Paints Poems - Poems about Paints

Colored pencils Pastels Sticks of chalk Too light for me Water colors Doing what they want Dribbling all over the page Wild and free Oil paints Vividly beautiful Take too long to dry I am too impatient Acrylic paints Give me fluorescent colors I have black lights They make me happy...

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Beneath windswept limbs of an ancient tree I quietly sit as Dawn's brush paints the sky. My thoughts turn in this sunrise morning to blades of grass around me that soon will dry after sprinkled with dew when night held sway. I'm feeling melancholy over days gone by, recalling sad memories that come to mind... A love once held deep within my...

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Gathering remnants where facets remain I add a touch in a brush stroke of dream Of lemon sun possibilities Upon an emerald grove of trees Resting near a subtle blue lake Dotted with red posies Lost in a dream Chartreuse mountains reach high Blue skies redeem the meaning of life Lost in a fantasy A subtle river runs free Birds of flight flutter As my muse...

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As the years pass me by, I've remained stuck in a cage. Built up by my fears, made strong by my rage. I sometimes get to wander free in a garden filled with color. A blissful peace within myself, forgotten moments after it's discovered. Retreating back to the comforts of my cage. A confinement of my mind, body, and soul....

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my paints are waiting eagerly for me to return an art studio of my dreams inside my garage I am not ready to paint yet, unsure why. Maybe it is because I have done it too many hours lately. with nothing to show, because I am working on twelve simultaneously. nothing is getting finished. the trouble is the expense of paints. When...

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Picture the words your pen would write - Like Wordsworth might?...

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In the melancholic hour of introspection, where twilight paints the sky with sadness, Religious souls often walk, hand in hand with righteousness, Forsaking the tender embrace of compassion for the cold certainty of being right, Clinging to a fragile mantle woven from threads of egotism, As if their faith could ennoble their identity with divine approval. In the sacred sanctuary...

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(inhale) aim, undetermined ... what purpose do I serve? what is poetry’s primal essence?!? my words only cover pages that ghost the spaces of better intention ... that garland upon my brow bleeds 'neath the clawing shadows of naked branches, thorns twisted and braided with the lightness of feathers, and pressed with poetic care to let my red ruin run ... it drips with the weight of indifference and careless consideration, and...

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. ‘tiz thuh raison...

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. how many werdz...

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. mine youthful rue for not painting ...

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He does not look up, he is struggling with a vision of me that has no roots. The brush in his small hand is as thick as a besom plunged into bone-white paper. Eyes appear, burning with love or impatience, hard to tell. The outline of a too large a head, nose, mouth, and eyes, purple, green and red streaks adrift in a bubble. Today I see again that...

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She’s the garden girl. A precious rainbow in the night. Painting with crystal water, she brings the forest light. For nature is her canvas. She brings out every hue. If you’re walking through the forest, she’ll shine her light on you. She’s purply pink passion, reds and yellows too. The moon bestowed its magic, shading her dark blue. She languishes in the darkness, as she giggles with such glee. No one...

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painting brings Lulu such joy, she has more fun than others. her fingers and wrists are full of paints of many colors reds, oranges, greens, blues, yellows, tans the color of sands, where is my silver? She wonders, studying her hands. and gold, she says, where is my gold paint? She finds it finally. Bringing her so much enjoyment, how...

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In life To paint a generous heaven or even a grievous hell – it depends on the paints...!...

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