,
who lost her voice,
seducing Gods,
now mute,
cursed to ****** Man by her body.
And she sits down,
her legs dark like mud,
but glistens like the hot Sahara Desert,
and her scent,
is not of Cacti and Lizards,
but of Roses,
but of Rust Michigan,
over comes the roasting beans,
like a house burglar,
or a spider,
creeping up on its fly prey,
enters my nose,
and my recollection of beauty,
is warped,
simply by the way she lightly,
taps,
her fingers,
against her legs,
like a light drizzle,
on a tin shack roof,
after a century of drought.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
*As rainbows emanate
within my soul,
watercoloring
all my emotions.
Painting stories
on my inner scroll,
as rainbows emanate
within my soul.
Dabbling colors
on the canvas whole,
waves of hues
swirling within my ocean.
As rainbows emanate
within my soul,
watercoloring
all my emotions.
When colors
combine and intertwine,
within the palette
of my heart.
Makes me feel fine
with a happy shine,
when colors
combine and intertwine.
Paintbrush emotions
tickle my spine,
my happiness
is a work of art.
When colors
combine and intertwine,
within the palette
of my heart.
As it paints laughter
upon my face,
each stroke
becomes a smile.
All the colors and hues
I embrace,
as it paints laughter
upon my face.
Pigments of love,
and faith, and grace,
are the colors
of my style.
As it paints laughter
upon my face,
each stroke
becomes a smile.*
Feb 13, 2018
Feb 13, 2018 at 8:51 AM UTC
"Expressing your feelings
couldn't be called art."
So birthed
Shakespearean Walts —
whose puns crammed nature
into mens' hands
and shadowed doubts
that we are all human.
The need to rhyme
and snort out some lines
demoned great minds
who refused to color
outside the lines.
Metaphor ran over happiness,
watercoloring lines
in INK.
*"A petal is
a woman who fails
when she wilts."*
So girls learn to answer,
coyly in high school english,
that everything but petals
are ******* symbols.
No reflection needed,
when nature is a *****
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
loose gravel crunching loudly beneath me transposes
into the soft thudding of my feet against the soil.
the meadow, my old friend, greets me
with a whispering wind. we are both happy.
the sun dips just below the horizon,
watercoloring the sky in lilacs and siennas.
cicadas converse around me, as I am
but a guest at their lovely hillside home.
the cotton-swab clouds part, and the moon debuts.
she is pure, unsullied radiance. with the stars as backup,
and the sky as her stage, she pirouettes, beginning
her nightly routine. tears glide down my cheeks.
rich plums of dusk fade into the dark navies of night,
and my head sinks into pillowy grass.
my eyelids become lead, and the sandman arrives.
everything is quiet, and this peace is eternal.
Aug 16, 2021
Aug 16, 2021 at 7:45 PM UTC
Boldly, bold balding,
going mad at the buzz of cynic critic--
busting friendships like comic watermelons
atop bloodstained ceramics,
the vultures remain--
always do;
I can see it all boldly while balding, sipping
tomato juice without gin due the doctor's call--
always do;
I can see it all boldly while scraping dirt under nails,
scattering my words at a heel'd walk-in and siren's call.
Boldly, bold balding,
flipping off motorist and through magazine pages--
repairing family ties with thank you notes, faux kind eyes,
never hurt to try,
for the vultures remain -- they won't give their name--
never do;
I can see it all boldly while balding, they ask me
to give two ***** -- when did I give one?
Never do;
I can see it all mostly and smearing, watercoloring
through the floorboards up to the ceiling;
the telephone sings, I answer and receive,
"stay the hell away from me",
and I will.
I will.
I really, really will.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 6:24 PM UTC
*Of you,
I speak of
softest petals, always kissing
flowers, full bloom
wet drops, your reddened lips
pour darkest cherry wine
all the day, watercoloring
my skies*
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
*Of you,
I speak of
softest petals
always kissing
flowers full bloom
wet drops - your reddened lips
pour darkest cherry wine
all the day
watercoloring
my skies*
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 8:15 PM UTC