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I wrote the first draft of this poem when I was about 17 during my Junior year of High School. Although I wrote quite a bit of poetry during my high school years, I fell out of the habit during the busy years of college, getting married, and having lots of little kids running around. Over the past few years, I have been going through my old poetry notebook and revamping some of the better ones to share because I have really missed the poetry in my life. The original idea for this poem was great especially for an about 17-year-old, but it needed fleshing out and reworking. It has taken me over a year so far to rewrite it–mostly because by the time I have enough quiet time, it is late, I am tired, and am feeling like my brain is a bit fried.

In the way of acknowledgements and dedication, I would like to thank my High School sweetheart and love of my life, now and forever after, for being the reason I wanted to write poetry in the first place and for believing in me; my Freshman and Junior year English teacher, Mrs. Rogers, who taught me all the basics, gave me the assignment in the first place, and was always available before and after class as well as before and after school to help me work out rhythm and rhyme, and give me words of encouragement which meant more to me than she probably knew; my author friend Lia London for proofreading, some helpful constructive critique, and being a much-needed fresh set of eyes; and last but not least to God who got me through all my rough patches and gave me little bits of inspiration in the restless hours of the night as I was trying to get the final draft complete.


paintbrush poem
paintbrush poem by dlmtleArt
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     Since the preview here doesn’t go high-resolution enough to read it as I had hoped, I will go ahead and post the poem itself here with the understanding that readers will please respect my copyright and not copy or print, although you are more than welcome to hit the share button 😉

Paintbrush, by Dawna Morton

The brush in my hand—
paint slowly creating the picture…
Will it be what I want in the end?

My life, will it make,
a beautiful picture—
through the road that I take?

Colors mix together:
shades and hues of hopes and dreams…
Do they add or detract from the theme?

Feet pacing floor —having given my all—
Temptation to crumple, to scream,
throw my failures at the wall.

Reflective, introspective: perspective.
Stumble, learn, grow, submit.
Needing guidance Divine, my faults I admit.

Purport, import, and a refining effort,
—lights and effects: fine tuning ever—
Transform, renew. Start over…

as the brush guides the colors:
each choice that I make,
each decision, each path that I take…

Of infinite worth, this repeating process–
both guided–yet guiding–
this seemingly perpetual work in progress

Importuning, with brush in my hand,
pleading, to put my hand in His.
Inviting –creating anew, a new symbiosis

A joining, a becoming, as both Creator and creation—
—a true work of art— a new, more celestial me…
His continuous re-creation–

as this “brush” tries so hard to express,
with feeling, love, and desire: the will serene
…of the Master Painter.

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