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Posts Tagged ‘dot’

From the grass bed,

cotton fluffs of white

swirling past

shadowy ebbs

and crests

of green hills.

 

Dots of trees

fringe the edges

of reverie in the wind.

I’m wide awake

 

asleep

daydream embracing

splashes of red

soft velvety blossom

full under

the warm sun.

 

Free spirit flowing

with the world

shifting its axis

closer

 

to self-made heaven.

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It’s like a white plate.

Soiled and you try to wash it afloat

with suds of soap and rinse repeatedly

at the sink.  Letting it dry and wait

until the film of water subsides down

into its gleamy surface. You try to contain

the glister.  The immaculateness of being 

unbroken, unsplintered.  Fragile.

 

It’s like a white paper.

Someone will throw dots and smears.

Smudges  and graphite dusts messed up

into your  page and jag the lines into visual noise.

But then, an eraser is a confident friend,

swiping them all.  Albeit,  the indentation

marks a heavy trace on the heart. Not quite

visible at the distance, I know.

 

You didn’t notice how I try to write the lines.

Ambiguous as it seems, indirect in its approach.

You think flaws are the darkness of the soul, but wait-

it isn’t that way you know, though. For in it you hope.

You dream.  You strive to become the light.

You seek to define the completeness of your whole,

unwavering  and uncompromised to the mold-

the dictates of the common.

 

No matter how broken it may get, the mosaic

of the plate is still a creation on a canvas.

No matter how crumpled the paper was,

someone will see it as a great work of art.

You try to accept the way you live your reality,

where living doesn’t stop there, it’s in how

you would be able to discover something new.

A difference you can call your own.

 

It’s like a white space.

When the horizon of doubt blurs

the line that separate you from immortality.

And all you see is your own lightness

that no shadow would keep you

stalled towards your destiny.

There,  you would know that peace

is the only way to move on.

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Someone have told me

that when your feet begins

to dig deeper into the ground,

as if you are carrying a heavy rock

upon your shoulders.  Do not fail

to look up and turn your eyes

from looking down.  And you will

discover  the big sky above you.

 

Let the wide space fill your mind.

Embrace the world and fathom

the depth, the height and width of it.

Let the wind carry your spirit-

a dot in the sand completing

this tapestry of life. You belong

to a grand plan, ever since

when the universe is born.

 

No matter how fearsome it would become

No matter how fierce the odds are.

No one will take away your piece of sky.

Be steady and look beyond the horizon.

Drift like an eagle  among the clouds.

Redeem  your place in the sun.

As hope burn brightly like a new day.

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dot. Simple

isolate. pen

 

ink blot.

Open

parenthesis.

 

Breath

in bubble.

Line separate.

Island.

 

Close up

Dot. Drop

in an ocean

stop.

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You will find me here sitting

at the end of the sentence-

like in a breakwater. Waiting

 

for ships and vessels of words

in this twilight seeking

the meaning of this impending

darkness.  When

 

it anchors and begins to unload

subtle images of this lonely harbor.

Watching the past

sinking down

 

along

with my heart.

 

And the sky will once again-

dotted by inkblots.

Smeared into the face

of this teary evening.

While time slowly

freezes, then fades into

early hours till daybreak,

unfinished.

 

When I am not

being able to say

goodbye.

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Pensive as I was in this lazy afternoon.  Looking out in the window and the hazy light filtered through. Sending dust like a strobe of crystals. I stared. Just stared for the longest time.

The muse didn’t come as I expected.  Like an acrylic tube on the verge of squeezing out  of its contents, I just stared coldly. Nothing spectacular. The portrait on this blank canvas are just collections of imaginary lines and some vague illusions on my mind. And build a colony of dots. Like Van Gogh.

I could paint of scribblings out of nothingness. And my thoughts wander  into wide spaces. And wanders still. I see only spatters of red, black and white against this concrete grayness. Of anger splashing buckets of paint into surface. Like Pollack. 

I could paint the sky blue if I want to.  I can make the leaves of the trees rustle and sway with the winds.  I can make a brook  serenely flow through underneath a little wooden bridge. I can make distant hills fade into indigo. Like Monet.

I could paint a man without a face. And apples falling like raindrops. And doves flying.  The tragedy, the pessimism and idiosyncrasy of a human being. And a dark world encapsuled into an umbrella, black and mysterious. Like Magritte.

I could paint a typewriter with keypads of pain. And some melted clocks. Of swans reflecting elephants. And the gory details of death. Of treachery of reason. Of denouncing fascism. And bizarre existence of realities.  Like Dali.

I could use color yellow and orange interspersed with black squares, sharp angles, cubes and rectilinear forms in human subjects. Of some gothic revivals. Of somber shades of blue and blue green. I can use pink painted into some circus scenes. Of collages with pieces of everyday things. Like Picasso.

The brush is waiting to be lifted.  The easel is upright and ready.  The mixing palette is parched. The canvas is already stretched out to its frame. The sketchbook is laden with unfinished illustrations and  images, waiting to come alive. Where freedom is knocking on this soul’s threshold. 

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