Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Best Red Poems

Below are the all-time best Red poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of red poems written by PoetrySoup members

View ALL Red Poems

Search for Red poems, articles about Red poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Red poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

Definition & Discussion of Red Poems
Read Red Poems

See also: Best Famous Poems

123
Details | Red Poem |

STRAWBERRY

STRAWBERRY

Can you feel the warmness of the sun, 
reflecting off the red tones of my hair.
The sun touching the edge of my toes!
My seasons true nature ignited by a layer of flares.

Can you feel the stars shine for me at night?
While the moon beams a color of envy.
Can you see me lost underneath the crimson tide in the clouds.
Some where out there my eyes wonder for you.

Can you feel the fresh bruise in my strawberry heart?
As it bleeds every day just for you!
Wondering if life can ever be sweet like sugar and glue.
Crying under the night and its skies is how it would seem.
Lost in a midnight red field in a forever dream.

Can you feel the texture of my wounds?
They feel rugged like rocky mountain sour berries.
Covered in daiquiri as I drown under the rivers current.
Attracting canaries to enjoy my wild strawberries.

Can you feel the wings of my broken dreams?
Here I am falling off the cliff and the feeling of love.
Abandoned like a batch of strawberries for its flaws.

Do you see me standing with a sad look.
Can I show you all them hammer hits I took.
That will be the end of story, to my book.
How my strawberries have beauty that you over looked.

by; p.d.


Details | Red Poem |

In the Sun's Last Glow

On her terrace where she once had viewed a crimson field, she stands recalling heroes who were battling their foe. She still can feel the terror! How her poor heart reeled thinking of her lover fighting on the field below, with others on that plain bathed red as the sun dipped low. The brave men lie in caskets which now are concealed beneath a plain that ran with blood, where bright irises now grow. She thinks of her own strong brave man, draped in white and sealed forever in a casket too. He was her Romeo. The sorrow flooding her she had never thought to know. She looks down from her terrace with a heart that won’t be healed. The mighty dead now lie in grassy fields. . . and lo! Around the graves are swords, which are green blades revealed with *purple flags that softly wave as a May wind starts to blow and she is bathed in red again, there in the sun’s last glow. * Purple flags refer to the name of the purple iris that resembles a flag


Details | Red Poem |

IN RED'S SILENT FURY


Metallic city howls like a wounded animal scraped by nocturnal vigils of grandchildren and elders emaciated like tuberculosis lungs gasping from chug-chugs of tobacco soot... and the face of a night is hammered by ripped moans like plucked strings in motel rooms; pagan women opening limbs for a meal in silent fury. This is the other side of town... beggars peddling hope; factory shoulders ranting over shuffled cards and fired gin as wives’ blistered fingers clean rented pots, gibbering same monotone of hymn, “give us daily bread, daily bread”. Outside, the pier coughs off the commercial honks of weighed cargo reeked with labor’s perspiration, where pawnshops buzz with greed's snicker... the evening owl attempts winks under the grime of bloodied moon… it spits the larynx of tenants’ raged hoots wishing morsels of fresh sunset would pour some grace of life’s salve, before the shrill of red sets in... again.
Color of Sound Contest/ Monterey Sirak by nette onclaud


Details | Red Poem |

Isle of Bast

Memories of the North Sea
sift in like sand kernels 
on a fast, frigid tide -
events that transpired outside 
the confines of rhyme,
instead, unfolding exactly 
as they were meant to.

I had never before seen
so many shades of gray.
This monochromatic splendor
was awe-inspiring,
within an absence of sunshine
that was perfectly fitting,
instead of being bleak and bleary.

The smell of salt and seaweed
awoke deep within me 
something dormant and eternal - 
a surging desire to flush
stagnant disease
from out of my blood
with an inverted force of pride.

Salty blood and water
coming together in a communion
of distant relations and movements.

A flash of bright red 
digging in the sand beside me.
My child is wearing the only
vibrant colour to be seen for many kilometres.
The colour matches
her enthusiasm and energy,
as she moves from one spot to the next
like a dancing flame.

My own fire burns in my eyes.
I had unconsciously dressed
in the same colours of the sky and sea,
blending into the scenery
as a chameleon --
an illusion thicker than clouds,
an illusion of stone
for me to melt and reinvent
at the spinning speed of thought.

I look over at my daughter
who is wearing a wide smile of wonder,
for she has not ever seen the ocean before.
She can see the chameleon
walking alongside her in the frothy surf.
Together, we collect shiny stones and shells,
our pants rolled-up to the knee
as we wade through waves.

I wonder if people onshore
can only see a solitary dash of red out here,
or if the chameleon is more
noticeable than I had thought,
while we watch sea-birds
cover the steep cliffs
in a blanket of black and white feathers.




~(2012 North Sea Remix)~






.


Details | Red Poem |

Rhapsody in Red

When morning breaks in shades of wine...
  with claret skies to blush the dawn...
     I will stretch and yawn, and thank the night
           for this polished, dappled day
 
I will wait until the sun is high, and dew upon the rose is dry
I'll have my cup, .. with toast and jam...
then, make escape, ..........for the quest begins,
                                                              to seek my small reward

It happens slowly...
          gathering reason from an untamed mind
            up into the meadow where the brambles climb
              twisted and tangled, through the burgandy vines
               deftly my fingers, while probing the maze
                will reach for wild berries.....warm from the day
thumping their goodness, one after one
into the bucket, dented and worn
A search through thorns, a prick on my thumb
      till my back is ripe, and wet in the sun
           
Finger painting my faded old jeans
  Knowing my cheeks are flushing in pink
    Sucking sweet juice from two crimson thumbs
         Who cares a lick, of the thorns or a bee?

I am a bee, buzzing serenity...
     plucking small bits of reason and sanity
           taking home goodness in a battered tin pail
              feeling alive, on this wild-flowered hill
             

Tonight's sweet delight, is warm berry cobbler, 
  oozing with goodness of juicy red gems
    staining my tongue, and turning lips scarlet
      dripping like blood drops onto my chin
          
Yet never as splendid, or tasting as fine, 
    as warmed by my smile, straight from the vine

       Picking red berries, and freeing my mind
                                      *   *
                                            * *
                                       *      *
                                                  *
                                             *   
           under clouds tinged vermilion
               and a red crimson sun
                  




_____________________________________
For Shadow Hamilton's Contest: "Colours"
 5/4/13


Details | Red Poem |

Slow Movin Tights

I'm in me bath here, with a box of red cheer, 
yeah a box of red cheer, beer's too bloody dear.
Me mind's wanderin twixt big tits and riches, 
bein able to scratch at what itches, 
without scratchin the bum out your britches.
 
If they think you got what, 
they'd rather they'd got, 
mate, hang onto your hat, 
they'll bloody take that. 

That girl in black tights, so jam-packed with delights, 
nights full of delights in them slow movin tights. 
She's not, like Jacko reckons, a whore.
Wouldn't lie on me bare wooden floor.
Christ, I did nothin to get to be poor.
 
And you can't pay what's due
so your creditors sue? 
Funny old world, not half.
But good for a laugh.
 
I can't help but hear next door's shoutin and tears,
all their shoutin and tears, I can hear em from here, 
through the stem of me glass on the wall. 
Pray to God he don't hit her at all. 
I'm half pissed and spliffed and I'm too small to brawl.
 
But I stand in the queue, 
for a place in the zoo. 
Heard you shouldn't have pride.
They wouldn't have lied.
 
A party's upstairs but I can't breathe their airs.
I won't breathe their airs, them there upstairs.
So I fill the bathroom with me smoke.
All those girls shaggin some other bloke.
I just lie here and soak and suck on me toke.
 
What's it like not to do
as the pain wants you to? 
If it's all that seems real, 
what else do you feel? 

I hear downstairs' soul hit his lavatory bowl.
That porcelain bowl gets the whole of his soul, 
as I wring out the bladder of red.
All the sweetest of girls, Jacko said, 
have big whites to their eyes that aint never've bled.
 
There aint nothin excites 
like those whitest of whites
on rich girls with sweet arses
in slow movin tights.


Details | Red Poem |

Ode to the Redwood

I was once a little twig with dreams of being a mighty tree
So people would come from all around just to look at me
As the years started to come and go I fell in love with the wind
I would open myself big and wide swaying to the music of my friend
My rings became many and my bark was as red as red could be
Then the day finally came I was the tallest of the tallest trees
I stood tall and I stood proud and everyone knew my name
As my rings continued recording my destiny to fame
Then the fateful day it came my friend and I had a fight
Looking back I can't recall who was wrong or right
I said, "You are but the wind something people can't even see"
" And I'm the king of them all the tallest of the tallest trees"
That night the wind started to howl she really started to blow
And I the tallest of all the trees learned we reap what we sow
My roots struggled to hold on tight but without a soul around
She who had been my dearest friend knocked me to the ground
The loggers came and cut me up then shipped me away
To my soul that truly was a sad and lonely day
Torn from all I knew and loved wishing I didn't have to feel
I was cut into boards and post down at the local mill
Now I'm back here at home just a few feet away
From where my friend the wind and I used to dance and play
I'm the deck on which you stand I lay below your feet
There is a bench made of me would you care to have a seat
Sometimes in life our roles change just take a look at me
The trick is no matter who are what you are be all you can be
See I was once a little twig who became a mighty tree
And now I'm a redwood deck as proud as proud can be
And of my friend the wind she visits me everyday
So I can thank her once again for helping me find my way


Details | Red Poem |

Rose of thorns

Rose of thorns

The crimson hue became a thorn and everlasting blossom
- its imaging was tho' entombed inside his convolutions
so braving bloomed the pasture was, forever his and blithesome;
the fine drops dropping, turned to be the moistening ablutions.

Amid the shadows of the dusk, the myrtle mauve enhances
the passing of the veil that dark descends and hides the ridges;
while the eternal rose of thorns, that agitates and dances,
his crimson solitude embraced and life, amidst the breezes.

Aeonian, the blooming rose, his destiny reverses;
the jagged reasoning of thorns and emptiness that signals
consequently becomes a tomb, betimes chivalric verses
while in the rain dilutes and flows along the windy fiddles.

© 03-22-2014, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved
(Iambic Decapentasyllabic verse)
(new poem)

Sponsor: Kelly Deschler
Contest Name: Every Rose Has It's Thorn
Deadline: 4/20/2014


Details | Red Poem |

RED ANGEL

RED  ANGEL

I see the fire in your eyes!
This Red Angel, who's not human, intriguing with lies.
Pointing to the path that leads to paradise.
Ending Revelations with violence, breaking every inch of ice.

Blazing wings like the sunset over a field of corn.
A row of roses with rubies sharper than a thorn.
A devious smile covering up a set of horns.
Diluting me with images, since the day I was born.

Goose bumps when your essence is near.
I linger and shiver my lips with fear.
A slithery hypnotic tongue, the Red Angel wipes away my tear.
Holding the reddish key, whispering the word. "FREEDOM!"Into my ear.

Like the crimson tide lifting me from drowning at his request. 
I find my heart pondering deeper and deeper within my chest.
Blessed with the curse of 'death' when my demons are depressed.
I'm still smiling to the sweet surrender of your breath.

A halo exploding like the fur of a volcano filled with lava.
Allowing the angel's advocate around~like a tree of strawberry guava.
Swallowing my own drops of red blood from my own saliva.
Living like the dead after a full bottle of vodka.

I beg for mercy at the Red Angels cow like feet.
Collapsing with sweat in his sweet eternal heat.
Gasping for the fresh air to avoid the smell of rotten meat.
I see the aura of an angel with his fangs ready to feast  and eat.

Falling into a daze towards the red picket fence.
My Red House engraved with flames, after my feeling where condense.
My soul tormented by goodness at evils expense.
Flowing with every feeling including God's given sixth sense...

 By; P.D.

((( Merry X- Mass Everyone)))


Details | Red Poem |

Wall Street

      

Set upon the new world stage within the burning fires of hell. Silently posed factions of the elite, suppress the true inherit of Mother Earth. The meek children bending over for millennium, taken spankings of bare bottoms, pelted slavery. 

Upon entry to rule, the open stage of smoked mirrors began to reflect back upon the podium of lies. Taught by scholars from university books of political science. Fearful of leadership matching mirrored images, of false pretense, babbling rhetoric. The stirring masses of discontented, individualistic, thought of as dead - enders, trouble makers, and rebel rousers, rallied aimlessly.   

With super hero, Captain Do Gooder, bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street. Weary lost hope combatants mustered courage, and accepted destiny. To this point, someone shouted against the wind of change. Felt by all who sensed the importance. 
"To death do us part of the purpose to which we, the united, stand for justice". 
The chant began, as Captain Do Gooder was dragged away, and cuffed, once bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street. 
Damn the torpedoes. Damn the torpedoes. 
Captain Do Gooder, fallen, bruised ego matching skinned knees, lays helpless. Who will save them now.

Second glances from high rise penthouses. Serving champagne and caviar. Brought iron clenched hands once hidden, to draw the stage curtain down. 

With Captain Do Gooder nowhere to be found. The voice that came from pain of pupil. Born within broken dreams of promised lands. Realized nothing was coming cheap on this occupation. 

The dusty streets found Captain Do Gooder aimlessly stepping against the winds of change, down Wall Street. The well-intentioned, arrested and broken spirited, lost hope of recycling any salvage rights taken from them by Metro. 

Was this the end of the well thought out, pushed down occupation.  
Was this the beginning, of the underground faction. Where was senior generation X hiding. Only Captain Do Gooder and the well-intentioned, world stage occupiers, hold the key to that Pandora's box of hope. 

 
The peoples across the oceans were already springing far ahead in their own, more brutal campaign. For they had no cushion on which they were raised to kneel against. Tyranny ran over them.  A lesson yet not felt, or learnt, or taught, in the new world.  No chance of city mayors issuing eviction notices. Bullets, tanks and bombs were of the order. Brought down the line, traced back to the ones our United Nations to this day, refuse to acknowledge.
While leaders there home internet shop, and pump out the lies. Everyone dies. 


In the heart of the continent of center, where unto which as mankind sprang forth, for its first and ever conquest.  
The lights kept dim, to obscure the violent cleansing. A facade to disguise once moreover, the brutal tyranny for which the greed of the elite, control the dimmer switch. Diamonds and oil fuel the fire of war and oppression, on this stage of greed and guilt. Too far away, and too many distractions upon center stage for one to see or care. Thought and looked upon by most as racially motivated.  The origins of all mankind, to be left, far too far, behind. The true forsaken people. Why is man unkind.


So..........will Captain Do Gooder raise the bar to which drinks for the house, and all around, will quench the thirst felt by ninety nine percent of the people............mother knows best.   
Yet, still, self-inflicted roadblocks of appointed destiny, drop kicked long days past. Faint light shining far ahead, within the tunnel of hell, brought up to land. Firm above the depths to which it sprang. The truth of world order.  

Wait......what do we see......do our closed eyes deceive our cries........................................

We see Captain Do Gooder catching second wind. 

She breathes deep now and all can hear her war cry, no longer whimpering softly. As in past tense situations, given way to dazed and confused wall street *****es.  
She builds momentum, as our brothers and sisters lay dying and bleeding. On the streets of some not so distant for telling, of what's to be, will never not be coming full steam ahead and plowing through the hidden agenda.  One step beyond the line drawn in the sand of time, we thought would never be crossed. Give way thoughtless future tellers, and takers. Still holding firm with paper cuts, deep into the hands who printed and prepared such slave papers, kept by the elite bankers. 

Captain Do Gooder returns renewed and refreshed. Our true Mother.  
Captain Do Gooder feels strong, as bruised knees and scraped hands heal. 


Brush of destiny sweepstakes,  allots winnings of earth shaking, volcano erupting, tsunami tidal waves, with bonus draws of worldwide chaos. Future draws are to be held with worldwide winners. Grand prize, dead oceans rising.  

The next generation have no fear digest writes the next chapter. 

 
Hold the press down firmly wall street backbiting backbenchers. Drawn into the crossfire, on her mark, place the x on the next general who dares not fall into civil disobedience.  
Captain Do Gooder has grown teeth, and she is biting down hard against the line to pipe riches, spoiled from her lands. Stolen from the first pilgrimage, fifteen thousand years old, lost empire. 

How dare you steal from, and pollute the minds of her children. Yet old enough to drink and drug and die in war.  How dare all of us. 

Meanwhile back at the ranch.  Captain Do Gooder hugs tight that tree of life, to which sprang all this elbow rubbing and diversion. Wall street huddles in her corner, painted red to match the lengths to which an end will surely bring to it. 
Painted red for all to see. 
The end to friendly letter writing, give peace a chance, make love not war, generation taking a bow, and snow birding it, to false sense of security land. Like the ostrich with its head in the sand. 



123