She stands above a canvas
That stretches half a mile
The shoe prints etching turf valleys
In the landscape, like a plain covered in
Numbers and synthetic grass, with white stripe guidelines
Her paints appear before her eyes
Each tube looking the same
But nobody knows what they contain
Her gloved hands perch upon invisible shelves
Housing her brushes and sponges, her colors
Stand straight up on her command
She begins to throw fistfuls of sound waves
Onto her board, and they ricochet
Playing red and orange chords from golden trumpets,
Bronze saxophones all in lines, then swerving
As she sweeps her arm across the field again
Her cotton hands clean, she pristinely flicks
Blue specks across the ground, getting
Cheers from the cloudy audience, and here
Comes the gradients of turquoise and yellow
From the mellophones and baritones
Each row of toes pointed to the sky like sundials
The girls wrapped tight in autumn leaves
Weave across the marching paint swatches
With their flags flapping like wings
As the flute soloist sings like a chirping bird
And the crowd has no words to describe how they feel
Mirrors on wheels creep across the field
People weep like clouds and the painter
Flings green staccatos, ostinatos wavering
She's savoring every sunrise they create
Under her direction, and soon the overture ends
And as they smile into the stands
Everything in the world seems like
Pure perfection
YOU ARE READING
Jars of Stars
عشوائيThis is a collection of the poems I've typed up on my iPad. I've noticed I enjoy incorporating nature and space into my poetry, so if you dig nature and space read my poems! Some of them are dark, some are brighter, some rhyme and some are just word...
