Best Penciled Poems
Rushing through each day, as if I had not a care,
head long toward the sun screaming, "catch me if you dare."
Dripping drabs of liquid sunshine burn my deft eye.
While seeking answers to the question, why, why! Why?
Into the sun I run, my skin so hot and dry,
as the dusky penciled pastels of twilight smear.
Through tight clinched lids the sun glares, blind I'll be I fear,
always grasping for truth, but my head just can't clear
my thoughts on the tautly stretched canvas of my mind.
Race and run and fill my lungs, still I fall behind
playing catch with the sun, and all I seem to find,
I'm racing toward the horizon of tomorrow.
Please, one more chance, for a moment I can borrow,
but blithe sun denies me, leaving me in sorrow,
while in the distance the light slowly fades to dark.
Truth or naught, who can say, the end is cold and stark
the meaning is lost in life's fading rainbow arc,
enveloping me in my sadness and despair.
Dripping drabs of liquid sunshine burn my deft eye
as the dusky penciled pastels of twilight smear
my thoughts on the tautly stretched canvas of my mind.
I'm racing toward the horizon of tomorrow
while in the distance the light slowly fades to dark
enveloping me in my sadness and despair.
07/29/16
Categories:
penciled, angst,
Form:
Couplet
Come closer, just a little closer
break down the barriers and rise
over the blindness where one can see
your bits of beauty silently eluding me
Shade the penciled lines highlighting hues
of black and white with rainbow eyes
a kaleidoscope decorating nature's view
savoring every ounce of innocence true
Let your petals float in an essence of trust
leave lasting wafts of honey upon my lips
linger awhile letting our wanton ways exist
just come closer and I'll take the hurt away
Categories:
penciled, courage, love,
Form:
Free verse
As a spent sun sets,
ebony shadows
merge with silhouettes;
penciled in the rough
by a charcoal dusk.
A brazen breeze
makes me shudder;
I feel it's cool
breath on my face.
And as wolves
and fireflies,
welcome Night,
the moon
glints like
gold.
Categories:
penciled, beauty, change, hyperbole, image,
Form:
Diminished Hexaverse
For Sotto Poet's E Words Contest
17 June 24
-----------------
"Enthusiasm is nothing more or less than faith in action" -- Henry Chester
I cling to reveries of youth, the tender sentiment of plucking words from summer roots,
That in my journal hours when the red
of skies are agleam...phrases extend long long as straw.
I burn language the way one does in
a flamed trance--amused, enthused,
seduced-- reeling into a daze beneath
a new moon, a blur of penciled happenstance flapping like a winged feather on river of late afternoons.
I would still scribble in hay where syllables grow into racy tunes , my faith abiding in passion deep...
And I could not help myself but drown
my hands in raw and humid lines;
Bury my eyes deep in verses' jammed.
I'm loathed to leave my untamed story
when twilight fades. Still and all, letters
drip and tradewinds see blown paper
curling like blotted fingertips!
Categories:
penciled, devotion, writing,
Form:
Light Verse
TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE
I’m giving up, can’t take no more, I’ve reached the final straw,
How do you find a flamin’ job when you’ve turned fifty-four,
I’ve knocked on nigh a thousand doors and trudged a million miles,
To find me name pushed into draws, in the unwanted files.
But with all me money run out, and me life stuck in a hole,
Me ego has to disappear, and I must sign up for the dole,
This is the worst day in me life, I’m embarrassed to the core,
Standing at a counter waiting for the bloke to hear me score.
I introduced meself and told him straight “I don’t want the dole,
I really want to find a job, and that’s me utmost goal,
I’m sick of handling regimes, then being told ‘so long!’
Mate I really, really want a job…‘sit down’ money is so wrong!”
“Well! Your timing is amazing” Said the fella with a grin,
“A job that might be right for you, has just been penciled in,
A wealthy bloke now wants a chauffeur, to drive his flashy car,
And you must be a bodyguard, for his nymphomanic daughter”.
“Clothing will all be supplied, and with long hours for this work
All your meals will be provided free…yes, there is another perk,
Three holidays upon the Gold Coast are provided every year,
And your salary will not be less, than two hundred grand a year”.
I must admit that I was silenced by the offer that he read,
But wary ‘bout his cushy job, so that is why I said,
"I think you’re talking garbage mate, and bull crapping quite a bit”.
Then he replied with just a nod. “Yeah, well you bloody started it!”
Categories:
penciled, humor,
Form:
Rhyme
You are a mild hesitation, generating bold question.
In your bed, under cover, you become a distracted lover.
In your heart of emotion, say -- am I your slightest notion?
A simple walk with you endangers my penciled, perfect view.
With fists, I attempt holding all that uncertainty flies
before looking in your eyes of such vague, scattered tries.
Am I your any place … does my touch leave any trace?
Gray skies, sad sighs and sensual thrills vary heat of will.
My desire to see truth yearn, stretches to see you turn.
Gentle lavender-laced, fancy dreams hang on low rafters.
They offer ease of capture - now winds may lay them blown
cause your cupid air dancers twirl aloof in passion’s cologne.
Do gray skies, sad sighs and sensual thrills tarry now to kill?
In your heart of emotion, do you stir honesty’s notion?
A simple walk with you endangers my penciled, perfect view.
Am I your any place …. do you see precious on my face?
You are a mild hesitation, generating bold question …
and, baby, I’m a slooow burn, baby,
I'm … just a slooow burn.
Ripples shadow-sway across waves, casting gray over days.
Vague gauze designs play tag inside multi-mazed blinds.
Feeling comes and goes, slides and grows, I’m tossed ..........
you twist, but -------
..… mostly I’m a slooow burn.
Categories:
penciled, betrayal, love, romance,
Form:
Lyric
Once I dared render
A trapping of quintessence
To hold fast all that is you
Somewhere upon my canvas
To capture your beauty
In pastels of feigned adoration
From charcoaled scratched eyes
Slowly her face takes form
Searching yesterdays colours
To recapture the essence of your voice
Now merely a passionate facsimile
Obtusely rendered in penciled arrogance
My sketching comes from experience
Tracings of agony felled of your eyes
From the easels edge drips my anguish
Now a morass union of passivity
How I long to feel the heat of your fiery spirit…
Categories:
penciled, life, love, passion, people,
Form:
Free verse
My mind a project of hesitation;
draw an oval maze of meditation.
Enter penciled lines, make them squiggly,
then paint it yellow for Mr. Wigley.
Squeeze a few lemons for it’s sometimes sour,
then let it dry for half an hour.
Stick here and there some golden stars,
before you inscribe my memoirs.
Use a hole punch or glue on swiss cheese;
for between my ears, sometimes a breeze.
Last, but not least, cover with cotton;
for the time it's fuzzy and things forgotten.
Then tear it all up, this art you’ve designed,
because suddenly Hon, I’ve changed my mind.
Written: 2/25/18
Contest: Mind the Wet Paint
Host: Viv Wigley
Categories:
penciled, art, fun, humor, humorous,
Form:
Rhyme
Got my brand-new calendar;
It’s filled with empty squares.
With entries made, there’s not a chance
I’ll be caught unawares.
I mark down all important dates
So I can send a card.
When penciled in, in black and white,
It’s really not that hard.
Appointments, too, are written
So there’s no way I’ll forget;
And in my bag’s a mini date book,
Like a safety net.
My iPhone has a calendar
But so far I don’t use it.
When I have info on the wall,
There’s no way I can lose it.
So once a year, I make the switch
And transfer all my cues.
My brain needs these reminders
Or it’s apt to blow a fuse.
And as each little square fills up,
Just waiting to arrive,
Anticipation percolates;
The future comes alive.
Categories:
penciled, time,
Form:
Rhyme
One or two of us
Were home on leave;
For the rest of us,
Christmas came by mail.
Our callsign: Gunslingers.
Our Military Transition Team
Was embedded with
The "Triple Deuce" Iraqi Infantry,
For a year our home
Was LSA Diamondback
Mosul, Nineveh province,
In northern Iraq
A Team member's wife
Gave us all Santa hats.
I have an old photo
Of us standing on top
Of an old Iraqi bunker,
Bearing pistols, rifles,
And those Santa hats.
My wife sent a small
Plastic Christmas tree,
Which was decorated
In the Gunslingers' office.
My mom sent a warm quilt.
When you're acclimatized
To wearing battle armor
In the high 90s and 100s,
80-something feels cold!
I remember the nights--
Dark, but full of stars,
With Orion's belt
On the horizon.
Soldiers made bonfires
In the oddest places:
By a concrete shelter,
Or in classified burn pits.
Once exiting my office,
I saw a fire in the sky.
Soldiers were on top of a bunker
Drinking near-beer, singing.
Another night, I stood
Just outside of the light
Looking at some troops,
And the chiaroscuro image.
I went back to my "choo",
And penciled the scene.
To complete the masterpiece,
I inserted myself
Roasting marshmallos.
I went back to visit them,
Showed them the drawing,
Then completed the picture
By searing a marshmallow.
Christmas was what we made of it.
Categories:
penciled, art, christmas, fire, soldier,
Form:
Prose Poetry
I set sight on visions
Picture little if visions
Matter ,i paint a photo
To vision my pictures
My vision has lost it way to my tongue
I speak what I see,visualise or better yet picture
My vision set scenes like am Picasso
As I speak out my words in a Pablo
More or less a parable of my words painting
A vision of Picasso ,a pain tainting
Is it a beautiful vision that i now draw
Sharp words sketching fine black &white
Lines of how the vision begins
Curves and edges on how
I flip and toss these metaphors
And I colour the corners of my visualised picture
With idioms and shade it with similes
As it is similar to the photo of my vision
I speak fluently with coloured thoughts
Penciled on my incomplete picture
As I have my vision destroyed
For I set sight on visions
Picture little if visions
Matter,as I have less of a picture
More of a photo
Photo my visions
Picture my visions
Spoke of my visions
Frame my visions with
Synonyms, antonyms
Or shorten my picture with acronyms
Then the picture becomes and is less of a vision
The absence of words paints an empty picture
Words as powerful , dreams as wonderful
Actions performed, as visions are destroyed
destructed and demolished
Words conquer, visions follow
I set sight on visions
Picture little if visions
Matter, i paint a photo
To vision my picture
Without these words I can not paint my visions.
Categories:
penciled, appreciation, beautiful, philosophy, poetry,
Form:
Epic
I was young when I realized my mom was different,
Different from me at least, for sometimes
She would draw or paint and miracles would happen.
Her penciled or charcoaled strokes on paper projecting life
Into two dimensions, though color, of course, was absent,
Like God, a multi-dimensional entity, manifesting Himself
Into the three-dimensional flesh of Jesus Christ,
God’s Presence too much for mortal man to take in.
Her images drawn from a world of fragmentary illumination,
Pre-dawn scenes where mind supplies the missing detail
That eye cannot quite gather in, so soft, so colorless the light.
Proportions too are faultless: contours never flat,
Roof lines never too long or short, you are with her,
Mountains exactly where God put them,
Though not strictly photographic, as if aware of her gaze,
And truly wanting to look their best for …. the Artist.
And colors too, the amazing blend of watercolors that
Always complimented even nature’s imagination.
A few strokes of her brush and a girl’s face would emerge from
What would be mere daubing on my part, believe me, I tried.
But for mom, the colors always ran, flowed into perfection,
Making it seem sometimes like gravity was up not down.
You wanted her to win, and somehow, she almost always did.
The paint itself would evolve with time to become
Who the girl herself would be, if only she knew how,
Perfection shining through the textures of mere colors,
Even the rose colored light of the rising sun wherein she posed
Erupting from her image as if Venus herself broached the shore,
Floating as it were, erect on shell, on a sea born of man’s tears.
Oh, my mother saw everything with the genius of new eyes.
Only with my words do I dare to paint images that so touch
The emotions that shook me to the core of my being as a child.
Did my mother wreck me, did she draw me into coral reefs
Of her imagination like a siren might a forlorn sailor.
I leave that for you to judge, my reader, my friend, my lover,
Whose mind is the intangible parchment of my self-expression.
Her parting legacy to her son, the gift of my very own new eyes.
Brian Johnston
August 14, 2015
Categories:
penciled, life, mom,
Form:
Prose Poetry
Before it’s too late
Distant bells clatter on cloud fed weathered skies where
darkness creeps past low light vestibules, faded beams flicker
Short skirts wave in a winter wind, breezy attributes
revealing fishnet thighs calling to the next hidden passenger,
batting lashes and blowing bubbles of stale gum placed under
crushed velvet seats worn in places, stained deliberately
for bragging rights and handkerchief blotting
A ghostly mist lingers as lips are touched up, bright red, crimson,
shades of desire, occupational decisions, advertisements leaking
into sewers and hopscotch squares spread along the avenue
Silhouettes in porch lanterns, whistling…so unladylike, ducking
constables with nightsticks swinging like the clapper in those damn bells
waking the unsuspecting and spooking the transients offering
a few coins for a ten dollar dream
Swine wallows in last week’s gossip, slimy little beings
fat on sausage and biscuits, cursing the rats pushing their way in
below curtains and kitchen windows framing inquisitive eyes,
watching cash change hands and satisfied smirks
on the faces of those wiping feet on mats,
greeting the family in disguise, shirt un-tucked,
long day rewards and dinner on the table
Yesterday’s newspaper tumbles down the walk,
clinging to sign posts, featuring headlines of death, a warning in bold print,
still at large, a menace to society in a grey overcoat,
double breasted and fancy shoeprints in the fresh mud
No further traces except the body, contorted and frozen, smeared faces
littering cobblestone gutters, frightening children and pets,
as passersby look to second floor balconies, oblivious
Midnight calls, staggering drunkards exit Chauncey’s,
hard up and spent, slurred laughter, boisterous to hide worries
and tomorrow’s jobs, time clock lies and penciled in wishes
Iron fence posts rust at the gateway as they glance to the headstones
of friends long past and recent memories, sensing the urge,
seeing the painted nails and low cut blouses, thinking…
before it’s too late
While from a secluded archway…
Categories:
penciled, dark,
Form:
Free verse
Count First
So you're too cool to finish up high school.
consider that no one will hire a fool.
Count first.
You might be fine with selling fries and burgers.
Take some classes, sell some bigger orders.
Count first.
Before you cut along the penciled line,
Get out your ruler, measure one more time--
Count first.
Before you cook your specialty times three
Make an ingredients inventory.
Count first.
You won't impress that pretty girl so fine
If you can't pay the bill for wine and dine.
Count first.
Before you finally pop the question,
Give her an honest evaluation.
Count first.
If you want a newly-wed apartment,
Think smaller--there is a big down payment.
Count first.
You covet a car with high performance.
Can you even afford car insurance?
Count first
Before buying a new high-tech gadget,
Is there enough in the household budget?
Count first.
When maneuvers are in the planning stage,
Before you commit to a shell barrage.
Count first.
Before overdoing your Santa Clause,
Can you pay the rent? Read the fine print clause..
Count first.
Before you walk up to the Pearly Gates,
What's on your conscience--ask before too late.
Count first.
Mark Halliday 17 May 2014
Dixdeux O
Categories:
penciled, car, home, life, marriage,
Form:
Free verse
her bones
were pretty
like the rest of her
it hard to say
the flesh curved
flowed into stalks and fruit
legs and hips
breasts and torso
throat and long flowing hair
her eyes
in a nudeness gleamed
such contours to her mysterious geometry.
i took the penciled
and transformed her
uncovered her
into a herd of cubes
a orbit of globes
a hymn of Cylinder
a lotus of pyramids....
but somehow
the shapes did not suffice
or reflect the planes of her perspective
and so i drew a secret shape
from heroine surface
i buried deep
my desires my fingers mapped
a little shadow
i discovered
in the weave of her ribs
a serenity crosshatched in a navel
the foretelling of a breath
and a pout
my lines discovered
on the corners of her chin
the blossom of fulness
on a lip
found a sweep of redness across cheek
sweetness like the morning
against the smoothness of paper.
Categories:
penciled, devotion, imagination, inspirational, introspection,
Form:
Free verse