Crayon Poems - Poems about Crayon

Crayon Dreams

'I'd paint rainbows with VIBGYOR,' said my child.
My Violet, with whims, will be beguiled.
Indigo will inflame wisdom with zest.
With the garb of calmness, Blue will be dressed.

Euphony will adorn my grassy Green.
In blonde Yellow, vibration will be seen.
With vibrancy, the Orange will be graced.
With love and passion, my Red will be traced.

Colours in a spectrum

Crayon Box Dreams

Yellow, happy dreams gone up in argon
Dancing dreams in laced clouds rained down to earth
White lights which give darkness a come-on
Youth's dreams, high-minded dreams what were they worth 

Sometimes sleep comes upon an aging body
Resting in afternoon's sun-filled room
Wrinkles exposed don't match the clothes shoddy
Just for a rose-colored visit he said then vroom

If only he

Crayon Box Dreams

Dreams in various colours emerge from the night,  
They escape the gloomy room,  
Hoping to find expression in the light,  
Desiring to awaken and bloom.  

Dreams trapped in a box don’t tell a story,  
They don’t sing a song,  
They can never reach the heights of glory;  
In

CRAYON BOX DIVINE DREAMS

My crayon box is filled with dreams’ color
Of joyfulness tints and happiness’ hues
Brightened by thanksgiving and praises ardor
Midst gold of gladness, devoid of sad blues.

Oh, there is green, full of life… healthy well
From God’s grace, so glowing, no one can hide
Along red with pink for compassion-swell
With shining yellow of worshipful tide.

Yes, courageous orange rules over

Crayon Box Dreams

Once, colours bloomed beneath my fingertips,
A world alive in every waxy line.
With careless joy, I painted paper ships
And skies where suns and silver moons would shine.

Each shade, a song of summers never gray,
Of laughter loud, of barefoot, grassy trails.
But now those hues have slowly slipped away,
Replaced by ticking clocks and grown-up tales.

The red of courage

Crayon Box Dreams

Her crayon box of dreams has at last grown 
up and she no longer colors outside 
of bound'ry lines, nor into stardust thrown
the rigid rules of ancient social guide.

Her crayon box of dreams has faded now,
somehow turning color into dreary
shades of brown, fading into shadow's vow
of docile living, forever weary.

Her crayon box of dreams asserts

Crayon Box Dreams

As a child, colors weave the way I dream,
Then what I feel and how I perceive.
My humming voice a dandelion stream.
Carnation pink, fairytales I used to believe.

As I grow my color palette shifts,
From rainbow of softness to only neutral gray.
I wear black heels, prepare neon gifts
For dinner parties I have to stay.

Sometimes I remember, how

Crayon Box Dreams

I'd choose the perfect VIBGYOR and paint the rainbow.
My violet will enfold the zeitgeist with zest.
With puzzles and riddles, my indigo will glow.
With the garb of serenity, Blue will be dressed.

Euphony and equipoise will adorn my green.
A trace of lace of goodwill will grace my yellow
In my orange, joy and merriment will be seen.
Like the

Crayon Box Dreams

My crayon box dreams, I've held in my heart
From when I was young to now when I'm old 
The ones I recall all do hold their part 
Memories of life begin to unfold 

Hopscotch in colors of chalk on pavements 
Back when I played with the kids on my square
Making hand faces at night in

Crayon Box Dreams

When I look back ’pon a life, monochrome
A black and white me in a world of grey
How colour free were the streets I would roam 
When dull, then dark was the path of my day

In that pencil sketch within which I dwelt
I could not predict as the grey grew late…
The glint in your eye, a

Of Crayon Box Dreams

I find a box of crayons on a desk.
At different colors I take a look.
I think of each color as picaresque -
as something or somebody in a book.

Three blues I see, such as blue-violet.
Blue-green might be a sailor’s home at sea.
Blue-violet could be a girl he’d met. 
Purple is sky darkened, making him flee.

Although their

Crayon Box Dreams

When days of dreary tropes could feel no duller,
and gray heavens escape my pencil’s reach,
—oh misery!, it can’t be set to speech,—
my crayon box dreams of unbridled color!

When weeks waste precious hues for wanton squalor,
my paintings doning the pale death of bleach,
—or worse!—, if poetry can no more teach,—
my crayon box prays for fuller color!

Woe!Woe!Woe!—unto

Crayon Box Dreams

Written: May 27, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Miranda Hawley

                ****************
            
Colorful crayons, the dreams of my choice,
Chalk, white, and red allergens hurt my voice.
Young hearts overflow with pristine

Crayon Box Dreams

   Crayon Box Dreams started song of my life.
   Song sung from carefree innocent childhood.
   Mellifluous music, I couldn’t wipe.
   That ran in prelude-interlude-postlude.

   Childhood passed, entered in adolescence.
   World extended, becoming brighter broader.
   Life spreading scattering different essences.
  

Crayon Box Dreams

My mind is home to millions of my dreams,
The way a box holds colorful crayons,
Little ones that are bursting at the seams,
To the biggest ones I need to pray on.

The happy ones are all shades of yellow,
And the saddest ones are colored in blue,
Even though most of my dreams are mellow,
Some dreams are so big

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