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PAINTREE
@paintree.art
13 followers 14 following 50 posts
www.paintree.art

The pain tree grows by absorbing pain. Now it looks dead. But one day it will bloom again.

A project of poetry and art to help us get through a difficult year. Weekly poems and drawings from @seanccroberts.bksy.social and Dana Robins.
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paintree.art
This one was too long to fit in one post! 🙈

#poem #skypoem #poetry #art #artist #artsky #painting #paintree #hopescrolling
A painting of a raised open hand with purple haze swirling around it. Accompanied by the following poem: Dutch tears A citizen mother and child are separated and detained for hours, for speaking Spanish in a public park. That could have been me. A researcher complained over text about the suicidal destruction of science and got deported without saying a word. That could have been me. A protesting priest holds up his hands in supplication and takes a pepper ball to the head. That could have been me. Activists are threatened with arrest for shouting legal defense strategy to migrants as they are disappeared. That could have been me. The undesirables and degenerates are made to register themselves. Hundreds, thousands, who could have passed for fash put themselves on every list. That could have been me. People hide their neighbors in attics for days, for months, for years. Some are caught and unpersoned, but the rest are an ark of community. That could have been me. All the citizens are rounded up in the square. Who threw the sabot into the machine? the men with guns bleat at us. I raise my hand, as do we all. We say – That could have been me.
November 27, 2025 at 9:37 PM
paintree.art
Niemoeller's classic ends too soon. The nazis came for him - but in real life, he came for the nazis in the end.

Dutch tears @ www.paintree.art (continues in top reply)

#poem #skypoem #poetry #art #artist #artsky #painting #paintree #hopescrolling
A painting of a raised open hand with purple haze swirling around it. Accompanied by the following poem: Dutch tears A citizen mother and child are separated and detained for hours, for speaking Spanish in a public park. That could have been me. A researcher complained over text about the suicidal destruction of science and got deported without saying a word. That could have been me. A protesting priest holds up his hands in supplication and takes a pepper ball to the head. That could have been me. Activists are threatened with arrest for shouting legal defense strategy to migrants as they are disappeared. That could have been me. The undesirables and degenerates are made to register themselves. Hundreds, thousands, who could have passed for fash put themselves on every list. That could have been me. People hide their neighbors in attics for days, for months, for years. Some are caught and unpersoned, but the rest are an ark of community. That could have been me. All the citizens are rounded up in the square. Who threw the sabot into the machine? the men with guns bleat at us. I raise my hand, as do we all. We say – That could have been me. A painting of a raised open hand with purple haze swirling around it. Accompanied by the following poem: Dutch tears A citizen mother and child are separated and detained for hours, for speaking Spanish in a public park. That could have been me. A researcher complained over text about the suicidal destruction of science and got deported without saying a word. That could have been me. A protesting priest holds up his hands in supplication and takes a pepper ball to the head. That could have been me. Activists are threatened with arrest for shouting legal defense strategy to migrants as they are disappeared. That could have been me. The undesirables and degenerates are made to register themselves. Hundreds, thousands, who could have passed for fash put themselves on every list. That could have been me. People hide their neighbors in attics for days, for months, for years. Some are caught and unpersoned, but the rest are an ark of community. That could have been me. All the citizens are rounded up in the square. Who threw the sabot into the machine? the men with guns bleat at us. I raise my hand, as do we all. We say – That could have been me. A painting of a raised open hand with purple haze swirling around it. Accompanied by the following poem: Dutch tears A citizen mother and child are separated and detained for hours, for speaking Spanish in a public park. That could have been me. A researcher complained over text about the suicidal destruction of science and got deported without saying a word. That could have been me. A protesting priest holds up his hands in supplication and takes a pepper ball to the head. That could have been me. Activists are threatened with arrest for shouting legal defense strategy to migrants as they are disappeared. That could have been me. The undesirables and degenerates are made to register themselves. Hundreds, thousands, who could have passed for fash put themselves on every list. That could have been me. People hide their neighbors in attics for days, for months, for years. Some are caught and unpersoned, but the rest are an ark of community. That could have been me. All the citizens are rounded up in the square. Who threw the sabot into the machine? the men with guns bleat at us. I raise my hand, as do we all. We say – That could have been me. A painting of a raised open hand with purple haze swirling around it. Accompanied by the following poem: Dutch tears A citizen mother and child are separated and detained for hours, for speaking Spanish in a public park. That could have been me. A researcher complained over text about the suicidal destruction of science and got deported without saying a word. That could have been me. A protesting priest holds up his hands in supplication and takes a pepper ball to the head. That could have been me. Activists are threatened with arrest for shouting legal defense strategy to migrants as they are disappeared. That could have been me. The undesirables and degenerates are made to register themselves. Hundreds, thousands, who could have passed for fash put themselves on every list. That could have been me. People hide their neighbors in attics for days, for months, for years. Some are caught and unpersoned, but the rest are an ark of community. That could have been me. All the citizens are rounded up in the square. Who threw the sabot into the machine? the men with guns bleat at us. I raise my hand, as do we all. We say – That could have been me.
November 27, 2025 at 9:37 PM
paintree.art
Many businesses are run by cowards who are scared of fascists. We just have to make them more scared of us and they'll go with the wind.

Renunciation @ www.paintree.art

#poem #skypoem #poetry #art #artist #artsky #painting #paintree #hopescrolling
A painting of a green eye with a very fine, leafy vine curling around it. Accompanied by the following poem: Renunciation We grow best as prairies. Integrated tangles that pull community in every direction. Competing for the sun’s gold, yes, but under the surface we enrich the soil, planting the next season’s seeds. You think we consume without thought. You plow us into segregated rows, tell us to rely on synthetic wards while your mice in trousers rob our grain, and think our faces will always turn to you as if you were the center of the universe. We are watching you and weighing judgement. We may lack coordination but our tender shoots grow inexorably inescapably in their masses along your length around your cruel mouth toward your delicate eyes, until you blink. A painting of a green eye with a very fine, leafy vine curling around it. Accompanied by the following poem: Renunciation We grow best as prairies. Integrated tangles that pull community in every direction. Competing for the sun’s gold, yes, but under the surface we enrich the soil, planting the next season’s seeds. You think we consume without thought. You plow us into segregated rows, tell us to rely on synthetic wards while your mice in trousers rob our grain, and think our faces will always turn to you as if you were the center of the universe. We are watching you and weighing judgement. We may lack coordination but our tender shoots grow inexorably inescapably in their masses along your length around your cruel mouth toward your delicate eyes, until you blink. A painting of a green eye with a very fine, leafy vine curling around it. Accompanied by the following poem: Renunciation We grow best as prairies. Integrated tangles that pull community in every direction. Competing for the sun’s gold, yes, but under the surface we enrich the soil, planting the next season’s seeds. You think we consume without thought. You plow us into segregated rows, tell us to rely on synthetic wards while your mice in trousers rob our grain, and think our faces will always turn to you as if you were the center of the universe. We are watching you and weighing judgement. We may lack coordination but our tender shoots grow inexorably inescapably in their masses along your length around your cruel mouth toward your delicate eyes, until you blink.
November 10, 2025 at 11:20 PM
paintree.art
Most people are cool actually. People like to help and people like to make a strangers day just a little better. Try to give them a chance to help and we can build a network.

Sing, up @ www.paintree.art

#poem #skypoem #poetry #art #artist #artsky #painting #paintree #hopescrolling
A painting of an absurdly beautiful bird, all kinds of colors, with more color dropping off of him, sitting on a branch against a sky of teal clouds. Accompanied by the following poem: Sing Reading only through windows fogs my impressions. I forget how kind my neighbors are. I go down to the street and see gifts change hands. The lonely find each other and fill each other’s hearts. Some few of those sad foggy voices are real. They are frightened by collaboration. They set fire to the parliament and try to blame us. We put it out by bleeding rainbows. We are promised cages and begin to sing in advance. A painting of an absurdly beautiful bird, all kinds of colors, with more color dropping off of him, sitting on a branch against a sky of teal clouds. Accompanied by the following poem: Sing Reading only through windows fogs my impressions. I forget how kind my neighbors are. I go down to the street and see gifts change hands. The lonely find each other and fill each other’s hearts. Some few of those sad foggy voices are real. They are frightened by collaboration. They set fire to the parliament and try to blame us. We put it out by bleeding rainbows. We are promised cages and begin to sing in advance.
November 9, 2025 at 11:25 PM
paintree.art
There's a whole lot going on and it's overwhelming. I find old things grounding - bad things have happened before, and here's a tangible building, tree, river, that's seen it all come and go.

Up @ www.paintree.art

#poem #skypoem #poetry #art #artist #artsky #painting #paintree #hopescrolling
A painting of a person sitting on top of what appear to be ripples in a purple stream, eyes closed and perfectly calm, holding out their hand and interacting with almost corporeal fog. Accompanied by the following poem: A cloth to cover the obsidian edges of the centuries In the boat of myself on this ancient river, I paddle then panic as genteel swells turn to rapids. The waves soar above my head and block my vision, foam surrounds and towers, I am blocked, I am enclosed and cut off The stream bends and passes through a city. The crush subsides beneath the monuments. A fire polarizes the city. The roofs disagree and all burn the same way, but not all catch. Stone houses a hundred years old stand dark. An old palace’s moat keeps it serene. The cathedral has burned a dozen times and been rebuilt. Ancestral ruins can burn no more. I wear the city’s history like a cloak and conjure a fog to put out every spark before it can reach me. Battered by the waves I gasp, but do not sink and ride on toward time’s great ocean. A painting of a person sitting on top of what appear to be ripples in a purple stream, eyes closed and perfectly calm, holding out their hand and interacting with almost corporeal fog. Accompanied by the following poem: A cloth to cover the obsidian edges of the centuries In the boat of myself on this ancient river, I paddle then panic as genteel swells turn to rapids. The waves soar above my head and block my vision, foam surrounds and towers, I am blocked, I am enclosed and cut off The stream bends and passes through a city. The crush subsides beneath the monuments. A fire polarizes the city. The roofs disagree and all burn the same way, but not all catch. Stone houses a hundred years old stand dark. An old palace’s moat keeps it serene. The cathedral has burned a dozen times and been rebuilt. Ancestral ruins can burn no more. I wear the city’s history like a cloak and conjure a fog to put out every spark before it can reach me. Battered by the waves I gasp, but do not sink and ride on toward time’s great ocean. A painting of a person sitting on top of what appear to be ripples in a purple stream, eyes closed and perfectly calm, holding out their hand and interacting with almost corporeal fog. Accompanied by the following poem: A cloth to cover the obsidian edges of the centuries In the boat of myself on this ancient river, I paddle then panic as genteel swells turn to rapids. The waves soar above my head and block my vision, foam surrounds and towers, I am blocked, I am enclosed and cut off The stream bends and passes through a city. The crush subsides beneath the monuments. A fire polarizes the city. The roofs disagree and all burn the same way, but not all catch. Stone houses a hundred years old stand dark. An old palace’s moat keeps it serene. The cathedral has burned a dozen times and been rebuilt. Ancestral ruins can burn no more. I wear the city’s history like a cloak and conjure a fog to put out every spark before it can reach me. Battered by the waves I gasp, but do not sink and ride on toward time’s great ocean. A painting of a person sitting on top of what appear to be ripples in a purple stream, eyes closed and perfectly calm, holding out their hand and interacting with almost corporeal fog. Accompanied by the following poem: A cloth to cover the obsidian edges of the centuries In the boat of myself on this ancient river, I paddle then panic as genteel swells turn to rapids. The waves soar above my head and block my vision, foam surrounds and towers, I am blocked, I am enclosed and cut off The stream bends and passes through a city. The crush subsides beneath the monuments. A fire polarizes the city. The roofs disagree and all burn the same way, but not all catch. Stone houses a hundred years old stand dark. An old palace’s moat keeps it serene. The cathedral has burned a dozen times and been rebuilt. Ancestral ruins can burn no more. I wear the city’s history like a cloak and conjure a fog to put out every spark before it can reach me. Battered by the waves I gasp, but do not sink and ride on toward time’s great ocean.
November 8, 2025 at 11:16 PM
paintree.art
To paraphrase Ursula le Guin, to seek absolute safety is to seek control. That's not a way to live among friends. Instead of bunkers, build community.

Xenography, up at paintree.art

#poem #skypoem #poetry #art #artist #artsky #painting #paintree #hopescrolling
A painting of hands overlapping in a loop, one holding a bunch of incredibly delicious looking grapes and one holding a sparkling new set of glasses. Accompanied by the following poem: Xenography Americans prep for doomsday by flexing self-reliance. A suburban fluoride-free well, a personal wheat silo. I broke my leg as a kid and while in traction grasped that in a bunker I would have died. So when it looked like the worst might happen, I began begging in my city, since it’s wiser to ask someone for help and then ask them to be your friend than the reverse. You, you reading this poem, are my hedge against catastrophe. I will hunt and gather for you if you will make me new glasses when mine break. A painting of hands overlapping in a loop, one holding a bunch of incredibly delicious looking grapes and one holding a sparkling new set of glasses. Accompanied by the following poem: Xenography Americans prep for doomsday by flexing self-reliance. A suburban fluoride-free well, a personal wheat silo. I broke my leg as a kid and while in traction grasped that in a bunker I would have died. So when it looked like the worst might happen, I began begging in my city, since it’s wiser to ask someone for help and then ask them to be your friend than the reverse. You, you reading this poem, are my hedge against catastrophe. I will hunt and gather for you if you will make me new glasses when mine break. A painting of hands overlapping in a loop, one holding a bunch of incredibly delicious looking grapes and one holding a sparkling new set of glasses. Accompanied by the following poem: Xenography Americans prep for doomsday by flexing self-reliance. A suburban fluoride-free well, a personal wheat silo. I broke my leg as a kid and while in traction grasped that in a bunker I would have died. So when it looked like the worst might happen, I began begging in my city, since it’s wiser to ask someone for help and then ask them to be your friend than the reverse. You, you reading this poem, are my hedge against catastrophe. I will hunt and gather for you if you will make me new glasses when mine break.
November 7, 2025 at 12:13 AM
paintree.art
There's a solution. Looking for it is scary. But knowing is better than ignorance, even if it's painful -otherwise there'd be nothing to solve.

Problem statement, @ paintree.art

#poem #skypoem #poetry #art #artist #artsky #painting #paintree #hopescrolling
A painting of a snake eating its tail and not the apple it surrounds. Accompanied by the following text: Problem statement Kekule stayed up too late thinking and dreamed of a snake who bit his tail, rolled down a hill, and delivered him knowledge. There is a solution to this problem if you will just search for the apple accept the consequences and take a bite. A painting of a snake eating its tail and not the apple it surrounds. Accompanied by the following text: Problem statement Kekule stayed up too late thinking and dreamed of a snake who bit his tail, rolled down a hill, and delivered him knowledge. There is a solution to this problem if you will just search for the apple accept the consequences and take a bite.
November 6, 2025 at 12:01 AM
paintree.art
If you've got an opportunity to have some people dance until they smile, that would probably be helpful (unless it's at work lol). Teaching or learning a language, too.

#paintree #hopescrolling
Tumblr post from user redadhdventures reading Shout out to my Arabic teacher that looked at us yesterday mid-lesson and said, "I'm worried. You all look exhausted and depressed." Of course we were all like, "Oh yeah we're dead inside, you haven't noticed?" And he snapped shut the textbook, threw up his hands and said, "That's not healthy! No more vocab! Time for dancing!" And he taught us a dance from Iraq and we danced instead of doing vocab. We didn't stop dancing until he saw all of us laughing and was satisfied that we were all feeling better. It was perhaps the coolest, most kind-hearted thing I've ever seen a college instructor do.
August 28, 2025 at 10:59 PM
paintree.art
When hot metal is worked, impurities fall off as slag. The finished piece is smaller, but stronger, more beautiful. You are like steel being made a sword.

Fatigue, new @ www.paintree.art.

#poem #skypoem #poetry #art #artist #artsky #painting #paintree #hopescrolling
A painting of a snail with a shell that looks like a giant rainbow lollypop, filling the field of vision and extending to who knows where. Accompanied by the following poem: Fatigue Anything that can't go on forever won't. It feels like a crisis until you burn out the part that worries. When babies grow up, old dreamcatchers, too full, are buried, and while their former owners sleep grow into rainbow snails whose shells spiral outward, not in. A painting of a snail with a shell that looks like a giant rainbow lollypop, filling the field of vision and extending to who knows where. Accompanied by the following poem: Fatigue Anything that can't go on forever won't. It feels like a crisis until you burn out the part that worries. When babies grow up, old dreamcatchers, too full, are buried, and while their former owners sleep grow into rainbow snails whose shells spiral outward, not in. A painting of a snail with a shell that looks like a giant rainbow lollypop, filling the field of vision and extending to who knows where. Accompanied by the following poem: Fatigue Anything that can't go on forever won't. It feels like a crisis until you burn out the part that worries. When babies grow up, old dreamcatchers, too full, are buried, and while their former owners sleep grow into rainbow snails whose shells spiral outward, not in.
August 26, 2025 at 10:17 PM
paintree.art
Touch grass lol. Jk, only srs. Sometimes I log off and go outside and look around, and whatever's happening, I instantly feel better. Take some time for that.

Summer, new @ www.paintree.art.

#poem #skypoem #poetry #art #artist #artsky #painting #paintree #hopescrolling
A picture of two people holding hands, colors dripping from between their fingers onto ripe stalks of wheat, while dark clouds pass by. Accompanied by the following poem: Summer Sweet black clouds blow in over the tall heads of grain. We seize the moment, you and I, to gather berries, our fingers stained and wet. We wash in the river, and downstream we see bears, napping now among the fish, having eaten too many. We stay up past the sun, and by the light of cooling embers, hold hands and wish for nothing else. A picture of two people holding hands, colors dripping from between their fingers onto ripe stalks of wheat, while dark clouds pass by. Accompanied by the following poem: Summer Sweet black clouds blow in over the tall heads of grain. We seize the moment, you and I, to gather berries, our fingers stained and wet. We wash in the river, and downstream we see bears, napping now among the fish, having eaten too many. We stay up past the sun, and by the light of cooling embers, hold hands and wish for nothing else.
August 18, 2025 at 10:18 PM
paintree.art
A letter from EB White to a reader, who apparently had written to him expressing despair at humanity.

I will wind my clock, and try to write some poems, and maybe make some art.

#hopescrolling #paintree
An image of a letter reading: 30 March 1973 Dear Mr Nadeau: As long as there is one upright man, as long as there is one compassionate woman, the contagion may spread and the scene is not desolate. Hope is the thing that is left to us, in a bad time. I shall get up Sunday morning and wind the clock, as a contribution to order and steadfastness. Sailors have an expression about the weather: they say, the weather is a great bluffer. I guess the same is true of human society--things can look dark, then a break shows in the clouds, and all is changed, sometimes rather suddenly. It is quite obvious that the human race has made a queer mess of life on this planet. But as a people we probably harbor seeds of goodness that have lain for a long time waiting to sprout when the conditions are right. Man's curiosity, his relentlessness, his inventiveness, his ingenuity have led him into deep trouble. We can only hope that these same traits will enable him to claw his way out. Hang on to your hat. Hang on to your hope. And wind the clock, for tomorrow is another day. Sincerely, EB White
August 16, 2025 at 4:54 PM
paintree.art
You don't have time to wait. Create it now. Even if it's just on a page or a canvas. Someone else will see it and help you will a better world, beauty, justice, into existence.

Graffiti, new @ www.paintree.art

#poem #skypoem #poetry #art #artist #artsky #painting #paintree #hopescrolling
A painting of a hand drawing a green line with a green pencil. The end of the line farthest from the pencil lead is creeping off the page, bifurcating, sprouting leaves and crawling up the arm that holds the pencil toward the sky. Accompanied by the following poem: Graffiti A tree was cut to make the shaft. A tree was tapped to make the rubber. A tree’s grave was mined to make the graphite. Creation is destruction, of the tree, the paper, the paint. Possibility must give way to presence. Destruction is creation. I will create a world where humans are only treated like people. Creation is destruction. Destruction is creation. I grasp the great current and shape it. I imagine a better world and even if it isn't real I create it and if it spreads to your imagination then it becomes real. I imagine a world that is fair. I imagine a world without hunger. I imagine a world of bizarre beauty. I imagine a world I imagine Imagine A painting of a hand drawing a green line with a green pencil. The end of the line farthest from the pencil lead is creeping off the page, bifurcating, sprouting leaves and crawling up the arm that holds the pencil toward the sky. Accompanied by the following poem: Graffiti A tree was cut to make the shaft. A tree was tapped to make the rubber. A tree’s grave was mined to make the graphite. Creation is destruction, of the tree, the paper, the paint. Possibility must give way to presence. Destruction is creation. I will create a world where humans are only treated like people. Creation is destruction. Destruction is creation. I grasp the great current and shape it. I imagine a better world and even if it isn't real I create it and if it spreads to your imagination then it becomes real. I imagine a world that is fair. I imagine a world without hunger. I imagine a world of bizarre beauty. I imagine a world I imagine Imagine A painting of a hand drawing a green line with a green pencil. The end of the line farthest from the pencil lead is creeping off the page, bifurcating, sprouting leaves and crawling up the arm that holds the pencil toward the sky. Accompanied by the following poem: Graffiti A tree was cut to make the shaft. A tree was tapped to make the rubber. A tree’s grave was mined to make the graphite. Creation is destruction, of the tree, the paper, the paint. Possibility must give way to presence. Destruction is creation. I will create a world where humans are only treated like people. Creation is destruction. Destruction is creation. I grasp the great current and shape it. I imagine a better world and even if it isn't real I create it and if it spreads to your imagination then it becomes real. I imagine a world that is fair. I imagine a world without hunger. I imagine a world of bizarre beauty. I imagine a world I imagine Imagine
August 12, 2025 at 9:30 PM
paintree.art
Hello lovelies, out here trying to boost morale but mine bottomed out in July. But we're getting back on that horse!

Things are tough, be beautiful when you can, it makes such a difference.

www.paintree.art

#poem #skypoem #poetry #art #artist #artsky #painting #paintree #hopescrolling
A painting of a person in a yellow dress floating in the air, their hair turning to clouds, the clouds raining rainbows, their fingers and toes turning into long roots. Accompanied by the following poem: Guerrilla gardening in fallow fields Just because your roots have been pulled from the ground washed clean and rubbed smooth doesn't mean they aren't still green. Freedom’s just another way of saying you made someone mad you're the witch, made to live in the forest’s edge, out of sight but close enough to find when they need your frightening knowledge. Grow your hair, grow wings, draw a pale map in the night and follow it until you can’t go a furlong farther and there, in the air, create a space where rainbows embrace like snakes on a staff of restoration. A painting of a person in a yellow dress floating in the air, their hair turning to clouds, the clouds raining rainbows, their fingers and toes turning into long roots. Accompanied by the following poem: Guerrilla gardening in fallow fields Just because your roots have been pulled from the ground washed clean and rubbed smooth doesn't mean they aren't still green. Freedom’s just another way of saying you made someone mad you're the witch, made to live in the forest’s edge, out of sight but close enough to find when they need your frightening knowledge. Grow your hair, grow wings, draw a pale map in the night and follow it until you can’t go a furlong farther and there, in the air, create a space where rainbows embrace like snakes on a staff of restoration. A painting of a person in a yellow dress floating in the air, their hair turning to clouds, the clouds raining rainbows, their fingers and toes turning into long roots. Accompanied by the following poem: Guerrilla gardening in fallow fields Just because your roots have been pulled from the ground washed clean and rubbed smooth doesn't mean they aren't still green. Freedom’s just another way of saying you made someone mad you're the witch, made to live in the forest’s edge, out of sight but close enough to find when they need your frightening knowledge. Grow your hair, grow wings, draw a pale map in the night and follow it until you can’t go a furlong farther and there, in the air, create a space where rainbows embrace like snakes on a staff of restoration.
August 10, 2025 at 9:31 PM
paintree.art
Please remember that the worst possible thing is not necessarily likely, and there are other possibilities. and maybe more importantly, to take stock of what IS good and what you CAN do right now.

New @ paintree.art

#poem #skypoem #poetry #art #artist #artsky #painting #paintree #hopescrolling
A painting of a leaf floating through the air, with a curious eye right in the middle of it. Accompanied by the following poem: Wilderness blues In these woods for half a year I try to take my small flame to every dark corner, to explore the rot in every cave and stump. I need to prepare, I repeat. I need to see all the forkings ahead. After losing so many moons looking in the dirt it becomes hard to see anything else. Everything looks like mud or danger. But doesn't every leaf have two faces - The rough one with countless mouths and the green one seeking light? If you always seek the worst, you told me, then by definition you discard everything else. I grow more eyes to see by darkness, by other light, predators, beauty. Let's curb optimism and fatalism, you repeat. There has to be another way. These woods are vast and dark. I will find a way out one day, to fields of corn and apples. And for now, I will live here, I will survive on rainwater and wild strawberries. A painting of a leaf floating through the air, with a curious eye right in the middle of it. Accompanied by the following poem: Wilderness blues In these woods for half a year I try to take my small flame to every dark corner, to explore the rot in every cave and stump. I need to prepare, I repeat. I need to see all the forkings ahead. After losing so many moons looking in the dirt it becomes hard to see anything else. Everything looks like mud or danger. But doesn't every leaf have two faces - The rough one with countless mouths and the green one seeking light? If you always seek the worst, you told me, then by definition you discard everything else. I grow more eyes to see by darkness, by other light, predators, beauty. Let's curb optimism and fatalism, you repeat. There has to be another way. These woods are vast and dark. I will find a way out one day, to fields of corn and apples. And for now, I will live here, I will survive on rainwater and wild strawberries. A painting of a leaf floating through the air, with a curious eye right in the middle of it. Accompanied by the following poem: Wilderness blues In these woods for half a year I try to take my small flame to every dark corner, to explore the rot in every cave and stump. I need to prepare, I repeat. I need to see all the forkings ahead. After losing so many moons looking in the dirt it becomes hard to see anything else. Everything looks like mud or danger. But doesn't every leaf have two faces - The rough one with countless mouths and the green one seeking light? If you always seek the worst, you told me, then by definition you discard everything else. I grow more eyes to see by darkness, by other light, predators, beauty. Let's curb optimism and fatalism, you repeat. There has to be another way. These woods are vast and dark. I will find a way out one day, to fields of corn and apples. And for now, I will live here, I will survive on rainwater and wild strawberries.
July 18, 2025 at 11:24 PM
paintree.art
As our country is stripped down, and coercive forces are realigned pointing against us, it's OK to go straight into doing something about it. But it's also OK to need to grieve first.

sympathies, new @ paintree.art

#poem #skypoem #poetry #art #artist #artsky #painting #paintree #hopescrolling
A painting of two humans hugging each other, as they either fall to pieces or are reconstructed. Accompanied by the following poem: sympathies funerals are for coming together and acknowledging a loss. make sure you go. hug and cry. something important has been taken from us and it is worthwhile to see the corpse to wash it to dress it until it kills all denial. there is no back, only forward. but all wounds must seal and scab to heal. once the loss scars we can pick up shovels and hammers and go on the move. A painting of two humans hugging each other, as they either fall to pieces or are reconstructed. Accompanied by the following poem: sympathies funerals are for coming together and acknowledging a loss. make sure you go. hug and cry. something important has been taken from us and it is worthwhile to see the corpse to wash it to dress it until it kills all denial. there is no back, only forward. but all wounds must seal and scab to heal. once the loss scars we can pick up shovels and hammers and go on the move.
July 16, 2025 at 8:09 PM
paintree.art
Struggling through it. This WILL all end, sooner or later, one way or another, but it will end. Evil never lasts.

Also I am aware it's July but happy f'n Pride to you.

Jar, new @ paintree.art

#poem #skypoem #poetry #art #artist #artsky #painting #paintree #hopescrolling
Something dark is sealed in a jar, guarded by a scorpion. The jar rests on a wooden table and is surrounded by light, a rainbow, and joyful squiggles. Accompanied by the following poem: Jar Is evil something inevitable? Something that must have its time, like the darkness of the moon? There will always be evil doers. Power will always have its own gravity. Some will always take lucre to tolerate horror. The arc of the universe appears to bend toward abundance. But that same can mask totalizing power until it's too late to overcome. And yet, this has happened before. And been defeated before. Evil, like a candle in a jar, strangles itself. We know we can do better. We see others do better, as they see us doing better. And so inevitably we do the work the time the struggle the tears the association the building necessary to bend history toward justice - to give evil a smaller jar. Something dark is sealed in a jar, guarded by a scorpion. The jar rests on a wooden table and is surrounded by light, a rainbow, and joyful squiggles. Accompanied by the following poem: Jar Is evil something inevitable? Something that must have its time, like the darkness of the moon? There will always be evil doers. Power will always have its own gravity. Some will always take lucre to tolerate horror. The arc of the universe appears to bend toward abundance. But that same can mask totalizing power until it's too late to overcome. And yet, this has happened before. And been defeated before. Evil, like a candle in a jar, strangles itself. We know we can do better. We see others do better, as they see us doing better. And so inevitably we do the work the time the struggle the tears the association the building necessary to bend history toward justice - to give evil a smaller jar. Something dark is sealed in a jar, guarded by a scorpion. The jar rests on a wooden table and is surrounded by light, a rainbow, and joyful squiggles. Accompanied by the following poem: Jar Is evil something inevitable? Something that must have its time, like the darkness of the moon? There will always be evil doers. Power will always have its own gravity. Some will always take lucre to tolerate horror. The arc of the universe appears to bend toward abundance. But that same can mask totalizing power until it's too late to overcome. And yet, this has happened before. And been defeated before. Evil, like a candle in a jar, strangles itself. We know we can do better. We see others do better, as they see us doing better. And so inevitably we do the work the time the struggle the tears the association the building necessary to bend history toward justice - to give evil a smaller jar.
July 6, 2025 at 11:26 PM
paintree.art
Zan, zendigi, aazaadi.
Woman, life, freedom.

Ihn jang ro nemikhaahim. We don't want this war.

New @ www.paintree.art

#poem #skypoem #poetry #art #artist #artsky #painting #paintree #hopescrolling
A painting of a human heart on a dark green background. From the valves of the heart sprout lush green stems and leaves. Accompanied by the following poem: deletun zabaanetun-e, zabaanetun shehr-e your heart is your language, your language is a poem My soul. I say. How is your health? It is not raining rain, you reply. My heart is restless, you say. Mine too, I admit. I have been blue all day. Did your heart not want peace? you ask. The heart did, I say, the mouth wanted something else. We don’t send our best to lead us, I say. From heart to heart, there is a path, you agree. I am without words. I conclude: I hope that this will end without more suffering. May my place be green, you say. May my place be green, I respond. A painting of a human heart on a dark green background. From the valves of the heart sprout lush green stems and leaves. Accompanied by the following poem: deletun zabaanetun-e, zabaanetun shehr-e your heart is your language, your language is a poem My soul. I say. How is your health? It is not raining rain, you reply. My heart is restless, you say. Mine too, I admit. I have been blue all day. Did your heart not want peace? you ask. The heart did, I say, the mouth wanted something else. We don’t send our best to lead us, I say. From heart to heart, there is a path, you agree. I am without words. I conclude: I hope that this will end without more suffering. May my place be green, you say. May my place be green, I respond.
June 27, 2025 at 10:44 PM
paintree.art
The sicker power is, the brittler it becomes. When you poke it, it will lash out to protect itself. It's not about being right or wrong - it's about being a threat. But hange is still worthwhile.

New @ www.paintree.art

#poem #skypoem #poetry #art #artist #artsky #painting #paintree #hopescrolling
A painting of a person sitting on a grassy mound with water all around them, holding their face. Their eyes are wide and bulging and their mouth is a rictus grin. Accompanied by the following poem: Contain, constrain, refrain You might think to make yourself small. They’ll make you feel ashamed for sharing colorful ideas. But when the rains begin to fall, they’ll come asking for you. You might feel the need to stay silent. Trust is a luxury and yours has been spent on lottery tickets for someone else. But when the rains fall and the floodwaters begin to roll in, they’ll come asking for you. You might have to hide. Draw little eyes on ping pong balls so they think you never sleep and draw a little mouth that makes the same sounds they do. But when the rains fall and the floodwaters roll in and the sea begins to lick at their feet, they’ll come asking for you. You might feel you need to run. That things aren’t tolerable any longer and it’s better to take a chance on parts unknown than to risk another minute on this freight train ouroborus. And when the rains fall and the floodwaters roll in and the sea swallows them and they begin to feel the weight of their chains in the icy depths, they’ll wonder how you could have forsaken them. A painting of a person sitting on a grassy mound with water all around them, holding their face. Their eyes are wide and bulging and their mouth is a rictus grin. Accompanied by the following poem: Contain, constrain, refrain You might think to make yourself small. They’ll make you feel ashamed for sharing colorful ideas. But when the rains begin to fall, they’ll come asking for you. You might feel the need to stay silent. Trust is a luxury and yours has been spent on lottery tickets for someone else. But when the rains fall and the floodwaters begin to roll in, they’ll come asking for you. You might have to hide. Draw little eyes on ping pong balls so they think you never sleep and draw a little mouth that makes the same sounds they do. But when the rains fall and the floodwaters roll in and the sea begins to lick at their feet, they’ll come asking for you. You might feel you need to run. That things aren’t tolerable any longer and it’s better to take a chance on parts unknown than to risk another minute on this freight train ouroborus. And when the rains fall and the floodwaters roll in and the sea swallows them and they begin to feel the weight of their chains in the icy depths, they’ll wonder how you could have forsaken them. A painting of a person sitting on a grassy mound with water all around them, holding their face. Their eyes are wide and bulging and their mouth is a rictus grin. Accompanied by the following poem: Contain, constrain, refrain You might think to make yourself small. They’ll make you feel ashamed for sharing colorful ideas. But when the rains begin to fall, they’ll come asking for you. You might feel the need to stay silent. Trust is a luxury and yours has been spent on lottery tickets for someone else. But when the rains fall and the floodwaters begin to roll in, they’ll come asking for you. You might have to hide. Draw little eyes on ping pong balls so they think you never sleep and draw a little mouth that makes the same sounds they do. But when the rains fall and the floodwaters roll in and the sea begins to lick at their feet, they’ll come asking for you. You might feel you need to run. That things aren’t tolerable any longer and it’s better to take a chance on parts unknown than to risk another minute on this freight train ouroborus. And when the rains fall and the floodwaters roll in and the sea swallows them and they begin to feel the weight of their chains in the icy depths, they’ll wonder how you could have forsaken them. A painting of a person sitting on a grassy mound with water all around them, holding their face. Their eyes are wide and bulging and their mouth is a rictus grin. Accompanied by the following poem: Contain, constrain, refrain You might think to make yourself small. They’ll make you feel ashamed for sharing colorful ideas. But when the rains begin to fall, they’ll come asking for you. You might feel the need to stay silent. Trust is a luxury and yours has been spent on lottery tickets for someone else. But when the rains fall and the floodwaters begin to roll in, they’ll come asking for you. You might have to hide. Draw little eyes on ping pong balls so they think you never sleep and draw a little mouth that makes the same sounds they do. But when the rains fall and the floodwaters roll in and the sea begins to lick at their feet, they’ll come asking for you. You might feel you need to run. That things aren’t tolerable any longer and it’s better to take a chance on parts unknown than to risk another minute on this freight train ouroborus. And when the rains fall and the floodwaters roll in and the sea swallows them and they begin to feel the weight of their chains in the icy depths, they’ll wonder how you could have forsaken them.
June 19, 2025 at 11:21 AM
paintree.art
No kings. We inherited a revolution and we will keep it.

New @ www.paintree.art

#poem #skypoem #poetry #art #artist #artsky #painting #paintree #hopescrolling
A painting of a pair of feet in feathery grass, with some small yellow flowers around them. the edges blur. Accompanied by the following poem: Grassroots When they try to rule you, ignore them. When they threaten you, laugh at them. When they shoot at you, belittle them. where they kill you, build a shrine. When they bulldoze that shrine, plant grass and declare that all grass everywhere is now a monument. Every time anyone anywhere stamps its blades with their feet they march with you, with us. A painting of a pair of feet in feathery grass, with some small yellow flowers around them. the edges blur. Accompanied by the following poem: Grassroots When they try to rule you, ignore them. When they threaten you, laugh at them. When they shoot at you, belittle them. where they kill you, build a shrine. When they bulldoze that shrine, plant grass and declare that all grass everywhere is now a monument. Every time anyone anywhere stamps its blades with their feet they march with you, with us. A painting of a pair of feet in feathery grass, with some small yellow flowers around them. the edges blur. Accompanied by the following poem: Grassroots When they try to rule you, ignore them. When they threaten you, laugh at them. When they shoot at you, belittle them. where they kill you, build a shrine. When they bulldoze that shrine, plant grass and declare that all grass everywhere is now a monument. Every time anyone anywhere stamps its blades with their feet they march with you, with us.
June 15, 2025 at 10:01 PM
paintree.art
Take a chance on change.

New @ www.paintree.art

#poem #skypoem #poetry #art #artist #artsky #painting #paintree #hopescrolling
A painting of an enormous goldfish flying over the treetops, among fluffy white clouds, on a gorgeous day Accompanied by the following poem: Breathless It's easy enough to take the firmament for granted. If you thought you could lose it you might go crazy. Leaving home is like that. You feel freer than a cloud, surprised at every turn, and often bitter solitude in spite of the new colors around you. Familiarity is constraining, but is also a scaffold. Quite contrary, but then again what might a fish say if cast into the air? He might say, I can’t breathe! He might say, I can fly! A painting of an enormous goldfish flying over the treetops, among fluffy white clouds, on a gorgeous day Accompanied by the following poem: Breathless It's easy enough to take the firmament for granted. If you thought you could lose it you might go crazy. Leaving home is like that. You feel freer than a cloud, surprised at every turn, and often bitter solitude in spite of the new colors around you. Familiarity is constraining, but is also a scaffold. Quite contrary, but then again what might a fish say if cast into the air? He might say, I can’t breathe! He might say, I can fly! A painting of an enormous goldfish flying over the treetops, among fluffy white clouds, on a gorgeous day Accompanied by the following poem: Breathless It's easy enough to take the firmament for granted. If you thought you could lose it you might go crazy. Leaving home is like that. You feel freer than a cloud, surprised at every turn, and often bitter solitude in spite of the new colors around you. Familiarity is constraining, but is also a scaffold. Quite contrary, but then again what might a fish say if cast into the air? He might say, I can’t breathe! He might say, I can fly!
June 8, 2025 at 9:34 PM
paintree.art
Let it out. Share it with a friend or a journal or the universe but pour it out. Verbalizing is organizing.

(Maybe think 2x before sharing it on the internet today.)

New @ www.paintree.art

#poem #skypoem #poetry #art #artist #artsky #painting #paintree #hopescrolling
Painting of a figure mostly submerged in water, which appears to be following from their long hair, in front of a spiraling sky, which is also flowing from their hair. Accompanied by the following poem: Flow Let the thoughts flow from you. Let them fill the page, or rush down the drain. Whisper to allies or shout to the starry night. Empty your vessel. Spill them like tears until they cover the land and wash it. You will not drown – you will surge downstream across the flooded plain, they will become your river, and you, its naiad. Painting of a figure mostly submerged in water, which appears to be following from their long hair, in front of a spiraling sky, which is also flowing from their hair. Accompanied by the following poem: Flow Let the thoughts flow from you. Let them fill the page, or rush down the drain. Whisper to allies or shout to the starry night. Empty your vessel. Spill them like tears until they cover the land and wash it. You will not drown – you will surge downstream across the flooded plain, they will become your river, and you, its naiad.
June 8, 2025 at 12:29 AM
paintree.art
Sometimes it's worth asking if the rules of the game are working for you. Sometimes, it's time to make some new rules.

New at www.paintree.art

#poem #skypoem #poetry #art #artist #artsky #painting #paintree #hopescrolling
A painting of a small plant in a patch of green against a deep blue background. The leaves appear to have human eyes in them. Accompanied by the following poem: Garden path I carried a great stone up a mountain for an age. It would fall and I would have to fall farther to catch it. When all your progress can be erased in an instant there is no rest, no rest. Recovery is for after reaching the goal. I hauled that stone for an age, filthy and twitching, then one day halfway up I realized - this is not my mountain this is not my stone what if I never get to the top? so what if I never get to the top? and I turned off the road and when I could no longer see it I put that stone down in the moss I remember the moss but I couldn’t say where I put the stone, I can’t picture it even after all that time. I wandered all the way to the sea and followed a great river until it was swallowed by trees. ------------------ when you go walking in the black woods, go barefoot so that you can better heed the voices of the folk who live there. A painting of a small plant in a patch of green against a deep blue background. The leaves appear to have human eyes in them. Accompanied by the following poem: Garden path I carried a great stone up a mountain for an age. It would fall and I would have to fall farther to catch it. When all your progress can be erased in an instant there is no rest, no rest. Recovery is for after reaching the goal. I hauled that stone for an age, filthy and twitching, then one day halfway up I realized - this is not my mountain this is not my stone what if I never get to the top? so what if I never get to the top? and I turned off the road and when I could no longer see it I put that stone down in the moss I remember the moss but I couldn’t say where I put the stone, I can’t picture it even after all that time. I wandered all the way to the sea and followed a great river until it was swallowed by trees. ------------------ when you go walking in the black woods, go barefoot so that you can better heed the voices of the folk who live there. A painting of a small plant in a patch of green against a deep blue background. The leaves appear to have human eyes in them. Accompanied by the following poem: Garden path I carried a great stone up a mountain for an age. It would fall and I would have to fall farther to catch it. When all your progress can be erased in an instant there is no rest, no rest. Recovery is for after reaching the goal. I hauled that stone for an age, filthy and twitching, then one day halfway up I realized - this is not my mountain this is not my stone what if I never get to the top? so what if I never get to the top? and I turned off the road and when I could no longer see it I put that stone down in the moss I remember the moss but I couldn’t say where I put the stone, I can’t picture it even after all that time. I wandered all the way to the sea and followed a great river until it was swallowed by trees. ------------------ when you go walking in the black woods, go barefoot so that you can better heed the voices of the folk who live there. A painting of a small plant in a patch of green against a deep blue background. The leaves appear to have human eyes in them. Accompanied by the following poem: Garden path I carried a great stone up a mountain for an age. It would fall and I would have to fall farther to catch it. When all your progress can be erased in an instant there is no rest, no rest. Recovery is for after reaching the goal. I hauled that stone for an age, filthy and twitching, then one day halfway up I realized - this is not my mountain this is not my stone what if I never get to the top? so what if I never get to the top? and I turned off the road and when I could no longer see it I put that stone down in the moss I remember the moss but I couldn’t say where I put the stone, I can’t picture it even after all that time. I wandered all the way to the sea and followed a great river until it was swallowed by trees. ------------------ when you go walking in the black woods, go barefoot so that you can better heed the voices of the folk who live there.
June 1, 2025 at 8:51 PM
paintree.art
You are made of starstuff, lots of it created only when a star dies and explodes.

And look how beautiful you are.

More at www.paintree.art

#poem #skypoem #poetry #art #artist #artsky #painting #paintree #hopescrolling
Painting of rainbow clouds shaking hands over a rainbow river, cutting through the mountains and empty land away from a red setting sun. Accompanied by the following poem: Nova After a star has lived its life and run out of nuclear spirit, after its atmosphere thins out and its heart falls in upon itself, after it explodes in all colors of the rainbow and beyond, diffuse rivers of its flesh pool and form sunset clouds lightyears across. Atoms from the star, in its grave, encounter each other one by one, maybe with refugees from another stellar wake and shake hands, come together, make rocks and dirt, build houses, and eventually sunflowers. Painting of rainbow clouds shaking hands over a rainbow river, cutting through the mountains and empty land away from a red setting sun. Accompanied by the following poem: Nova After a star has lived its life and run out of nuclear spirit, after its atmosphere thins out and its heart falls in upon itself, after it explodes in all colors of the rainbow and beyond, diffuse rivers of its flesh pool and form sunset clouds lightyears across. Atoms from the star, in its grave, encounter each other one by one, maybe with refugees from another stellar wake and shake hands, come together, make rocks and dirt, build houses, and eventually sunflowers. Painting of rainbow clouds shaking hands over a rainbow river, cutting through the mountains and empty land away from a red setting sun. Accompanied by the following poem: Nova After a star has lived its life and run out of nuclear spirit, after its atmosphere thins out and its heart falls in upon itself, after it explodes in all colors of the rainbow and beyond, diffuse rivers of its flesh pool and form sunset clouds lightyears across. Atoms from the star, in its grave, encounter each other one by one, maybe with refugees from another stellar wake and shake hands, come together, make rocks and dirt, build houses, and eventually sunflowers.
May 31, 2025 at 10:43 PM
paintree.art
I'm upset about soulless "content" being flogged as art. It sucks and hopefully it's not here forever. But even if it is, they can never make us believe the lie that it's valuable.

New @ www.paintree.art

#poem #skypoem #poetry #art #artist #artsky #painting #paintree #hopescrolling
A person with their eyes closed sitting on the ground, leaning forward over their knees. their back from the crown of their heads to the end of the spine is covered in gears, the teeth biting deep into flesh, and their arms and legs are bound together. Accompanied by the following poem: Automata I automated cotton milling then I automated knitting I automated horses then automated auto making I automated chess and checkers and automatically read the news I automated chicken and pork and automatically supersized you I automated entertainment before I automated art I automated music and I automated this poem I automated learning I automated conversation I automated relationships especially transactions. I automated life and I automated love I automated automation And what was left? sleeping and shitting eating and gristle horror and the wrath of god - and cleaning up the messes the robots keep making A person with their eyes closed sitting on the ground, leaning forward over their knees. their back from the crown of their heads to the end of the spine is covered in gears, the teeth biting deep into flesh, and their arms and legs are bound together. Accompanied by the following poem: Automata I automated cotton milling then I automated knitting I automated horses then automated auto making I automated chess and checkers and automatically read the news I automated chicken and pork and automatically supersized you I automated entertainment before I automated art I automated music and I automated this poem I automated learning I automated conversation I automated relationships especially transactions. I automated life and I automated love I automated automation And what was left? sleeping and shitting eating and gristle horror and the wrath of god - and cleaning up the messes the robots keep making A person with their eyes closed sitting on the ground, leaning forward over their knees. their back from the crown of their heads to the end of the spine is covered in gears, the teeth biting deep into flesh, and their arms and legs are bound together. Accompanied by the following poem: Automata I automated cotton milling then I automated knitting I automated horses then automated auto making I automated chess and checkers and automatically read the news I automated chicken and pork and automatically supersized you I automated entertainment before I automated art I automated music and I automated this poem I automated learning I automated conversation I automated relationships especially transactions. I automated life and I automated love I automated automation And what was left? sleeping and shitting eating and gristle horror and the wrath of god - and cleaning up the messes the robots keep making A person with their eyes closed sitting on the ground, leaning forward over their knees. their back from the crown of their heads to the end of the spine is covered in gears, the teeth biting deep into flesh, and their arms and legs are bound together. Accompanied by the following poem: Automata I automated cotton milling then I automated knitting I automated horses then automated auto making I automated chess and checkers and automatically read the news I automated chicken and pork and automatically supersized you I automated entertainment before I automated art I automated music and I automated this poem I automated learning I automated conversation I automated relationships especially transactions. I automated life and I automated love I automated automation And what was left? sleeping and shitting eating and gristle horror and the wrath of god - and cleaning up the messes the robots keep making
May 7, 2025 at 9:33 PM
paintree.art
There's a huge amount of uncertainty right now. It may turn out that you were wrong, but don't let anyone make you feel crazy.

New @ www.paintree.art

#poem #skypoem #poetry #art #artist #artsky #painting #paintree #hopescrolling
A painting of a closeup of a person's face, half submerged in water, eyes full of tears that have not run out. In the left eye, a tiny figure walks atop the water Accompanied by the following poem: Magician I am a magician. I can do impossible things. I can watch for an eternity without blinking. I can walk on water, at great personal cost. I can tell the truth, even when friends plug their ears so that all they hear me shout is ‘wolf, wolf.’ A painting of a closeup of a person's face, half submerged in water, eyes full of tears that have not run out. In the left eye, a tiny figure walks atop the water Accompanied by the following poem: Magician I am a magician. I can do impossible things. I can watch for an eternity without blinking. I can walk on water, at great personal cost. I can tell the truth, even when friends plug their ears so that all they hear me shout is ‘wolf, wolf.’
April 30, 2025 at 10:14 PM