Word Color Poems | Examples
These Word Color poems are examples of Color poems about Word. These are the best examples of Color Word poems written by international poets.
What is the color of love per se
is it heart pumping red
that gets to your head
or crimson velvet like my chalet
How shall I sketch and paint you
should I outline you in opaline
or trace you in soft green
can I easily blend in with you
Do we make a picture perfect painting
for all eyes to see
or is it just you looking at me
don't mind me... if I do a little tinting
What color is love when it sits alone
does it reflect every shade
of your personal parade
is it hard to hold, or easily atoned
What is the color of love ? Tell me.
Note: Per se is a latin word. It means, "By Itself"
Charlie Kirk shot dead
America’s soul, bled
Red, the color of conversation
~ absent communication
Poetry paints prismatic word-pictures
A cubist painting programmed in plain air
Poetry and painting prize pure features,
For centuries, art crafted with grand care
Let us journey to juxtapose the two
Both attract the primeval painters' flair
With colours in rich red, yellow, and blue
Words sketching with wise theatrical care.
Try to catch and caress the words you see
Draw sights and sounds into your fractal soul
Organic lines jotted down joyously
As fractal forms that fill Metatron's scroll
Golden spirals smeared in an author's room
Are geometry's homage on a loom.
While wending my way one sunny day
in no particular direction
on stopping for reflection
I took a look at flowers by the rustic fence
beside a gnarled old tree
and was amused to see
beautiful colours and textures
which it seemed to me could only be
a painting picturesque
packed with pinks and reds yellows too
while beyond there lay
a field of green beneath a sky of blue
an avid artist if not gardener
it must have been
to have created
such as the sight I had seen
tho' my words won't describe
don't do justice to the sight I saw
it is etched in my memory
and will remain so evermore
They say a picture may paint a thousand words
but I can't read what he wrote
household paint poured onto a horizontal surface
ain't what I call works of note
splashed with no pre-planned end-result
for art's sake to me does not art make
known for his 'drip technique'
yes he was a drip and no mistake
yet a few of his spills sold for millions
long after his prime
as a fool and his money are soon parted
and you can fool some all of the time
but if we pry the boards from his studio floor
and hang them on the wall
why it would be far more relevant
tho' still takes no skill at all
his splotches are not pictures of poppies
nor pansies petunias or hollyhocks
in fact they're really nothing more
than just a load of Pollocks
You ask me—
how does it feel?
This slow bleed of words…
This quiet magic
made of pain—
and ink.
Let me tell you.
It feels like this:
The pen… hesitates.
Just for a moment.
Then carves its hunger
into the silence
of a blank white page.
The ink bottle?
It trembles.
Not from fear—
But from the weight
of all it hasn’t spilled yet.
Some call it a prayer.
Others?
A wound that never heals.
Watch the letters.
See how they sprawl—
dark wanderers,
with no home
except this crossing point
of skin and syllables.
See how they blur at the edges—
like grief.
Like forgotten gods.
And the colors—
oh, the colors…
Blue—like midnight’s tantrum.
Pink—like a tongue-tip confession.
Red—like a raw hymn
sung at the edge of dawn.
Don't talk to me about purity.
Truth—
real truth—
stains deeper
than any sin ever could.
You want to know
Where do poems come from?
Place your ear—
right here.
On the space
between a breath
and its echo.
Between the wound—
and the word
that dresses it in gold.
This is where it begins.
Where the unsaid
turns liquid.
Where the pen
is just a bone
whispering to paper:
Take this.
Make it beautiful.
True silence is not the lack of sound,
but a whisper hidden in the breath—
like rain waiting in the clouds,
or a word hovering
before it heals or hurts.
It is the pause between prayers,
where even gods forget their names,
where unspoken thoughts rise like smoke
and vanish—
a language so vast, it looks like stillness.
Do not mistake it for emptiness.
This is the earth’s oldest voice,
the one it uses to speak to the dead,
the one your bones remember
when words are no longer enough.
Listen.
Silence does not fall—
it is always there,
speaking in light and shadow,
in wounds and stars.
And when you finally step into it,
you will hear your own voice
returning to you—
not as sound,
but as understanding.
How can we understand each other's color,
When we use the same flavored word?
It's impossible to say it any duller,
And through our glasses the meaning is blurred.
To you something bright as the sky,
Will always strike me as navy blue.
With a fire truck we could try,
But to me it is simply maroon.
Something as distinct as a rainbow,
To me, a blurry line of tones.
Something as beaming as the snow,
Might quietly sit with the stones.
All I ask is that you don't judge me,
When my eyes can't shine like the moon.
Believe my words over what you see,
Because color is what drives every tune.
Colors
Blue the color of her eyes
That hid the pain
The ones that ahead the tears
When no one is near
The ones that have the glow even
When the tears flow
Red the color of her lips
The ones that hold back the tips
The tips that mad her once feel full
Now seeps through the tile floor
Pink the color of the nails
That scream I’m Fine as she stands
On the scale after her favorite meal
The nails that pick up her food
In her pantry that counts
The calories and safely puts it back
Till she screams in pain with
Tears running down her face
And blood gushing out
Me the girl who acts like
Loving herself comes easy
But hates herself more everyday
The watercolour of landscape
Always captures my heart
It's an excellent eye of the art
It's inviting to keep me smiling
The peculiar hand of technique brushing
Woven those intricate colors into life
Manifest the gift of God in every person
Envy maybe the word of appreciation
In subtle way inspire more to look at talent
How beautiful the world of colours of life.
I was never fond of the word or the color
it reminded me of ceiling stains in cheap hotels
infinite shades of latrine piss
bony cigarette fingertips
grandpa's stage 4 jaundice
the forever scar of cowardice...
I'm contemplating painting the kitchen
in this forbidden color.
I'll have to pray on it awhile
...it's a critical decision
maybe the most important of my existence.
The evolution of my inbred forgiveness and
hobbled optimism heavily depends upon it.
theory of colour
darkness
&brightness
light
& its absence
serene
softly
exciting
impression
of warmth
the hue of
intensity
stimulating
negation
active
passive side
in perfect
equality so
a six-part
circular
rainbow
complementary
dynamic
transitions
& gradations
subtle
yet profound
& magical
unifying
with
words
NOTE: Uniquely Klee combines a poem( in German),within his art
'Once emerged from the grey of night'.(as seen in link)
you dismantled my
wisteria-covered walls,
unraveling my defenses
like frayed silk...
my nights are now
painted with your kisses
soft as twilight spilling
across an oasis
in an Arabian desert...
I am lost in the
reminiscence of your rays~
the taste of sunbeams
sweet yet sharp citrus
tantalizing my tongue ...
the warmth lingering
long after the moonlight
on meadows that have faded...
but beneath this bliss
breathe a
lagoon of lemonade lies
where truth dissolves
in the tang of deceit
in the form of a mirage
as the veil slips
my exposed heart~
now bearing the
embroidery of your poetry
subtly sewn in
demure damask hues~
feels each word
as a poking plunge
of the needle
weaving through
the fabric of my being
binding me to
the memories we’ve created...
yet with every stitch,
I wonder if I am adorned
or undone~
whether this beautiful façade
Is a gift
or a curse,
f o r e v e r
trapped in
this poisonous paradise...
The very next time, when you hear a song,
Whether it’s short, or whether it’s long.
Take a deep breath, listen to each word,
And embrace the message, in which you have heard.
Picture the sounds, each note is a colour,
The majors and minors, make the imagination fuller.
Let yourself go, into your imagination pool,
Connect yourself, your brain is your tool.
See music as light, with happy vibrant shades,
That both you, your brain, and the artist has made.
Imagine you’re in, the story being told,
The warmest orange, and the blues so cold.
Close your eyes, and let yourself go,
Dance like no one watches, and go with the flow.
You’ll see a new light, to the music you heard,
The spectrum will open, you’ll be reassured.
Need another hit of my poetic fix
Eyes red bleeding from reading
I am a little better or worse
Than a drug addicted person
Could be me but I like pipe dreams
Poetry streaming
Kisses are from the ceiling fan
Blowing on typing hands
Could this be my red romance
Fact or fiction driven by diction
In my mind I am on an tropical island
Smiling wild and fuschia free in blue breeze
Could this be unhealthy this retreat
From the ruby reality
Of taxes life lows and highs
Meditation is going pretty good
Except for the music in my head
I hear it always despite no radio
Or streaming not on the pc
Then it comes to me
Another poem or song or story
Giving me purpose and esteem
Am I pompous for needing
The black bird of a word
To set my caramel spirit free
I say that I am addicted
More like afflicted by creating
And if you are my tribe
That is a positive thing