Best Stencil Poems
Come hither, Mister Delicious Sir.
Satiate my craving for saturating kisses.
Read these ready lips like romance fiction.
Practice your best parched desert depiction.
Slurp up this mist smorgasbord to savor
cherry chapstick and cinnamon disk's flavor.
Caress love's breath, pressed against companion lips.
Twist with saliva's textured slides and slips.
Play tongue tag like young ones chasing.
Stencil silent speech, each moment embracing.
Sip freely from the flowing fountain of Venus.
Spin to the rhythm of the heartbeat between us.
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.
The waves slide over the shore
Leaving tiny, squiggly trails
The moon and sun battle for the sky
And the big, bright moon prevails.
The beach is shrouded in darkness
Dimmly lit by only one light
That dances through the undertow
Marching its way through the plight.
A stencil of gray laces the sky
Creating a vision of death
Slowly overcoming the shore
'Til it takes its last breath.
The ocean itself which had once held
So much life in its depths
Has become drowned in its own contents
It is meeting its own death.
A storm lashes its way
Solmnly across the sky
To make room for what will unleash
That will cause the very moon to cry.
Dancing and waltzing across the shore,
The moon sadly turns away
She can't bear to see her ocean like this
And witness it going astray.
With one, final, swift motion,
She casts her love out to sea
The love she held deeply for her ocean
The world, and all her countries.
She makes her way back to where she belongs
And lets the sun take over the sky
I didn't, in all my years,
Think I would ever see the moon cry.
But she shed those tears so bravely
And dried them so nonchalant
She turned and made her way back to the sky
Like it was something she could never want.
The moon had lost the battle
And, defeated, began to fade away
Then the sun began to dance, too
To celebrate a brand-new day.
Despite June’s tempest, I relish life’s grace
My eyes marking the stencil of ripped trees
A yesterday which draws me to embrace ;
The comfort of kin amidst storm’s reprise.
For Gregory R Barden's Rithimus Divisa 5 Contest
Excerpt from the poem Woodland of My Youth
Dated 4/04,2018
Resubmitted 9/5/2020
All he can see is at the end of a pencil,
Sedated by a 3 inch piece of lead,
Self-portraits are of only a stencil,
A picture stains the paintings in his head,
How far does the land go beyond the window?
Far enough to see the end of the day.
And does the bird fly as far as the wind blows?
Far enough to find a warm nest to lay.
Her ears scorched by the sound of scorn,
Laughter tears and turns tears to her eyes,
Bows to down into the form as to which she was born,
And dreams of dissolving into a dawning sky,
How numb I have become only known by numeric?
Taught only in the trenches of comparison.
How cold the hand grows held up in hysteric?
Endure and you’ll ensure your end, my son.
Where I'm from we don't do debts, fronts, or take tabs
They don't understand nothing but stashing cash
Put that money on the head, you don't need a mask
They don't understand nothing but stashing cash
How is a broke fool gon' try and smash
They don't understand nothing but stashing cash
Money on my mind like bread on a sandwich
I run the city, they're the lights, I'm the switch
I stand for what's mine, never see me slip and fall
I'm runnin' the race, you're a baby with a slow crawl
My cash stay on point, like a sharpened pencil
Try 'n' copy my style, you gon' need mo' than a stencil
I don't be's in the trap, buy my workers put-in overtime
Feds can't catch me, never see me committin' crime
That's why from time to time I shoot 'em a raise
And tell 'em to stash cash for those rainy days
If money talk, then there's nothing to say
If B.S walk, none of ya' fools can stay
My money talkin' for me, betta' yet, it's in a conversation
Ya' look like money; make money, nice observation
They say the love of money's the root of all evil
So how much money will it take to really love people
Usually I make love to my pad with words and my pen craves me
Well this is Jason Voorhees combined with slim shady
I'm carving my words on the page with a Machete that Jason used for killing
I stencil around a hockey mask, and rhyme inside of it as I'm truth spilling
They want me to dress it up, in hopes I don't say anything too revealing
Well you can sit and cry while I speak my mind, I'm happy to be the new Villain
I'm the Bipolar psychotic mad man
Going against me is a bad plan
Give me the world, and that's what I'll hand back
But so many have let me down, they deserve a backhand
I kill my rhymes and turn my poetry into a Massacre
I'm driving on the road to recovery and don't need a passenger
I'll switch it up for the ladies and talk about kissing their necks like I'm Dracula
But I'm just having fun with crazy rhymes here, I'm not trying to make it soppy and Drake it
But If everybody loves Raymond, and Everybody hates Chris
I guess I must be in between
Because Men hate, But I'm in women's dreams
"I can't believe he said that" let's judge him so hard
I've learned to smile because a lot of females love my broke heart
Bipolar mixed with anxiety and depression I'm finally getting the madness working
Life changes shape more often than Kylie Jenner when she visits her plastic surgeon
"Oh my god, what's this nonsense he's writing, he's definitely not a poet",
I don't know what I was thinking when I wrote this
‘When only the satellites are spared in the distance
And the mother ship has lost her spin around the axis
When our last personal effects are launched in a capsule,
And we’re all gone, is there proof that we had a soul?’
My wings span Armageddon’s aftermath
Feet far removed from the scotching earth
Fluffed pillows suffocate my insomnia
I levitate on a bed of euphoria
‘I’m a warrior
I’m a survivor’
Gifted tongues for fangs
We bridge turbulent waters
Gifted hands instead of claws
We reap what we sow
I stencil my thoughts on the fabric of time
And flap my wings to all forms of freedom
I know my presence is a gift
And to deny others of me is theft
My palms bare blisters from the grasping of endless doors
They bleed from the endless digging of granite floors
I stare high at the bar of unrealised dreams within
And summon the valour to face (my worst nightmares) the griffin
Gifted talents instead of talons
We sore to greater heights
Gifted honour instead of bloodlust
We embrace all that is new and different
Gifted vision instead of eagle eyes
We envisage a brighter ever after
Wing tips tingling in the winds of change
I fly beyond to define a new age (a new world)
I fall to the warm embrace of novelty
Newton never invented gravity
Gifted hope instead of ropes
We are the emancipated hope(s)
Gifted longevity instead of nine lives
We appreciate what we’ve been gifted evermore
'May the soul never die'
" YOUR Signature ... "
( Genesis 1: 1 / Rev. 4: 11 )
(Part 2 of 2)
YOUR Signature ...
Signs On All Existence's Account Ledgers
... Is A Literary, Moniker-Masterpiece
A Singularly, Most Stentorious-Stenography
As A Monogram-Monument That Documents
& Slants To Grammar-Mercy's Typed Guarrantee
(Yet Stands Upright In Justice & Audit-Identity)
YOUR Signature ...
Each Letter Is Love and Luminosity ...
A Stencil & Substance-Mark of Perfect Symmetry
and Punctuality With A Written-Resource-Resonance
A Sacred-Sequence of Letters Wrote In Such Serenity
Signed In Stone and On Souls and Of Sovereignty
YOUR Signature - - Reigns So Superlatively
YOUR Signature ...
Signs & Emblazons The Promises & Prophecy-Fixtures
and Heavenly Holy Scriptures
and Is The Greatest Designation In All of Literature
Throughout Space & Spirits & Strenuous Storms & Seas Divesture
Yes - - We See YOUR Masterstroke-Signature ...
We See YOUR Signature ...
( Rom. 1: 20 )
Written & Copyrighted © : 5/8/2014
by: MoonBee Canady
the third of january saw this;
the moon is a stone in the sky
and the night a stencil of light;
the rain an error of clouds
and the stars a coda of cats;
this day told me...
you are hidden behind your face,
all your words are coded like scripts,
your body is full of lines:
you are paged inside yourself.
Helios, open darkened shutters Night did seal;
Nyx's opaque, drawn shades one by one peel.
With prehensile fingers grip your enlightened quill,
Selene's pale orb with luminescent lines reel.
With gilded parasol twirl your flaming wheel,
Until enjoined sparks into tinted rays congeal.
In saffron waves, blanch horizon's, window seal.
On spindled beam, spin golden threads from creel,
Sheaves of golden flax span o'er ethereal hill.
Branching, with sonic beam pearly plains drill,
Until azure streams deep reservoir does fill.
With torch, burnt-orange meringue on puffy clouds spill,
then into earth's grainy purview with vigor steal.
With tempera, egg wash the Sky's blank stencil,
then with magnified lens illumine the scenic still.
Plunging downward, into denser troughs truncated waves swill.
Onto earth's jade footstool, solemnly kneel,
Drawing from vassal's, residual til.
Amber blades with brighter finish instill,
With waxy gloss the folio cover frill.
10/17/16
Back to the fundamentals
It's been happening worldwide, continental
Wilted leaves and healthy flower petals
Amid Large boulders or tiny pebbles
Among soft to hard metals
The rain at times may be gentle or torrential
Call it quintessential
Way before fishing vessels
Or the use of any mortar and pestle
Since the dawn of time, it's been rather elemental
Regarding anything existential
Some things were on purpose or accidental
On my shoulders an angel and a devil
Is with what I wrestle
Times may get stressful
But If you want to be successful
Focus on what is important, don't be forgetful
Or too fretful
Take some risks and try to reach another level
Buildings and bodies considered temples
Take care of what you love, don't be neglectful
Something special and sentimental
Sat atop a trestle
Eggs and animals with speckles
Humans with moles and freckles
Certain meals cooked with fennel
Or lentils
While using cooking utensils
With or without a stencil
Messages and art done in many ways, some used pencil
Near are far away from where very few or a vast amount of people settled
In some areas are plants like nettles
And many animals currently nestled
When we walk or run by an insect does the ground quake and tremble?
Files stored away classified as "confidential"
Sometimes just one or several
At times events occurred that were coincidental
And rather monumental
Many festivals
Where people revel
During a day so eventful
Materials and so much more being disassembled
For reasons considered scientific and experimental
Continually money being embezzled
In ways that are disrespectful and vengeful
By: Dalton Ogletree
Though her life span was less than a week,
The Pink Lady of Malibu was a glorious sight,
Never to be forgotten by anyone who was lucky enough to see her
The daring escapade spanned six months
Timing her final foray on the cliff to coincide with the full moon
On October 31st, 1966, seemingly overnight
there appeared on the sheer cliff wall
above the Malibu Canyon tunnel
a 60-foot-tall painting of a nude woman
gamboling freely with her black hair flowing behind her
and a fistful of yellow lilies
No one knew who had created this guerrilla artwork
but scandalized Los Angeles County officials
Fearing traffic congestion and looky-loo accidents
They had decided she couldn't stay
House paint and a giant stencil to accomplish the artwork
The paint had soaked into the porous rock
Finding it impossible to remove her
The county ended up covering the Pink Lady in beige paint
To be. To feel.
To feel, to love,
To love. To rage,
To rage, to die
Like a good Romantic, or to sleep like this,
Ghosting about
Like a loose plastic bag
That flaps on a windy night
Under a sodium street lamp’s
Eerie all-submerging light.
O Shakespeare, pity us,
O Wilkes, O Pope,
O Voltaire, O Heine,
O Byron. O Shelley,
Shed tears for us.
We have mislaid the liberties
You fought for.
And the truths you taught us.
The Board of Standardisation
In the interests of this nation
Will suppress the imagination.
Like ranters at Hyde Park
We’re still good for a Sunday lark.
Our patrons are benign
as long as we are innocuous.
They’ll allow a little room for satire
(as long as we keep our hats on)
Just to show what sports they are.
Toothless protest’s just a cliché,
But don’t let slip a waspish quip,
Or “Sirrah, Sirrah, the whip!”
Tow the line. That’s fine.
“Douse that prophetic fire by nightfall, sir,
Or the neighbours will complain.”
A D-Notice served on the brain
deadens every joy and pan.
Cross the heart with this red pencil
And with this stencil write:
THE END OF ART.”
Rearing on stardust, hungry for adventure
Grazing the evergreen imaginings
Beauty poised for new beginnings
Infer my taming abilities as head you lower
Enthral my youth with a thousand horsepower
Grasping your mane, you smell my fears
In my whimper, taste my naive years
Tears of joy along temples doubts overpowered
Your enchanted saddle is all I ever needed for comfort
A pencil with no lead drew your images in the soil
How I dreaded rain your grace would spoil
Until I grew a thick skin from walking barefoot
Palms stencil about your throbbing torso
You’ve taken my innocence too far
To a space cowboy on a distant star
In a perpetual somersault like a coin toss
To land on your wing...who needs a bicycle?
When I can take off to Andromeda
Time travel like a fearless gladiator
With the subtlety of a pen overcome any obstacle
Your quill completes my hand like ink to paper
I don’t believe in superstition, but your myth
Your wingspan overturns all reason and truth
For me to raise my calling to more than just a whisper
07-29-2015
Sponsor: Charlotte Puddifoot
Contest Name: All That You Are