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Fine line
I draw this ink line
no paint so finely mixed and shaded
against the usual night
Gedichte zum Thema: paint
Gedichte zum Thema „paint“ auf Poets.by.
Starving artist
All day long looking upon my paint,
I am in the red
of my own making.
Night Vision
I dine
on paint
in great joy
to see
once again
at night.
Provisioning
White winter: a mine of nothing,
a great iron book.
I dine alone with the lord of paint
and send to Africa for gold ore.
I do not find my fair
late wife.
Slave to fashion
this cruel discontent
we take to be a good servant
forced for the sake of wardrobe and fashion
to put on other things
getting my war paint
and the arch book of dances
the play of bans like news
made up well
Living art
the painter went home
and saw paint
his night is my night
an art I ought to be
Roses and Red Splattered Paint
A rose sitting on it's bush
With thorns down the stem
That makes a finger go
Drip drip drip
Red splattered paint
In the winter snow
Drip drip drip
The pain will stop
Once you let go
Of the rose
Thats holds the pain of red splattered paint
Remodeling
We were after other forms, more light.
The house itself suggested other versions
of itself, faces within a face.
Rooms refused to add up. We
petitioned partitions. Shadows
fell against their will.
Blue meant one kind of life,
yellow quite another. Annuities of fate
sat in paint cans, quiet, unmixed.
In Plato’s formal heaven, two-by-fours
are Two By Four, grainless, ideal.
Here lumber rankles at our plain
geometry, gets nailed to the crosses
of our blueprints. We model, mold,
remold, remodel. And still we sigh.
Quatrains 1
Brushes and paints are all I have
To speak the music in my soul--
While silently there laughs at me
A copper jar beside a pale green bowl.