Brush Off Poems | Examples

Hidden Beach

Find my hand dreaming in this blaze of consolidation
Lighten your lift from out our tell-tale indentation
Brush off the beach in trickles that echoes still our play
above where my knees have offered themselves to pray

Under swaying shadows rustle out breezes cast from azure pools
Where white peaks slip into sprays spilling seas mirrored in jewels
Find sun drenched lips longing to be lapped free of the saline mist
Press them gently, offer what's left to us, your best Girl Friday kiss

Feel the naked surf pound, then tempt, crash back into zestful shove
Rush with me to join in being swept out, carried away, leapt above
Glow in emulation for this day that throws you around as your guide
Dive to where sand dollars hide their riches to find me deep inside

A SILLY DAY!

Did the ocean try to dry its splashy face?
Did mountains brush off dusty, grassy trace?
Did the ground hide softly from the rainy days?
Did the wind play statue at morning's crystal maze?
Did planets wear funny costumes, just in case?
Let your own glory glitter, like fireflies' wobbly space!

Some things shatter, some things bloom

Crushed.
Dust chokes the air
And encircles the vicinity

Burnt.
Charred and battered.
A blackened stump,
The remains of what once was alive.

Hacked to pieces.
Still, lifeless—
Left to die

Will you still bloom?
Will you rise from the ruins,
Brush off the kiss of death?
Will you cling on to the fact that—
You still breathe?

Get up.
They crushed you.
They burnt you—
Tried to turn you to ash,
Hacked you to pieces,
But still—you stand.

Stand tall.
Raise that head high.
You overcame what no man ever did— 
A living testimony.

Narrowly escaping your own death
You fought—
You fought the obstacles, the trials, the stones meant to hurt you
 
And yet—you bloomed.

No More

No More
By Adam Becker

Weary they grow when day turns to night.
Their Dreams they have died which once they took flight.
They have toiled and labored yet brought to shame.
They are many yet have no name.

Their sorrows flow like a river with no end.
They lost their hope thine only friend. 
The sky, it remains, the sun still shines.
Gives light to their tombs, their fallen shrines.

An army surrounds them, their mind at war.
They will be conquered; they strive no more.
The fields are marked where the dead they lay.
They have cried out for mercy, no longer they pray.

What have we here now? What do we find?
Life can be cruel, so cold and unkind.
But life can be resurrected, the dead come to life.
To shake off the ashes, to brush off the strife.

Look to the light and grab hold of hope.
Arise from your slumber, take hold of the rope.
Dreams can live again where once they were dead.
Look to the heavens, raise up your head.

You are greater than broken, greater than despair. 
You still have a future, and your heart will repair. 
When life tries to break you, let out a great cry.
No more will life conquer, no more will I die!

Courage of the Heart

   How does a Wallenda fly on a trapeze
     How does ‘Houdini’ escape with such ease   

   How does a warrior rise from his sickbed
     Is it courage of the heart or that of the head

   How does a marathon runner persist
     in howling pain from a severe ankle twist

   How does a fireman jump from six stories high
     brush off debris and say, ‘Nothing’s awry’

   Is it courage of the heart or that of the head ~
     or perhaps heaven's hand overspread

Bug Collector

Brush off your ant bites.
Blind eye the hornets sting.

Gone so long with ways of violence.
Creatures having done nothing wrong.

But it’s fine “they aren’t important”.
Legs or wings or hair you just can’t bare.

Squash and flush because no voice.
If it spoke would you still fear?

Darling child with bugs in jars,
May your care linger on and on my dear.

That Was Then, This Is Now

In the heart of the city's thrum,
Amidst the rush and hum,
I, a modern-day nomad, roam,
Seeking treasures in concrete's dome.

Once lost in the urban sprawl,
Now found, heeding the city's call,
In alleyways, forgotten and old,
New adventures waiting to unfold.

Past the crowds and towering spires,
Through alleys filled with hidden desires,
I wander, a seeker of the unseen,
In the city's labyrinth, I find my sheen.

In a corner, amidst the decay,
A book lies, forgotten, in disarray,
I brush off dust, reveal its charm,
In its pages, I find my balm.

Words dance, painting worlds anew,
In forgotten tales, I find my view,
Of far-off lands and dreams untold,
In ink and paper, I find my gold.

So here I stand, in the city's glow,
A modern-day explorer, in ebb and flow,
For in the past, I found my spark,
But in the present, I leave my mark.

In the heart of the city's thrum,
Amidst the rush and hum,
That was then, this is now,
In ink and imagination, I find my vow.

Harry Picks up Sheryl from the Airport

Sheryl had never been a fan of public affection.
Harry knew this, but he was hoping.
When they parted she had used the term “boy next door”.
He saw that as a brush off.

She had been attending college for four months.
He had offered to pick her up from the airport.
He was hoping her feelings had changed.
Sheryl’s heart slammed as soon as she saw Harry.

She had now dated many young men.
None of them compared to Harry.
Their eyes met, and he put out his hand for her bag.
She dove right into him, preparing him for the rest of his life.

Dark Grey Torrent

A hectic stare across the cliff,
grabs my prying mindfulness.
but yet I  hanker after urban fare,
such ruptured loyalty alas,
has a solid grip as I inhale,
the rampant toxic seaweed odor,
for which release a bland choice,
as bulging dark gray torrents,
remind us of some threat,
a fancy name as birthmark,
blemish, or craven riddle,
consequential strain I fear,
might alter this delay,
how city haven slant,
bustle, blast, benign graft,
has fallout clearly vetted,
sink block, suction pump,
remedial quick brush off,
two rocky worlds aside,
where common ground,
that less distinct blight,
consuming blind thought,
downpour on the crevice,
outskirt mere sideshow,
flight a gut reaction say,
let valor plot or plod,
whatever barren sabotage,
malaise, daft wanton dash,
each muddled exit’s close loop,
one must master by right,  
ominous veil now pending,
scatter brained inkling wrought,
lure, allure, attachment beckons,
departure problematic when pressed,
bursts of rain, bursts of sound,
seeking shelter but clueless,
would things be otherwise,
in large built up areas,
I ponder this dilemma,
while dreaming of fair vales,
or mystic laneways of yore

Song Lyrics

I know I'm not a saint 
I don't pretend to be one either 
I've done wrong in my life 
if I could change some things I would 
but nonetheless 
things happen for a reason 
so I let bygones be bygones 
and love the ones who care 
and pity the ones who don't 
I've been wronged by a lot of people 
but I brush off the hurt 
and sorrow I feel 
I've wronged a lot of people 
asked God for his forgiveness
 life's not always fair 
neither are the burdens I bear 
I have the passion and desire 
to see my life through 
to make better choices
I know I'm not a saint
I don't pretend to be one either

Ghost

A ghost tried to scare people off
But they gave him the big brush-off
He cried his heart out
And started to sprout
Then suddenly he took off

360 Degrees

Written By:  D. Collins 8/3/23


Three-hundred and sixty degrees is what we call a circle.
Where both ends meet, and it is totally perfect.
In relationships perfect circles could never be.
Because it ain't a circle, if off by one degree.


A circle can be a circle with a little duct tape.
In today's relationships nobody's willing to stay.
There could be outside influence all up in the mix.
Throwing the circle off, and your relationship.


Just take a Woooo-Sahhhhh, and know you're not soft.
Brush off your shoulders before setting it off.
That's the thing that would put it back on even keel.
And, complete the circle God has instilled.....

Footle the Form K

BRUSH OFF
sweetheart
must part

NOTE:A footle is a two line ,2 syllable verse with an integral title-Light Poetic verse form,witty,pertinent,topical etc (technically a trochaic monometer and not necessarily in rhyme).A 'hybrid' innovative sequenced variation has
developed over the years (since 2009)alongside the original definition

Footle Teen May 18

BRUSH OFF
sweetheart
must part

NOTE:A footle is a two line ,2 syllable verse with an integral title-Light Poetic verse form,witty,pertinent,topical etc (technically a trochaic monometer and not necessarily in rhyme).A 'hybrid' innovative sequenced variation has
developed over the years (since 2009)alongside the original definition

Flies

I've watched you brush off flies for years
Sometimes allowing them to linger and feed off your sweetness
Sometimes swatting them into splattered spots

I am happy to be your butterfly as you tell me, though I fear I will just be another fly.

You keep my wings painted, and I will keep the vomit off my hands

This love that keeps the flowers blooming

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