Quickwords Vol. 14 – The Painter

I can’t paint, but I can write poems using it as a metaphor. Welcome to Quickwords, my poetry series! Today’s post is Volume 14.

A rectangular paint palette, dirty brush, and white, purple-stained cloth lay on a wooden table. Only the cloth is in focus.
Photo by Richi Choraria

| Painting in the rain |

Never dry, never try
I was painting in the rain
Don’t know who hired me, just know that this tires me
What I’ll be paid I don’t quite think I know
But this home is my own

Rarely dry, sometimes try
I am painting in the rain
All my work gets washed away, how many strokes brushed today?
Makes me wonder what’s the deal with this shtick
But let’s just see what sticks

Sometimes dry, always try
I’ll be painting in the rain
Long gave up on monochrome, keep a pattern in this home
The color runs in rivers of rainbow
Oh, where did the rain go?

| Spec– |

Bespectacled eyes behold a speckled sky
Where on the spectrum to be, hold on to that spectral high
A spectator nigh the grandest spectacle
In specularity comes a lacking specificity
Infinite times does the image speculate
The special values at the core of this species
that, like this painting, began with a single speck

| Broken Canvas |

Tell me I’m a dirty brush and not a broken canvas
So that somewhere inside I can still find some art
Tell me bruises, not cuts, are what I see bandaged
Because I know I’ve done damage, I just hope for no scars

I’m holding a lit match up to my fingers
Tell me cleaning will work and not just scrub hollow
A quill dipped in poison, I ponder what lingers
So tell me that up there there’s something to follow

| Studio |

Where warmth warrants the absence of sleeves and the shortness of pants
And the rhythm contained in plastic hugs leaves silence billowing through the air
Stirring in so many ways is magic, mundane and extraordinary

Potions brewed from old color
The mind brought life from new
The skin transforms with chromatic scales
And the wind, it tastes the hues

Creation sparked in a different light
A transient existence found in parallel
A different place of being and, well, being
That words could never care to tell

Where the telescopic universe gazes in upon itself and sees similarity in canvas
And the inconsequential and momentous human breath is one wisely expended
Stirring in so many ways is magic, complicatedly simple

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