Brushes set
in an old jam jar,
filled with murky brown/blue water
- later I will wash them
clean; start afresh
vivid strokes softer
to feel every inch of this face
T-shirt smells of linseed
daubs of this'n'that
makes a Jackson Pollock's of it!
nails embedded with cobalt acryllic
and sandstone chalk
- later, I will shower
camomile and lemon-balm bodywash
scents of eden and plenty
I mix medias
rubs to dry
paint and to be painted,
swirl of life's patterns
perchance this creation
is this the Art of my Soul?
portions of what I sense
to give to you
borrowing thoughts
I endeavour to grow
uphold simplistic integrity
- later, I will talk to him
about the day, and life colours
will soften and linger
inside Eve's eyes
there is a garden and river
verses spoken through
semi-shimmered lips.
'She' is becoming, borne
out of a need to reveal;
moreso of marrow and transitions
escaping capillary actions
Hand to canvas
two hands; create
to mouths
and the sighs
of Klimt's eyes
through yours
my mind skips shadows
with chiaroscuro morningtime,
is this the craving
of Wo/man?
I always lick the tip
of my brushes,
it's a hard habit to break
- Eve waits on the easel
Gold trophy winner
Adding your comment:
Joyce
ing like mad now.... you say such lovely things
