Best Crayon Poems
"Crayon Caresses"
blue velvet sky caresses
pink cotton candy clouds
beneath a gold umbrella
red heartbeats breathing loud.
a yellow Sun kisses skin
of silky bronze glowation
footprints carve love in brown sand
while white waves crest formation.
green trees hide secret embrace
while purple passion prowls
viewing an orange sunset
rose petals play on towels.
silvery stars illuminate beach
as amber heavens sleep
magenta magic smiles so sweet
chase black and grey to ocean's deep.
...crayola rainbow lovers' leap ...
*Written by: Linda-Marie The "Sweetheart" of P.S.
*For Tracie's Paint The World Contest ...
Red is the crayon that I love to use.
So vivid and bright without any abuse.
I color so lively and make each stroke count.
Even making the water red in the fount.
In my pictures the hair on everyone's head.
Yes you guessed it, they're all a bright colored red!
The seasons of summer and winter and fall.
I color them all red without any appall.
So if you're an artist you plainly can see.
Everything will be red if you depend on me.
If you've heard like me, as it's often been said,
That "Passionate people always love red!"
Brisk breezes tickle the leaves on the trees
while a gnarly old oak tree creaks and heaves.
Silhouettes merge, as daylight disappears:
dewdrops glistening, like crystalline tears.
A mix of scarlet, saffron, and chiffon
color a setting sun, drawn in crayon.
Tangerine clouds, as thick as whipping cream,
float in the sky, like a fantasy dream.
A scarlet horizon tints the sky pink,
as shadows morph into pools of black ink.
Indigo flows to an ebony sea;
where twinkling stars shine like gold filigree.
And a pale moon rises, at Dusk's bequeath;
while Luna beams down on the Earth beneath.
A Crayon Color or Citrus Fruit Orange
Color, aroma
Citrus fruit divide guess I
Eat color or fruit
10/15/17
by James Edward Lee Sr.
I prefer them a bit tattered and tired.
(a slow lick on a hard knife edge).
A midnight she-cat, sparkling like a pinwheel.
The kind that makes you obsess about
why they're one hour and five minutes late.
Why their mascara is off center.
Why they have that strange, strong scent.
I like them a little mousy,
a little off the beat.
A chick that can spit with class.
Kick the living MAN out of me.
A fireball that contorts and concocts,
attends to every want and need...
(You all know what I mean).
Admittedly, what I really need is periwinkle predictability.
A Crisco-oiled apron, the one mamma used to don.
A deep-fried lullaby in the quiet cove of a racing mind...
I want to go way back into Crayola Crayon time.
I drew you a picture with crayons, bright red.
It’s there on the wall, and your nightstand and bed.
I scribbled some wax on your nicely cleaned floors,
all over the kitchen on the cabinet doors.
I drew you some hearts and a bouquet of roses.
In our family picture we now have red noses.
I thought you would smile, but you cried instead.
That look in your eye makes me think that I’m dead.
I know it’s not perfect, I’m honing my craft,
but please stop those tears, Mom…we don’t have a raft.
I thought you would smile, I swear that it’s true
my message in crayons…is mom, I LOVE YOU!
p.s.
I need a new box of crayons, the red one is worn to a stub.
I am the brown crayon in your crayon box,
and it is clear that you need me.
I can color in the sand your child plays in,
or I can be the trunk of the tree that gives you shade.
Don't try to make me just like you,
I am pretty sure I need you too.
I am the orange crayon in your crayon box,
and it is clear that you need me.
I am the color of the fruit that holds my name,
that makes a juice so very sweet.
Don't try to make me just like you,
I am pretty sure I need you too.
I am the blue crayon in your crayon box,
and it is clear that you need me.
I can color the sky that is the cosmos above your head,
and I can give you a refreshing drink of water.
Don't try to make me just like you,
I am pretty sure that I need you too.
I am the green crayon in your crayon box,
and it is clear that you need me.
I am the color of the leaves that give you shade,
and I represent the money you spend.
Don't try to make me just like you,
I am pretty sure that I need you too.
I am the purple crayon in your crayon box,
and it is clear that you need me.
Your art teacher might have told you that my name is violet.
I am the color of grapes round and sweet.
Don't try to make me just like you,
I am pretty sure that I need you too.
I am the black crayon in your crayon box,
and it is clear that you need me.
I am the most popular font color on your computer.
I am the color of the lines that make the picture in your child's coloring book.
Don't try to make me just like you,
I am pretty sure that I need you too.
I am the yellow crayon in your crayon box,
and it is clear that you need me.
I color the sun that warms the day.
and I am the color of the lemons in your lemonade.
Don't try to make me just like you,
I am pretty sure that I need you too.
I am the red crayon in your crayon box,
and it is clear that you need me.
I color the cherry that tastes oh so sweet,
and I am the color on a map to indicate heat.
Don't try to make me just like you,
I am pretty sure that I need you too.
We are the colors in your crayon box,
and we are sure that you need us all.
We work together in harmony,
but yet we are all different as can be.
Don't try to make us just like you,
We are pretty sure that we need you too.
Have you ever listened to those people who rant
and think, OMG They have the IQ of a crayon!*
You know you should walk away but you can't,
from listening to the attention seeking sycophant,
when all you really want to do is call him a moron.
*The first 2 lines were on a tee shirt.
When I searched for a picture of a moron, most of those
I found were of Trump. Not wanting to use that face, I
opted not to use another cartoon character. Sad, I know.
You may choose to envision another idiot.
No dear
Make the date for the tea
Friday at three
For the moon will be
At the windows
At the wee hours
And it will be the full moons
We will pick up as much as we choose
With the scarlet spoon
Monday the sun is hot
No room to look at the blooms
Right and left a lot of the knots
No freedom to consume
The aroma of the kettle and teapot
And ample warmth
Fruitless will be the perfume
So hungrily sought
Make it on Friday, dear
I will have the bouquet
Wet with the dew
Under the shade of the brown cashew
Waiting Haikus
Under the moons
The globes of love
We will bring it down from above
Blend it with the doors to the stories
Of the blue breeze and white cheese
This Friday way
We two
The unbuttoned blue
Tuesdays we stay too much buttoned
Questioning and questioned
The ears of rice and wheat flattened
All the almonds dampened
No point to meet
With all the oceans discreet
Nice will be the bay
No bridle on Friday
We will make the crochet
As the full moons sway
Opening the dizzy doorway
To the interplay
Into the next day too
The lovely lingering blue
No other work to attend to
No socks no shoe
All brakes broken
In the Garden of Eden
Both Wednesday and Thursday
Too much to pay and repay
So busy with our purse
It is a rank commerce
No eyes to see the dove
Let alone the circle of love
That will shine far above
Beyond our reach
Far off from the beach
No stories to stitch together
Just the toxic work
The shoulder into the jerk
No time
My pen and your rhyme
Won’t chime
The Friday will come and open
The gates of the jasmine garden
No concern for the absolute tick tock
In the mirror the exposed peacock
Fulfillment of the golden wildfire
The hillocks loving the playing lyre
The next day is a holiday too
Followed by the Sunday hue
Here is a time of planting the tree
In the festival of the artery
On the happy Friday in the jasmine garden
The day of moons and green lemons
No full-stop
Just comma and colon
For the hundreds of flying herons
With the pink crayon
______________________________________
February 26, 2018
Friday feeling - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
I have been called a writer of song
I think to myself, how could that be wrong.
Eight years have past when I became a Published Poet
And wouldn’t you know, most of my friends don’t even know it.
I was inducted into the International Society of Poets as a poet of merit
and an honored member.
I’ve told all my friends and everyone in my family, but they don’t remember.
I have received Editor’s Choice, Laureate, and a nomination for Poet of the
year
One would think, praise like that would most likely bend an ear.
So low and behold and woebegone
I need to stop using,
The White Crayola Crayon
‘PINK CRAYON LINK’
A circle of pink—frightened at six, the commencement of the school system link
Classroom allocations and trepidation cleverly disguised by colour location
Dolls rosy cheeks and freedom to play, all disappear—dissipate remote foldaway
A shrill school bell resonates-- response to line up education to read and spell
Our seating arrangements deftly planned to new desks all spick and span
Blank pages are handed out-- character analyses to write our names without any doubt
Carefully colours selected, each new crayon box, I elect pink from my little stock
The boy seated next to my chair decided he wanted my box to share
Having his own full box waxed colours to explore—I watched as he dropped my green as it broke on the floor
My young expectations -that first day of school started to shrink
My happy disposition—my designated colour—my opinions no longer tickled pink
Looking out the window where cherry blossoms crisscrossed
I thought of my dolls and rose quartz feathery candyfloss
My playful happiness and spontaneity-- a protected rosebud
I fell off my pink cloud with an abrupt thud
Yellow, happy dreams gone up in argon
Dancing dreams in laced clouds rained down to earth
White lights which give darkness a come-on
Youth's dreams, high-minded dreams what were they worth
Sometimes sleep comes upon an aging body
Resting in afternoon's sun-filled room
Wrinkles exposed don't match the clothes shoddy
Just for a rose-colored visit he said then vroom
If only he could have lived up to those dreams
If only he hadn't drunk the first drop
His life could have been filled with rainbow streams
My sun-filled room wouldn't be his last stop
Crayon box dreams can become reality
He passed while I made our afternoon tea
In our family circus
children old enough to be left alone
without a babysitter.
Can find lots of interesting ways
to have fun.
And this makes for a happy house hold.
But when parents return home,
They can't help noticing something is different.
It’s to quiet
and the kids didn't meet them at the door.
Act one starts like this.
All right! All of you get in here right now!
Who did this?
No matter how many kids you have.
You’ll always have one extra,
the one you can't see.
The one kids always blame
and he answers to the name of
(Not Me!)
Your kids make it plain as the crayon
writing on the living room wall.
the house is a mess,
the refrigerator is wide open,
the pudding and Popsicle are gone.
The dog is covered in shaving cream.
Kids being kids can get in trouble
In every conceivable way.
As your kids stand in front of you,
you can count the halos in the room.
And so, you repeat the question
I said who did this?
They sound like angels.
One at a time you hear
your children innocently say not me.
But as usual the first kid to speak up,
knows who did it.
You pull your little tattletale to the side,
and pay no attention as they start to cry.
Ratting out the little kid that you can't see.
The one kids blame
who answers to the name
(Not Me!)
I find a box of crayons on a desk.
At different colors I take a look.
I think of each color as picaresque -
as something or somebody in a book.
Three blues I see, such as blue-violet.
Blue-green might be a sailor’s home at sea.
Blue-violet could be a girl he’d met.
Purple is sky darkened, making him flee.
Although their passion had been orange-red -
black became his heart. He left love behind.
The girl’s heart, carnation pink, feels brown dead.
The cheer of yellow I now need to find.
I’ll draw a sun, and yellow I will use.
These dreamy crayons have too many blues.
My crayon box dreams, I've held in my heart
From when I was young to now when I'm old
The ones I recall all do hold their part
Memories of life begin to unfold
Hopscotch in colors of chalk on pavements
Back when I played with the kids on my square
Making hand faces at night in our tents
To play late out at night without any care
One, two, three spud- is a game that we played
And so was hide-n-seek, and playing ball
And there were games that my friends and I made
Those were the games that I loved most of all
So long I've lived and so hard it all seems
I've held in my heart...my crayon box dreams