"watercoloured" poems
Every inch of our ceiling
is bruised in memory,
watercoloured blues
fade into last Summer's browns.
It hurts.
Night brings the poetry
I'm still trying not to trip over,
the written and spoken wounds
that mark my body
still spell out your favourite weapons:
1) Ginsberg
2) Naivety
3) Perpetuated incompleteness.
I am anatomically structured for
falling apart with one cut heart string
at a time; a countdown only I control.
One only you tick for.
One day you'll learn
that the world is made from tissue paper,
and tears as easily as I.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
In the cold winter greyness, by the whipping leaning willow,
I gently throw my heart in the stream and watch it sink.
Through the waving naked branches, the stuttering wind goes
plunging lullabies in the dormant numbness of the river.
Aside the howling wandering world, the selfmade outcast departs
choosing dissoluteness in the watercoloured light of love.
The river flows hiding its depth, its surface keeps trace of nothing.
In the thick mistiness of life, to impossibly love breathlessly.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 6:26 AM UTC
Rain soaks through my shoulders
And trickles down my spine
Like fingers over cracked and fractured stone.
Your breaths come like zephyrs
Your limbs tangle up with mine
Your voice, the only one I've ever known.
And Coltrane blows a story tall
To a bass line like a siren call
Building tapestries of Cashmere
For a dry and blistered blank concrete wall.
You'll always be the bright full moon
That filled my chest and filled the room
While Rome is burned to embers
The drums of war rose carrying the tune.
Footsteps on city walls
Hands upon splintered wood.
The battles lead to losses for all sides.
Honey comes from stinging bees
I'd get some for you if I could
But winter left us lost on drifting tides.
Still Coltrane blows a story tall
To a bass line like a siren call
Building tapestries of Cashmere
For a dry and blistered blank concrete wall.
I'll offer you a silk cocoon
A watercoloured afternoon
While Rome is burned to embers
The drums of war rose carrying the tune.
Morning sun brings the day
The smell of candles still
Clothes hang to dry from chairs along the walls.
Take our time to wake up
Arms protect you from the chill
"Yesterday," the radio news recalls.
Then Coltrane blows a story tall
To a bass line like a siren call
Building tapestries of Cashmere
For a dry and blistered blank concrete wall.
The sunrise like the silver moon
Paints us in gold and fills the room
While Rome is burned to embers
The drums of war rose carrying the tune.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
what was it that the wind said?
what was it that the wind said when it
ran itself through your hair and
pressed its face against yours;
a foreground to the watercoloured sunset?
was it the poetry whispered by
lovestruck boys and girls
who kissed, forbidden,
in the clearings of enchanted forests?
or was it the hissing of embers
setting eachother's souls alight
in an **** of crackling fire wood?
was it the ***** chiming amongst
divine silence; only broken by
the tears of joy in a stained glass cathedral,
as she walked towards you in her wedding gown?
or was it the morning rain
as you woke up to an empty bed
with the lingering scent
she left the night before?
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 6:03 AM UTC
Seven drops of rain
sliding slowly down a windowpane
creating their own currents out of chaotic sky
perambulating through the reflection of my eye.
Two collide and five remain
slipping through a beige, unsuitable frame
reach the bottom and seem to die
my watercoloured conceivances drip but never fly
Trickles become one pool - a picture I can't explain
but within dark waters, a swirling hurricane
those tears kiss distinction goodbye-
surrender to let my disordered painting unify.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 10:42 PM UTC
Trafalgar in springtime;
more people than you're used to.
Trafalgar in flickering sunlight;
more warmth than you're used to.
Trafalgar in the afternoon;
heavy clouds and weightless pigeon wings.
Dusty hands and feet;
torn-open knees and holey socks.
Rumpled collar and hair;
torn to pieces in a mess of watercoloured pages.
Trafalgar in springtime;
forget the winter, leave it in the ground.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 9:48 AM UTC
Clouds converge, bow,
Weep for the world below.
A watercoloured grey,
A smeared conglomerate of colour
Traced light upon the day.
A metaphor, I thought,
For where we had lost our way.
One once fought with passion
But with a penchant for decay.
I thawed.
I saw my fundamentals melt.
Hands dealt I would never draw,
A shore so sure it had no law
But an ancient hound with a lazy eye,
A gammy paw and a mangy hide.
Yawned while clouds wept on high,
Snored as silence passed him by.
Jan 18, 2019
Jan 18, 2019 at 7:01 PM UTC
The name itself is but euphony.
The woman is
No different.
With ringlets wild,
Faith of child,
Fingers delicate,
Eyes wise,
Her blushēd cheeks
Are watercoloured
Sunrise waking
Winter skies.
There is music in her laughter.
A new note struck
With every opening of her
Pillowed lips.
In times of sorrow,
Speak her name.
Find healing in loving
Julia.
- p. winter
Aug 19, 2017
Aug 19, 2017 at 10:56 PM UTC
in,
inscribing memories
of better times,
i am,
overwriting
the grief of a life
unravelling.
the ink placed
so
carefully
on parchment paper,
dissolves into a
watercolour
of greys and dismal days.
words of love,
become mere twigs
and bird scratchings.
floating in the
fugue
of monumental despair.
i look hard
and long
to find some meaning.
but see only
these words
passionately written,
gleaming.
it's not fair,
it's not fair.
as my tears
drizzle
off
the page.
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 3:19 AM UTC
I found myself walking through tea stained sunsets,
Among the less extraordinary,
Through the puddles and shadows of sky scrapers,
And feeling bare.
As if I lay all I had to the world,
As if i were a car boot sale,
And my stock was used up and never replenished.
As if i were tea that was brewed too long
And became too bitter for public consumption.
Thrown
Down the drain
And through the rivers that run beneath the streets.
I found myself with a belly gorged on a litre of reused ideas,
Watching a sped up time lapse shot of the traffic by night on the Spaghetti Junction,
Losing and changing focus,
The silent hum of a city heaving.
As if I’d never seen the city,
As if I’d never lived and breathed it’d dreams,
As if my lungs weren’t full of it’s potential,
As if each time you travel through its kaleidoscope it doesn’t feel like the first time.
And everything that was or could have been was possible in this space,
One million heart beats in union,
Proletariat minds and gold lined pockets.
I found myself on a train to God knows where,
45 minutes of travel and a bagel later,
The other end of the world emerged from underneath a railway bridge,
In the watercoloured city,
The streets that made me,
Industry born and silk bred,
And street lights are at the ends of tunnels guide me,
Home.
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 7:37 PM UTC