Grainy Poems | Examples

Seeing Mold

   The joy of growing mold.
   Squirrels would watch.
   Birds would tweet.
   My old bread,
   They would seek!
   Even dogs would come by,
   When letting the moldy bread freebees sailing in the sky.

   Haven't seen much molding bread,
   Usually, the mold means its dead!
   Eating toast with butter,
   Smearing on some peanut butter.
   The seeded grainy bread doesn't have room to spread.
   
   Used to see lovely green mold,
   Before the store said it was too old!
   Now the bread keeps for weeks,
   Beats out the dog food for moldy treats.

   Is there something in it?
   Fights off mold before it grows.
   Can keep on going for a month,
   Must be the seeds that hides a bunch.
   Or perhaps my eyes are growing old,
   Now I just can't see growing mold.

Grainy Brekkies

You can never
grasp, understand
bees keep stinging
venom that I bring
like constant ringing
of your front door bell
all these of forgotten
echoing of the years
what's of a sin I'm selling
that light so brightens
like new born flashes
no tail sweet light
stops smiling
I'm a familiarity
about to die,
hornet's pain to bring
timeless of photos
and those grainy
flashes of memories
I don't wish to see,
lapses bounces on knee,
Was I born beautiful
why I feel like a mistake,
what's left in the wake,
I was given the one take
Each and every date
not driven  stated
to be merrily sedated
but crash, boom & face it.

the woman from tippy toppy world

a woman lived in a tippy toppy world.
went by the plain name of old Gerald.
her husband's name was Hannah,
and had a son called Susanna.

she would butter her jam,
and eat her toast with grainy sand.
she put her knickers on her toes,
and wore her shoes on her nose.

everyone walked on their hands,
upon the tippy toppy lands,
a place where the sky was colour of red,
and the trees were made from cornbread.

ember lover

Looking at her is like 
a grainy old romance
warped in a bathroom mirror—
time distorts in her footsteps.

She’s always smiling, 
even when tears circle in her eyes. 
Only on certain nights will she 
pull off the mask 
and fracture in hush, splintering inward.

She speaks little—
perhaps the quietest soul I’ve known.
Her days revolve around his breath,
his smile her only pastime.

Being loved by her
is like being held by fire—
the scorching hug will
drain oxygen from lungs,
but only because 
going all in is her only form of love.

I envy the one she loves, but I am
not, no. I am her—

the ember of romantics,
too charred to be remembered.

Twilight Gloom

In gardens where the gentle roses bloom,

The sun casts golden rays upon the land,

A gentle breeze dispels the twilight gloom,

And whispers secrets through the grainy sand.

The days of sorrow now begin to fade,

As morning's light reveals a brand-new day,

With hope reborn, and dreams no longer frayed,

The echoes of my heart find words to say.


In you I see the light that love has brought,

A beacon bright amidst the stormy seas,

A truth so pure, beyond what time has taught,

A love eternal, serving none but thee.

The Photograph

How old was I then - maybe 
seven or eight in grainy black
and white. I can remember 
I was standing outside 
my grandfathers two story 
terrace house in Sydney.
Must have been around
nineteen fifty three, 
school holidays.
I didn't like the smell of his place
with its old, moss coated brick walls, 
the claustrophobic backyard 
and the lack of sunlight. 
Everything seemed dark 
and damp.

I can picture my grandfather
sitting at the kitchen table
with his stooped shoulders, 
wheezing away, rolling his daily quota 
of cigarettes, glasses set low 
on his nose, sunken eyes 
peering at me below 
an unkempt hedge of eyebrows. 
I slept on a rickety camp stretcher
in his bedroom beneath
musty sheets and would wake
during the night whenever 
he got up to pee in his pot.
It was always good to get home
to a big backyard, a wide open sky,
trees to climb and nights 
undisturbed by the sound 
of my dear grandfather peeing 
into a pot.

1970

It was the year of `Spirit in the Sky.’
I kept your picture, Irene.
Norman Greenbaum
has his own webpage now,
imagine that?

Your grainy wedding photograph
(cut at the time from a local newspaper),
has emerged again
as a yellow submarine.
Your rainbow stockings still fly
from that long-abandoned vessel,

now all we need is to peer together
from the same periscope.

Elegy for e Space Poet

You don’t watch the news anymore,
forget to wash your feet in the shower,
dream of walking on water 
because it was promised to you.

You have never heard of rebranding.
The sky is your meandering picture show
it is a really bad video,
you just have never found a good director, 
that’s all.

What if poetry appeared in an alien spaceship,
I mean a human craft
but one hijacked by aliens, out there
in the vastness of God’s bubble?

What if this poetry thing was not about you
or any other known life form,
would you still expect your nails to grow
as they rattle over a keyboard,
your spine to be a rack of lamb
upon which words arrive as alien artifacts
just so you can decorate the space
that haunts you behind your eyes.

Is it possible that that unidentified grainy image
wobbling over a prairie landscape was really you
taking a driving test?

Your words are out there as space junk,
images that you don’t have the power to undo.
Is it possible that none of your poems,
not one,
will ever land well enough?

she had been searching for grumpy gourd

lovely lively lithe Louise Lampford
grew a grainy greasy grumpy gourd
believing beyond belief in Baker’s board
she said she’d been searching for a grumpy gourd.
We thought this would delight Louise Lampford
But she could not cut the beast with machete or sword.

Barefoot

Behold
A voice announces
Release me
Expose me to the elements
Free me from fungus
Outdoors
Over cool ticklish grass, warm grainy sidewalks, and prankish pebbles
Time to rejoice

ACCEPTANCE

ACCEPTANCE

Thinking that I’m happy today
Well now, isn’t that just great
It makes a change, you think
Faking it right up to the brink
What you probably anticipate
When hearing a donkey bray

My smile, almost a rictus grin
Almost as cold as shiny shoes
Joy is an old grainy TV show
It’s canned laughter you know
I guess it’s time for the blues
They’ve arrived, show them in

i only do free verse

i only do free verse

     i rarely make exceptions

   ever since i learned about it in 5th grade

        i made a silent vow to myself 
     that i would utilize this new expression 
         at every opportunity 

    because,  you see
it is fun to rhyme, and it does take skill

        but it takes courage to write the word "courage"
   even if it doesn't rhyme with orange

       that's what it means to be an uncatchable individual
  raised to the zillionth power
if you understand what i mean

well, good for you, i guess

       complex are these colored wires 
   these are what plug our eyes to see the colors
      in the way that we understand the world

         even if it's a dull photodecadent shade of cold sepia
     or grainy footage of a mushroom cloud
           even if your "blue" doesn't rhyme with my sky

        as long as you try to talk about it, and don't beat yourself up, you can make a lot of cool things.

      it's not lazy. it's just life.
and life is art, isn't it?

think about it

remember the day it snowed pink

There was a day in the land of the Scandinavian county of Id
That snow came down all goopy and grainy, and slid
The weirdest part was that it fell not white, but pink.
I remember that day added my Great Uncle Tink.

I stared from him to my grandpa, not knowing what to do.
Hey! I said, was it as pink as the time it came down bright blue?
They grabbed up this tale and added a bunch of other stuff.
Proof that I am a chip off the oldest block, sure enough!

Their Loving Cup

Their loving cup sits on a shelf
     stained by the dust gathered there
   Next to a grainy photo of the chair
     where he first styled her hair

   Tears trickle 'cross the windshield
     their first and last car
   Lips melting on a screeching curve
     intersecting the moon and the stars

Pixilated Portraits

Drowning in foolish beliefs;
Pixilated portraits falling off
Corroded walls;
Blank canvases pervaded by
Grainy brush strokes,
Billowing amidst scattered flickers of
Crumbling structures,
Ambling in blighted stillness.
Venturing to find equilibrium in
This cryptic world,
Stranded and abandoned,
Layered upon a
Pillar of empiric darkness,
Glazed in meaningless semantics.

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