Best Smearing Poems
~Chasing Bigfoot~
Across the Bayou Waters
Into vast trails of wilderness
I follow a sound, a sullen scent
---footprints
He was out there,
hairy large and in charge
Drugs under the beastly moonlight
Heavy torrents swept me in
Deep, down and dark
Under a hidden den
Between the moon and stars
I gaze into a world unknown
A comparison of salt water and bonnets
Lord of the forest deep
Entrapped in a romantic secret sonnet
Over the corner in every shadow
Red Auburn hair, above a 12 foot pair
Daring to face the lone gallows
In one peek
I observe it was not made by men
The fear became excitement
It offered a moment to think
I don't know if it wants to injure me
It sniffs me repeatedly,
Smearing my skin with his nose
This type of behavior, this smell
Began to arouse my rose
Rough nails grip around my neck
Forest flavored lips
Unravelling a taste unhuman
The touch erupts and fills me with fear
Still, I long to linger near
Sunrise starts with a grin
Revolving around the mood
Upon his long coat of shrooms
Without fear I stroke his thick fur
Rough and sweet I repeat
Living or dying, I stay
To love the fear-driven inside
Day after day
Deep and gray, life fades
Then becomes elusive
11 years the sun hides
Dark eyes, hold me all night
This wild man, by the bedside
Cries from the woods before sunset
I follow----
Somewhere behind hidden walls
The woods stand tall
Flowers welt from this burning love
My heart owned by the sasquatch
Though rapid dreams and streams,
I scream
Of Big Foot and I
By: PD
Blue words cry,
smearing bare
paper walls.
I am only this poem
to share.
Crimson lines
ironed, too perfect,
scratch romantic notions.
Sorrows brew.
Shush,
listen to
each whimper’s escape,
ink hurled at pages
not long ago blank. Bittersweet
sobs thunder -
cathartic storms impart
a verse to bridge hearts
over this deluge.
Words enchant, coax
from nostalgic dreams,
over and between
dusk and dawn’s enlightening.
I awaken weightless
adrift in lyrical seas.
When night returns
bruised, I lie
with incarnate spirits,
my midnight blue disguise.
A smile from cobalt eyes
speaks. Blues reach
like friends to beseech
my soul.
While my pen glistens through tears,
these starry hazels gaze
as livid-blues turn
cerulean. A poem breathes -
loose layers, discernible beauty, strength,
prayers answered. Wise,
I purge my pain
in letter’s curvaceous rise.
I rest in hollow
of spaces,
stolen tranquility.
For now, prisoners are released,
but oh, how I know
morning
tightens fear's hold.
When blues speak,
I'll seek
love, acceptance
and find my pen.
I’ll unlock my heart again.
May my poem birthed
remind in lonely hours
of my power,
my worth.
May light
fall
upon God’s poema.
Ink-stained, I am
one woman heard,
only blue words.
(200 words)
5/31/15
Brandishing the lightning lance, the sun arrives,
The mighty, majestic monarch of the day.
Kissing the mouldy mountain rows, he comes
Banishing mist and frost from night’s blotched brow.
In what rich ruby ring of radiance, he appears
Smearing and splotching liquid gold, he gracefully moves
With sparkling splashes, the world becomes bright
The prompt and punctual rooster raises his raucous revelry.
Birds and beasts wake up from their slumberous sleep.
The feathered folks tweet and twitter in harmonious notes.
The verdant vales below send up a welcoming sign.
The leaves stay bright tipped with dainty droplets of dew.
Morn, the bashful, mousy maiden with modest grace,
Peeps and peeks through half drawn curtains in the East.
Removing all trace of a tarnished yesterday,
The day arrives making me smile in burgeoning bliss.
She knew this
was going to happen
Mr psychopath is rapping
With his crazy beats in timing
Singing: She's so freaky
You must believe me
I'll spread my message
They better get it
Tearing apart logic
His tempo is lethargic
Smearing the writing
of her time in shining
But those who know her best
Laugh at him in jest
They know her worth
No need for a test
When asked if she's crazy
They evade the question
Thinking to themselves
We are above this business
of railroading the gifted
So take your props and stage
and...perform elsewhere
in the singing of your rage
Written: January 02, 2026, For Brian Strand contest
******************
last clean—distilled
morning shards
in the skyline’s teeth—
a city chewing innocence away.
yet in steam,
in blue-light bruises,
a filament of verse hums.
the world scrolls
into a grave of souls,
kindness sold,
humanity dragging its shadow
through aisles of extinction.
but poetry—
feral, unbought—
rises in the throat
of the dying century.
I praise the fracture
where truth leaks,
the wound that sings anyway.
let it be the last clean thing
in a species
smearing its own shadow.
“Well,” She asked; her eyes wide. Beads of hot sweat glistening on her brow like miniature
crystal suns. Her angst was palpable. “What is it!”
The air was still. There were no words. Just the sound of bodies breathing in – and
holding.
“Congratulations.” He held out his arms, handing the mother, her baby, “You have a son.”
The moment shone like glass in the center of the heavens – pure and eternal.
It was redemption from every wrong thing she’d ever done.
It was the shining eyes of God smiling onto her exhausted face; lighting it with hope.
It was the only place there was – the only time, the only space.
It was the only feeling that existed.
They were the only two incarnate souls in the room; on the planet, and in the universe.
This was her child –
her son.
And she was his mother.
(there are no words for such things. suddenly, I feel like an intruder. there are too many
eyes, words and moments here. so it is here, I take my leave; leaving this mother and the
only soul in her universe to their perfect moment. they will have many more moments in this
lifetime; but none as sacred, as human, or as eternal as the first look from life to life;
mother to child; heaven to earth, as the very first. None.)
“It’s a boy.” she whispered. Her throat a crumbling tunnel; stunned, but not really. Like
she’d known it all along. “My baby boy…” She smiled into his ancient, brand-new face;
tracing his delicate cheek with the back of her finger. “He’s perfect.”
She ran her palm along the bottom of his soft, miraculous foot, and laughed. “Look at
your feet – they’re huge!”
And as she wiped the tears with the heel of her shaking hand – smearing what was left of
her mascara - she looked in to his, as close to heaven as one can get, eyes, and said, “Hi.
I’m your mama.” He smiled at her. He knew. He’d known it all along. “And I’ll love you
forever…”
The world closed its shades then. Leaving the sacred to its history; the moment to
eternity; and their universe to its quiet, little room.
*Inspired by Deborah's, You Must Have Been A Beautiful Baby, contest; and every mother
who has graced this sacred room.
I woke in the backseat ‘cause sleeping is what I did - -
I hid when we had a many state, family vacation ride.
Daddy said that this time, we would drive straight thru five.
Mama’s hair back was smashed headrest flat cause Sis
pressed against her and they were sleeping like that.
Brother was pressing his back window with his face,
his nose smearing glass, his amusement surely in place.
Dad was focused on a radio baseball game.
Seeing all was good, I found my travel toy case
for safe car play. In no time, pretending took me away.
Soon, noise-crazy frightening, sound attacked and blurred.
“WHAT IN THE WORLD!” was Dad’s first reaction heard.
A lot of horns HONKED with urge, several SWERVED,
two almost BANG converged, others FLEW off the road.
Sirens blared, well-lit, brakes were hit, Dad cussed a fit,
Mama and sis stirred. Mama murmured something like ‘absurd’,
While Dad let loose the worst of his really bad, ugly words.
Quickly, I let go of the toy I was holding out my window.
Who knew Slinky's at eighty miles per hour weren’t simple?
Then, without uttering a single concern,
I faked sleep as though I’d never emerged.
For hours my parents could be heard wondering
what had caused traffic to be so disturbed
and thanking God our family wasn’t hurt.
This responds to “Operation Raise the Colours,” where some have painted the St. George’s Cross across streets, roundabouts, and takeaway shops. Claimed as patriotism, these acts are vandalism and an attempt to erase community spaces and stirring division.
Red bleeds across zebra crossings,
slick on high street tarmac,
smearing over takeaway shutters,
stretched across roundabouts, stubborn as lead.
Rollers scrape and flake,
pigment cheap, sunlight shakes it loose,
drips into puddles,
history seeping through plaster,
like damp beneath primer that never hides the past.
The streets run red and white,
paint claimed by hands insistent on marking stone, brick, tarmac—
silence made loud in streaks and drips.
Roundabouts stand proud under fresh coats.
Slash Dulux over despair—
coverage meant to hide, but failing.
Paint bleeds over more than roadway—
onto takeaway windowpanes, pavements, shop signs—
a mural of identity, impulse, defiance.
Undercoat logic tries to cover the past,
but no sealant ever lasts.
Brushstroke patriots,
disciples of feeling,
armed with rollers like substitute rifles.
The painting’s wrap is hollow,
dressing decline as though it were destiny.
Every slogan,
a stencil sprayed on the breeze.
Pigment flakes with ease,
truth showing through the layers.
Heritage red becomes eviction scarlet,
brilliant white papered over target.
Crowns drip Crown paint onto stone,
monarchs in tester pots,
empires reduced to monochrome.
Borders cut by shaky hands,
masking tape straining against the straight line of intention.
Edges bleed in private,
lines never straight.
Revolutions run off into puddles of hate,
mirroring the sky distorted,
clouds stretched, colours torn thin.
Tins are stirred, paint slapped on the ground.
Every revolution circles round,
because property cannot be glossed,
despair cannot be mapped.
Whitewashed roundabouts cannot hide the cracks.
Paint peels, drips, bleeds into puddles,
but the fissures of history remain—
veins in stone, stories in tarmac,
layers no roller can erase.
Crowns, crosses, streaks of red and white
twirl and fall like the last dance
over streets that remember,
over walls that refuse to forget.
The cracks take the floor,
silent but insistent,
and they will not be painted over.
A setting sun inks purple mountain peaks,
painting frescoes on slopes of sullied snow.
And smearing scarlet in blotches and streaks,
its art surpasses Michelangelo.
Shadows scurry to merge with silhouettes,
as acrobatic bats hunt moths in flight.
And when Night gets as quiet as it gets,
ebony extinguishes Dusk's last light.
Crimson and cerise, color carmine skies,
as Sol's chariot gilds the edge of Night.
And trillions of stars materialize;
twinkling overhead like jewels of light.
And in the heavens hangs a beaming moon,
light pooling around it, like liquid gold.
For glowing as bright as a gold doubloon,
Luna's face is a wonder to behold.
My skin and hair will never fall off, because the paint will always hold us together.
Paint is perpetually on my nails, under my nails, on my toes, and on my nose.
My good clothes are often my accidental paint clothes.
I have more paint clothes than I have other clothes.
Because I keep forgetting what I am wearing, and when I want to paint, I paint.
I am a sloppy painter, putting my elbows and knees into paint, smearing the canvases,
Dumping over paint jars. Imagine a Saint Bernard trying to paint, that is me.
In the morning I am not sure if I do not use the mirror, or if I do not notice, but
When I get to work, people start cleaning me up. They apologize as they rub glitter off my cheeks,
And a streak of red or green paint off my cheek. They put my tags in, because they are always
Sticking up too. My whole staff dresses me, finding stuff I would have never seen, because I
Truthfully do not care. Dressing used to be important to me. I am not sure when that changed,
Maybe, when I started getting paint on everything I own.
In rich ruby rings of radiance, the sun comes out bold,
Smearing and splotching the sky with liquid gold.
In my heart, the epiphany of a new vision unfolds
A plethora of golden possibilities it enfolds.
new paths wait ahead
must tread through untrodden tracks~
hitch wagon on stars
Eves light standing
a wish made
the unicorn guardian
blessed be !
holding a babe
————–
In cradled wing
and grasping mane
astride my friend
We morphed again
Up and out
through atmosphere
on my winged ride
and loyal seer
Taking a right
around the moon
to the universe
becoming attuned
Gathering speed
smearing starlight
A unicorns mist
across midnight
Easing to stretch
amongst her mane
twin spirits we ,
are bound remain
Shoot to naught
the empty blackness
my eternal night
comfortably endless
Shifting again
beauties wing-back
homeward bound
our newest tack
Spinning to light
connecting stars
my unicorns magic
flashed away mars
A pass ahead
try not to fight
closing my eyes
I dream the night
When I was a child ‘bout five to six I used to dream that this were me
I’d peel back frame from toys, take apart their guise to see what was beneath
I was ever so careful, every tiny pin, kept safe in a sealed plastic case
Just wanted to see, what a heart looked like, I was told I had my own.
My patients name was Beryl.
A gossip. I didn’t care for her spiteful chirped lies!
Her sideways remarks… and even less for that wondering eye
She followed my each and every move… felt just like papa in one of his moods
As I sliced ‘scalp from Beryl I mused, had she no brain!
How could that be? Why must you make me think of mother again!
Beryl’s chirp had now stopped she stared at me, eyes glazed
Yet I saw her cold eyes glint, had I gone too far?
Tears flooded my cheeks, smearing lines through built ‘grime
I’d only wanted to see her heart!
In shards my door smashed apart like cannons wreck
I didn’t know papa was home! I coiled my wasted skin and tired bones erect
‘It wasn’t your fault ‘nor mine but you’re just like me’
Ok muttered I… just wanted to see a heart!
He pointed to what he called a ‘circular MIL’ then said
‘That’s as close as you’ll get you dirty little flea!’
Then he said his last words… well, his last words to me
‘If you don’t fear me by now, you and the world were not meant to be!’
Then he grabbed me strong by my throat and shook me hard ‘till wires came free
My legs axles departed, left my body completely!
As I fell silent, t’was strange I caught a glimpse of myself
A dirty rigid specimen dissected on the floor
Wires stripped back to copper, ‘cept my copper were white
As I looked at both hearts… Beryl and me… I thought
They were the same!... White began clouding my sight
My heart may not have looked like Beryl’s… but we both just needed that spark.
Twelve rounds of excitement
Two rivals smiling in the middle of enchantment
The bell rang...
Both fighters were wild
Two rough hands still mild
The bell rang again -- end of first round.
Second round...
Gaiting horses, eluding kicks and punches
Baiting bodies, protruding hunches
Third round...
Fighters in merry-go-round
Hide and seek on square ground
Fourth round...
Faces smearing, eyes rolling
Bodies perspiring, allies chanting
Fifth round...
Feet hovering, foot work disintegrated
Temperature rising, hard punches connected
Sixth round...
Audience clapping; boxers hitting
Attacks jabbing, gloves slugging
Seventh round...
Whacking arm follows, gloves batting
Ulnar bone gallows, heads swatting
Eighth round...
The champ fighter grinning, nailing one hard scour
Second fighter fainting, flailing above the litted floor
Ninth round...
Stronger fighter grinning again with right hook
Left hook thrashing, down the second fighter of blind look
Tenth round...
Challenger flogging, kept on rising
Challenger pelting, the champ fell on floor gasping
Eleventh round...
Both warriors pummeling, whipping, jostling
Switching, clubbing, lashing, drubbing
Both fighters fell on adulated white floor
Before the ninth count both warriors stood tall
on wrestled floor
Twelfth round...
Last two minutes of peppering round
Both fighters staggering until the challenger dropped first and gaunts.
Champ still standing, waiting for the ten counts...
Last twenty five seconds of the final round,
First fallen fighter with a bigger heart stands
Champ dropped on his knees --
Laid flat on aproned, famed canvass
Ten counts numbered as confetti lands...
The winner and challenger standing in the corner, beaten and bruised
Bleeding profusely after winning a dream never cruised.
“Cream Pie”.
We never took a chance,
We wouldn’t make the time.
And I just didn’t care if you were mine?
No now you’re here,
and now I'm there.
You took his love, and his name,
then you married him, to get out of the rain.
And I just don’t care, is there something wrong?
With me?
You’re with him now,
but you can’t say, why?
and he dirties up, the floor,
smearing greasy fingers on decaffeinated walls
and down the hall, the road is overgrown,
all your butterflies have died.
Your river of love, has run dry,
I never said hello,
You never said… goodbye.
And we danced through the
And we danced through a dream.
I've lost all your letters.
I'm staring at the calendar on the door?
Cheap wine burns holes in my memories.
Climbing the walls with my fingernails.
But I just keep falling down,
again, and again, blood smears,
no tears on the ceiling…
I feel your burning embers,
A storm in the distance.
I don’t know what to say as, I walk through the sunset,
the darkness into the rain, again.
When the raging river, runs free,
and the wildfires have died,
you'll have no love,
and you'll have no pride,
Wake me up from this dream,
Only then will I eat… your cream pie….
in the rain.
I wanna eat your cream pie,
in the rain.
Written for Diane S Tar??.
Its also written about you..
(c) London F. Buss