The man with the spray can.
There was this man who,
as he stood against the cold brick wall,
cleared the tickle from his throat
with a grunt.
He shook the spray can
in his hand, hearing the ball smash
through the liquid colours,
fusing them.
The mist was fine as it spat
it`s colour out to cover what was
already written there, already
etched in time.
So permanent in its layers and yet,
so temporary in its exposure,
to the eyes that saw no deeper
than the surface.
He wrote and he drew and drew and
wrote some more, words that had
meaning to only him, or so
he imagined.
Because a lot have walked the same
line as many before them, and many
at the same time, who just have to
learn, most important
to hold hands.
as he stood against the cold brick wall,
cleared the tickle from his throat
with a grunt.
He shook the spray can
in his hand, hearing the ball smash
through the liquid colours,
fusing them.
The mist was fine as it spat
it`s colour out to cover what was
already written there, already
etched in time.
So permanent in its layers and yet,
so temporary in its exposure,
to the eyes that saw no deeper
than the surface.
He wrote and he drew and drew and
wrote some more, words that had
meaning to only him, or so
Because a lot have walked the same
line as many before them, and many
at the same time, who just have to
learn, most important
to hold hands.
Potter in a Harry
I really like this poem, especially these lines:
through the liquid colours,
fusing them.
The mist was fine as it spat
its colour out to cover what was
already written
I'd still give it a nip-and-tuck job. But that's me. I'd make tiny alterations like changing 'fine' to 'coarse'. The mist was coarse as it spat.
And tiny things like taking 'and yet' out of the following lines:
so temporary in its exposure,
I think it reads better as:
So permanent in its layers
so temporary in its exposure
They're only tiny things, but that's how I read poetry. I take a nip&tuck approach to my own.
This is a really good poem. You can just make it better.
You tend to take a very compassionate view on this character in your poem. I think you need to inject the poem with a bit more anger. Not from you. Just for the poem's sake. Just a few more angry terms. The ending is all the compassion it needs.
They're my random thoughts on it.
Kalikapsychosis
I love it just because graffiti is so important - anyone who hates graffitti doesnt know crap about history - the majority of knowledge we have from ancient society is from their graffiti.
Im still on my first coffee for the day...Excuse my spelling.
Political Certainty
Australian Traveller
Flashes of memories
Thank you for your input here. I am taking note and over the next few days will give it time to seep in. This was written at some bizarre hour of the morning so definitely needs some tweaking!
Thanks again, muchly appreciated
Ash
Australian Traveller
Flashes of memories
I love graffiti, I`m always taking photos of it... it`s one thing you are sure to find in any country around the world.
Says more than people realise
ash
Australian Traveller
Flashes of memories
From The Home Front
Enviro Warrior
Dream Herald
Esoteric Bookshop
I love this poem.
It is true, holding hands is not something that is possible with just anyone... perhaps he will not find it either.
hauntingly good.
Lilla ...
Australian Traveller
Flashes of memories
Have been working on this one after David left some interesting feedback.
Glad you have enjoyed it... another to follow soon, albeit only half finished
Ash
Movies and Life
This last part resonated the most to me:
Because a lot have walked the same
line as many before them, and many
at the same time, who just have to
learn, most important
to hold hands.
Vivid story.
Tracy
Killer Beats
Ramble On
Hipnotherapy
It is always so interesting to read comments of a certain work. When I read this piece, the idea of graffitti did not even cross my mind. This imagery:
There was this man who,
as he stood against the cold brick wall,
cleared the tickle from his throat
with a grunt.
He shook the spray can
in his hand, hearing the ball smash
through the liquid colours,
fusing them.
The mist was fine as it spat
Reminded me of summers having Silly string wars with my Dad and my sister. We would all aim the cans of various colors in the air and watch as the colors mingled. We would "write words" in the sky and on the cement and as quickly as they were created, they disappeared.
Thanks dear friend for reminding me of that innocent time. Well done!
Mis