The Paintbrush

The paintbrush sits on pale skin

and slides scarlet over kissing plain

it touches and presses

like time

and strokes the distance

between my fingers and my desire.

Eyelids close and a breath is taken…..


a small movement,

a perfumed step

The paintbrush leaves the skin

hair by hair

and patience tempers the dancing

in my chest

I am the night

and now,

my body is full of stars…….

43 thoughts on “The Paintbrush”

  1. Hi,

    I did a lot of painting, but never used a brush like that. I painted the kitchen, the bathroom, my gardenshed, and so on. But,…I am not without imagination. Good that I am nearly 80 years old. Otherwise I would not be able to keep my emotions in check. Great job though. Smooth as silk. You are worthy of your chosen name, The Silver Poet.
    Thank you for liking the birthday poem to my son. Great news today. Nick became an Equity Partner in his lawfirm. Not bad for a young forty year old.


    1. AWESOME congrats!! isn’t it wonderful when pieces of life click together…such a pretty noise….
      and as for the paintbrush…you are FUNNY! as far as the metaphor, well I am sure you have painted a sweet picture or two in your time 😉


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