Dirtied Poems | Examples

Golden Glow

When I was coal you mined my soul 
and treasure there you found: 
a heart, stone cold, but solid gold, 
was buried underground. 

So long I hoped and blindly groped 
for rescue by the brave; 
from skulking fears and sour tears 
that haunted my dark cave. 

The sifters left my heart bereft 
of airy thoughts and dreams; 
in all their toil, neglected soil, 
but splashed in barren streams. 

The dirtied face of my disgrace 
you polished with your sleeve; 
your zeal above mere heartfelt love 
in silken arms we'll weave. 

My luster bright in dawning light 
forever shall I owe, 
to she who dug beneath my shrug 
and found the golden glow.

You'll get Yours -- Tooth for Tooth

12 when I wrote this, from the perspective of a mushroom.

My gills grasping at air, but the grass is not too far;
My scales glimmering stupidly to shine through watered tar.
And in the gaseous tarmac world, I shine here far too bright,
And oh, the air, too stale if for my gills to get it right.

I long to build a house and make a living off of sticks,
Press flowers to make bookmarks. Feather ink dips.
And for one day, to hear ... a knocking or a rattle
Of rats and pigeons at my door. To me, should they grapple

I wished to fly away with birds, claws ripping flesh and all
To find my new roots in the sky: frail, delicate, tall.
I wished to burrow in the ground when I must collapse.
I wish to hide me from the world. I wish for a relapse.

A tingle down my stem, my gills no longer pulchrify
My dirtied shine, my residue: I tell you, "eye for eye."
This vivid tarmac world around me, perfectly reflecting
How little you appreciated when we were worth defending.

In the shadow of classes

5/4/2024, Vaishali, Bihar

In a society where I live,
Pride is a class identity,
And pain is a class identity again.
The color of people is cast
Into white, brown, and black,
All shades of the same soil.
People born as kings, servants, or watchdogs.

I live in a village of divided lands—
Bhumihar fields, Mallah shores, Nunia, Teli, Sonar,
Brahman, Rajput, split like crops on the farm.
I belong to the Nai—
A class of servants, kings, and watchdogs, all in one.

The air hums with stories of the Nanda Dynasty,
Pride wrapped around our class like armor.
Yet, sorrow lingers in the gaze of those
Whose eyes are heavy with dirtied dreams.
I live in a society where identity is seen
In color, cloth, and words—
Old roots buried deep like the broken tree
By Abhishek Pushkarini,
Which falls, like us, at the feet of the upper class.

My tearful words often seem lost,
As each passing day etches more pain into hearts.
But these small hands carry the strength to resist
The cruel stares of a classed society.

In a society where I live,
Pride is a class identity.

The Scent of Vanilla

Cooking with garlic and oil
Chopping peppers and chives
Crinkling aluminum foil
Running water over dirtied knives

Cutting boards strawberry stained
Slicing apples and poaching pears
Steamy facials from pasta drained
Sizzling pops like lightning flares

Piping a French buttercream rosette
Cracking eggs with no loose shell
Waiting for lime jello to set
But nothing beats the most delicious smell

The scent of vanilla

Bob

I once had a buddy named Bob
He was an unbearable slob
I pressed him a suit
And dressed him up cute
He dirtied it quickly, the knob.

Too Bright To Shine

Overlap of melancholy breezes,lips mumble
In maze of complex routes, body bumble

Dark souls shaking head in wonderment
 behind hedge
Frivously pushing themselves over
 the edge

Joy instants sprouted from tiny buds
Pure shrouds dirtied in drizzling muds

Outpouring emotions from wearily wrecked 
root
Full moon bride shied at owls 
hoot

Of all the metaphors that assisted a 
 rhyme
Some scream about a star, too bright to
  shine

eulogised as magnimonious warrior
 flawless
First sun ray at dawn after night
undress

Evocative syllables for the enticing
 sagacity
Trove of rare gem stones and his remark of
 audicity

Homewrecked

There once was a girl,
Her life in a whirl,
As she questioned her life,
And all she could do was ask herself why,
Why did she deserves such strife,
For love and for security,
Her purity became dirtied,
And wished she could end it with a sharp bladed knife.
Good bye, love
Good bye, sadness,
Good bye everything she was once handed,
Good bye stress, I must confess you are the last one I shall miss
What is a world without beauty,
What is life without some security,
A roof over my head and food in my belly,
Is now a luxury instead of a need,
So I get on my knotted steed and jump into the heavens,
I take my last breath,
My dear home wreckers,
Was it worth it in the end?

November Sun Day

Filaments of white creep imperceptibly across an innocently blue sky, like hopeful mycelial tendrils feeling tentatively into their embracing surroundings. 
Petite tufts of lightly dirtied cotton wool float affably by, unnoticing. 
The movement of passing birds is seemingly transformed in this sun, from the previous days of grey.
Small flocks of good mood frolic on the wind as the sunlight briefly catches on their speckled iridescence. While more modest individuals flit their cheerful glow across the world in equal lustre. 
Song and chatter dance in the air like sweet butterflies of sound. 
And ripening autumn leaves whisper their delight in an occasional mild atmosphereal caress.

My Purpose

All my life I have lived in solitude,
Either shielded from the world in shame, 
Or publicly displayed
But only ever acknowledged when I’m to be used. 

My sole purpose on this dirtied earth
Is the bring back the worth
Of the seas and the birds,
But my time on this planet 
Has taught me the fact that 
People only care 
If it’s them that in affects, in fact,

I’m meant to be used, 
It’s my purpose, my worth,
Yet the greed of humans 
Overrides their need to hurt me.

It only affects me.
Either I or our home, 
Its one or the other,
Either me or the globe.

If you had to pick one, 
Please use me for your waste.
The state of our planet 
Is a well disguised disgrace.

So please.
Use me, abuse me, do what you must,
I look upon this world in disgust 
At the actions of humanity.
If you must be selfish,
Make sure it only affects us. 
Do not let the future generations suffer 
Due to your mistaken trust in the efforts of others.

I may only be a bin, 
But my purpose is much purer.
So don’t throw away your chance
At a better and brighter future.

Not His Fault

You were like the smell of petrol, strangely addicting. You had the worse traits any human could have. You were toxic, manipulative, you degraded me with an icy stare and you let out your dying pain by punishing me.
You had me on ultimate highs then you had me crashing into the dirt in an enternal sickness of lows. You were a drug and I was helplessly addicted...
Your cold eyes are now permanently etched into my mind, a permanent reminder of your abuse.
But laying here, bleeding out on your bathroom floor, I wonder? Perhaps you were never real.  Perhaps you were just a demon sent to stare back at me through dirtied mirrors...

Hope

Indoor 
Green plants brighten
Dreary light coming through
My windows, dirtied by the snow
And rain.

A Pole Jumped Out In Front of Me

Have you ever seen someone walk into a pole
Happened to me once while out for a stroll
Had a poem in mind
To all else I was blind
Should've paid attention, dirtied my camisole

Thanksgiving Dinner

I roasted stuffed turkey, made candied yams,
Made holiday jello, baked pies, dirtied pans.

Made mashed potatoes to cover with gravy,
Glazed carrots and biscuits, I'm cooking like crazy.

My daughter came over with grandchild in tow,
Giving my holiday that much needed glow.

I love the holidays and gathering with family.
It's so good to see everyone gathering happily,

Laughing and joking and sharing good cheer.
I wish more would come celebrate with all of us here.

Planted: Real Poetry To Live By

I play with shadows
under guise of light and dark
ripened under a half-met sun
ripp'd where tainted thoughts dare run

looking down,
afleet
barren to thrust
flowers slain and seeds lay rough
all the while
the weeds won't grow


til

her toil
unearthed
in muddy soil
patted pasties put, dripp'd in soot
dirtied mouths and unwashed foot

tied up
a mare/amoré
amount to what

the rituals,
trinitized,
doeful eyes
no doubt
wide, batting, abating
awaiting
wished upon the well
waters and her will
wash a'cross surrender's pill

soon delivered

Blue Jeans

tattered
and torn
these old jeans
like a frayed soul
beyond repair
still catch eyes
of onlookers 
as i walk by 

patches 
hide the threads
and worn out seams
from view 

dirtied
then washed 
with tears
yet stains
remain

some things 
can”t be cleaned
nor replaced

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