A thick porcelain shroud in a diamond vial,
Dabbing conceals the bruised moon beneath each socket,
A fine white mask stifles the shine,
Carving canyons to mimic where the pulse has retreated,
Brushing of a counterfeit fever upon the apples of the cheek,
Before a stroke of stardust illuminates the stifle,
Sweeping the lids with the velvet,
Ink the margins of gaze with a raven’s sharp intent,
Until the final petal of crimson seals the kiss,
The mirror reflects the tragedy of gravity claiming its heavy prize,
And beauty really is pain.
My Aunt Ruby was a bingo fanatic.
Every Friday she'd get her hair done ~
a visit to the 'Strands To Go' salon.
She left feeling like a graceful queen.
Friday nights were sacred at the bingo hall.
She'd pull out her money from her purse
and buy as many bingo cards as possible
then head to her favourite table to wait.
She'd light a cigarette to calm the nerves
and say a little prayer hoping to win big.
Someone had to win the jackpot ~ why not her.
She prepared her dabber and braced herself.
The bingo caller was always right on time.
Her cards always ready and perfectly aligned.
She waited with bated breath for numbers called
loud and clear as they possibly could be.
And so it was that every week on Friday,
Aunt Ruby spent her time doing what she loved best:
smoking, dabbing, and chatting among other devotees
... even coming home odd times with some cash winnings.
AP: 1st place 2025
He asked me to kiss him today like he usually did….
Dabbing my back like an impatient kid needing the loo
I tiredly turned slowly to his usually soft forehead kiss….
… but today his lips tasted like mistrust.
The kind layered in smirks of betrayal
Mucus sounds and other disgusting visuals
for his twisted amusement...
A mackerel sky fillets a fish scaled village,
an ear clapping, full sailed, fog
moors itself to the rooftops,
then hides all in a breezeless blear.
Rheumy eyes peep out from nets,
damp noses sniff abaft trawling drapes.
Cloth in hand, potbellied proprietors
battle the splatter and spray,
dabbing at mildewed shelves,
warding away slopping waders
and salty puddles.
On the sightless sea
far beyond the shore and shingle,
fog horns are lowing like lost cattle.
Later, misty reeks will be scoured
from groggy docks,
hauling hands will rope together
the tide-tossed salvage
by and by, squeaky boots
may trudge to taprooms
where codgers and callow alike
can be well oiled
and duly quenched.
With gentle hushed whispers
autumn paints umber hues
dabbing silvery mist
ochre autumnal shades
embrace misty mornings
a grandeur of nature
Placed second
SOME KIND OF MISTY Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Nette Onclaud
Date: July 6, 2025
Tendency is, to apportion
Love:
like slices of iced sweet
at a party
braying festive, 2 playful swipes
at a swinging, loaded donkey
(not the husband this time)
toffee for the dear loyal mate --
allotment of love, for precious children;
for all our Prayer-family, appealed
a canopy of blessed shade, like that
bible gourd,
cat and dog needing, also,
some petting reward – no special
reason...just because --
to the poet, as with painter,
superseding costume body of flesh,
art is voice-echo and representative
image
one's deeper beating sentient part
ventricle tools, the writing pad, the brush...
more poignant the words,
broader the expansive, lyrical stroke:
ruled paper or mystifying canvas~ the soul,
a bottomless well from which to
creatively
draw
fluid destinies
for controlled dabbing
abundant dashing-splashing
spirit-inspired
awesomely appealing
saturating pour --
Bound to reach a close, everything goes as thus
Your farewell etched like a scar
Whispers in the dark, so it flows
Echoes in my mind as I still drift afar
Contemplating lies, contending excuses
Darkness looms as the harbinger gazes upon
Who refuses to take refuge from impending danger
One man's hero, the grief of another
Tormented by your graceful smile
My memories play a frightening illusion
No tears left to run its mile
Endless void only to be filled by your absence
Contending excuses, contemplating lies once more
Blinking back tears as I bask in your embrace
Your sweet words like music to thy ears
Shrouded by darkness no more, surrounded by your reassuring light
Your letters revealed thus to me
One man's hero, the loving mother of another
Warmth of resonance filling me
Dabbing gently my sobs goodbye
The pride of having you takes place
Your farewell, I see a new horizon
A calm push to transform to a new me
As a step into a new chapter of life
One that will forever be proud of your legacy
Florid banshees recoiled, neck and hankering sneer.
A succinctly exuberant suggestion when selective.
Came on, fell flat with laconic ornamentation.
A miniature jaunt, interment; glove comparted.
Pin-striped foxtails attuned tune maddening clairvoyants.
Precisely predisposed, wine-flavored latten tobaccos.
A wooden-tipped juxtaposition, stilling waisted.
Bygone midge nonguarded, slunk olive drabbing on bayou.
Thicken handkerchief lightly dabbing brow.
Darkness entrapment, fiat practice gymnastics.
Money management, coinage magnet, honored in mathematics.
Backflipping,
Backtracking,
Backpacking.
Super-Soaker moisture, quickie; quickly, socks on prickly.
Sloped incline, inside Mount Saint Helens' Slip 'n Slide.
My little Eden --
before the fall
a screened porch
in the shade of
an ancient
overarching
fig tree
small wonder
Adam and Eve
needed only one each
to hide their new
nakedness --
chicks in their spring nests
chirping away, feeling nurtured
and protected
oblivious to the serpent
apples not his only ripe
fooled by his appealing strutting
fruited limbs and tasty appearance,
Lucifer, the cat, a black joke of
mine, stirs in my lap only slightly --
he is asleep for full – while I, a rival
fig picker, finish my second cup of
coffee…
my Eden has a thousand garden poems
and their seasons, come and gone,
one would think both heaven and hell
satiated by now
the many morbid failures and bright
triumphs~ despite the thick foliage
I try to write of dappling sunlight, dabbing
word-glistens, here and there, on my crinkly old
face
unkempt growth bleached but yet hopeful
IT STARTED WITH A BLANK CANVAS
Come lay your paint on me, it pleaded
I’m here in this garret, naked and cold
So what could I as a sensitive artist, do
Except comply, dabbing shades of blue
Reaching for indigo, as if I’d been told
Then pausing, to hear what it needed
Canvas relieved it was no longer blank
Stood there proud, and eager for more
As if formally bloodied in its first hunt
And so pleased, I almost heard it grunt
To win this creative battle, if not a war
For every new daub, the muse to thank
Coloured layers, streaks and a smudge
To which even a rainbow might defer
But now an abstract image has its day
It now had a life of its own on display
And for myself, expression is the spur
Unpainted areas still bearing a grudge
Both the brushes and I played our part
The canvas with a coat of many colours
With a final flourish, it is finally signed
And now it seems to have its own mind
It’s access for all, with raised portcullis
Now a painting, perhaps a work of art
mother nature wakes
dabbing on her best perfume . . .
roses are in bloom
The old oak tree.
So happy I wrote: Lovely!
“Let us hear the bluebell call,
the daffodil pray,
the apple blossom bear witness.”
I hip hip hurrah’d this paradigmatic poem.
I read it a few minutes ago and thought aww…
how do I comment now, so Harry will see.
So glad I had read this in the past,
before our dear Harry passed. Suddenly,
I hear one solitary and full-fledged chirp outside.
Has Harry stopped by?
Dabbing an eye.
Your eyes need your first - class care,
Which has to include some yeast
And they shan't Midday Sun dare;
As Sun eyes The West, facing The East,
Lest one turn Prince of Darkness,
Too early feeling one's way
While reading ' Moving Slackness
Coverage of page all day!
In eyes kids pack playful sands:
Madness that turns them crimson;
Lots of filth from wild hands,
They are, each, blinded Samson
Eyes for lasting protection
Dusts saving like a loved Chief
Foreign bodies' detection
For dabbing with handkerchief
Or "Here I come cataract
And one stops to interact
Or real Frightful Glaucoma,
Eyes drifting into coma.
Liquid hope, trickling down roses
Lights glisten and glimmer
With delight, the heart composes
Dabbing tears the soul opposes
Fears tumbling, left in the shimmer
Doubts gone, ever dimmer
Silent grace, blushing hues of praise
Whispering kind prayers
Alive with love, vibrant always
Wonders and talents to amaze
Peace so soothing nothing compares
Glad for a soul who cares
Blessed faith, raining down across lives
Singing feelings so wise
Painting smiles in light that survives
Breathing kindness where joy arrives
Watching close as the dewdrop cries
So, true love never dies
Dewdrops Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Angel L Villanueva
Used How Many Syllables and Rhymezone
June 17, 2022
Celebration of the day Dad was born
with a smile we treasure. We treasure
it more today than yesterday. Mom
lifted up his lips, a merry carousel,
that circled round and round
for sixty years. Dad found his smile
when he found that special “she.”
At dinner table, his dad had asked,
“What are your intentions, son?”
Dad said, “I love her, Dad!” Settled,
no more was asked. That warm ignite
was just beginning. Now us kids
pull the strings that lift up the corners
of Dad’s lips. We linger at stories,
let him express, and never suppress
his love for mom. Today we celebrate
with pizza, beef on weck, a Bill’s game,
with chocolate cake and presents,
lingering in Dad’s presence
and knowing surely Mom is in the room.
We hope Mom is in the room.
She’ll be smiling and dabbing tears.
Happy Birthday, Dad!
We are thankful
for all these years!
9/12/2021
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.