Thoughts Are Clouds

summer sky

Thoughts are clouds on canvas sky –

Some go idly drifting by,

Moved by whim or circumstance,

Shaped as concepts meet by chance.

Others draw conclusions there,

Intention giving studied air –

Captured by the artist’s mind,

Reflection paints each view refined.

Lest your work of art be marred

By thunder-heads, be on your guard;

Better than the stormy strokes

Are lovely thoughts that hope evokes.

The Art of Communication

paintbrush

 

Nature’s brush, with frosty bristles

Daubs a crust to coat the thistles,

Elevates from plain to glory,

Tells a tale, redemption’s story.

Chromaticity

virginia creeper evening

 

She fought it hard, this slow death.

Every photosynthetic

cell that relinquished its green

became the Enemy – each

sag, each ache, each decaying

limb strangled her dreams with dry

rot, made hope a withered thing.

.

The colour came later, much

later, apologetic

at first, drops of iodine

swirling in a glass. One day

she woke up amber;

one more dying struggle, one

further convulsive release

and scarlet draped her shoulders.

.

Now one with the world’s sunsets,

her fight is no longer with

the pain that has painted her

so robust a shade. No, she

lives, dying, more alive than

ever before, breathing air

tinged gold, dreaming newer dreams,

intensely saturated

with expectant undertones.

Complimentary Colours

brushmark-raindrop.jpg

If she stepped back,

rocked on her heels

and widened the angle,

she would see that

this birthmark,

this season of purple

bruising, is simply

a piece of the mosaic

that is painting her

life story in

.complimentary

 .colours

Salvaged

watercolortrees

Paint my skin in springtime shades,

warm the tones of cold judgement.

Let Light wash over my frozen opinions

and brush aside arrogance and pride,

covering that powerful streak of stubborn selfishness

with magnificent magenta mercy,

graceful gouache glory.

Frame my life’s context

against the wall of Your gallery,

anoint my head with oils and pastels,

running over into lithographed lap.

For I am but a copy

until Your fingers draw out the Original;

I am but a replica

until Your signature calls me Salvaged.