The Rabbit That Colours
A Poem
A sonnet about Fiona's colouring some of which you can see in the video
πΌοΈποΈππ¨π°ποΈπΌοΈ
So Many Pencils, Pens And Paints
Colours Applied Between The Lines
Rabbit At Work, Art Cannot Wait
Working Toward A Picture Fine
ππ¨π°
Colours That Flow Onto The Page
From Pots And Pens To The Paper
Some Pictures Can They Take An Age
They'll Be Finished Sometime Later
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Rabbit Colours, Rabbit Working
Hues That Flow Into The Outlines
Images Brought To Life That Sing
Beauty Toasted With Fine Dry Wine
ππ¨π°
The Empty Shapes Now Are So Full
Finished Pictures So Beautifule
πΌοΈποΈππ¨π°ποΈπΌοΈ
About the Creator
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More stories from Mike Singleton - Mikeydred and writers in Poets and other communities.
La Bella Rosa
These are a few words of love for my Muse. Without her I would not be here π¦π»πΉβπβπΉπ»π¦ Thank You, My Beautiful Flower Each Day You're My Inspiration My Words Flow From This Love Of Ours πΉβπβπΉ Our Sweet Love Will Last Forever Yes, Filling Us With Elation Thank You, My Beautiful Flower πΉβπβπΉ Love The Time We Spend Together The Source Of All Our Creations My Words Flow From This Love Of Ours πΉβπβπΉ To Be With You, I'd Climb Your Tower To Share Our Time, Yes Every Second Thank You, My Beautiful Flower πΉβπβπΉ Loving Minutes Will Become Hours In Our Romantic Foundation My Words Flow From This Love Of Ours πΉβπβπΉ Sharing Our Love, We Are So Sure We're Inspiring Such Creations Thank You, My Beautiful Flower My Words Flow From This Love Of Ours π¦π»πΉβπβπΉπ»π¦
By Mike Singleton - Mikeydred3 months ago in Poets
making space
Since the only thing that might pull us back up is caring, it only makes sense that here, long after Iβve let my anger born of heartbreak and grief misplace, multiply, misdirect itself, let the enormity of my solitude turn into something I donβt know how to dispute with, something thick and heavy and suffocating, let the coldness thrash and fight under my skin, deeper still, in between the arches of my organs; here where the ground is always close and the fall is easy and I surrender to it often, lie without purpose for hours, it only makes sense that it is here, I decide to show up and surrender to the possibilities of the night. Show up to those who I deserted. Drawn to the sense of accomplishment, something I havenβt felt in a while, to memory of finished dish sending its aroma into the world and with it, wrapping the room with a strong sense of sweet nostalgia, I get up and decide to cook. I pick up my phone, type a message that reads βDinner at mine @ 8PM, donβt bring anythingβ and before my courage deserts me again, drop it in our friendsβ group chat, the way one would do when diffusing a bomb in the movies: one eye closed, snip at the wire, hoping for the best.
By Mesh Toraskarabout 20 hours ago in Feast
Comments (5)
Fiona does a fiontastic job with her artwork. (And you do pretty well with your poem as well, Mike.)
Oooo, her colourings are so pretty! Loved your poem!
Very sweet - Art definitly should not wait...neither should wine π€
Inspirational & beautiful!!!πβ€οΈβ€οΈ
"Beauty Toasted With Fine Dry Wine" oh I love this. Beautifully done, Mikey.