Long Blotches Poems
Long Blotches Poems. Below are the most popular long Blotches by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Blotches poems by poem length and keyword.
After considerable scrubbing, my attempt is in vain
Black blotches in my memory of you
Liturates my mind, still; It's too stubborn a stain
Every time I mentally scrape off the charcoal hue
Mud spatters all over it; besmirching it once again
Images of us keep cluttering my mind, it never clears
Stained, toxic memories of our failed love refuses to wane
Haunts me continually, after all these years
STANDARD CONTEST 195,any form,any,theme,upto a max of 8 (E I G H T) lines
Sponsored by Brian Strand (Winner: 1st Place)
Date written and posted: 08/21/2018
Both of them name-call each other,
never seems to end...
It's food to them; they feed on it,
this heedless, thoughtless trend.
You are so fat just like a beached whale,
you are such a loser, you always seem to fail.
Told you-your so fat, why don't you lose some weight?,
you say this cause you're skinny stick, understandable you hate.
Why do you say this- you are a silly pea-brain,
you're stark raving lunatic and nothing but a pain.
Hopeless and so lazy- why don't you get a job,
a dime a dozen, now shut your garbage gob !
Always at each other whilst toxicity a-blotches,
yet, baby can't say anything though hears it all and watches.
I look at my old hand
Blotches of liver spots, slow-running blood vessels
Delivering old blood so I can fold my hands
Once they caressed a woman`s body, who moaned
And my hands were firm
Women used to see me and smile, but now I walk
The earth unobserved and words become a long silence.
If I tell you how much I miss making love
to sit in the park with a girl and see the moon while
smoking cigarettes, inhaling its promise of love to come
The aroma of her hair, the smoothness of her thighs
to kiss her libido and drink her sweet water, her legs
Apart, she has given herself to me.
Asleep, enfolded we are, tomorrow is far away.
My old hands remember so much, I bow my head and try
to inhale from my hands what once was
It is all so hopeless, and soon enough I will be dead.
The leaves are gladly sacrificing themselves.
Like kamikaze pilots jumping from their branches.
Landing in piles like puppies do.
Squirrels in a frenzy.
Some leaves are red with yellow blotches,
I have found six red ones with a touch of black.
The air is different, cooler, confused.
Cardinals building nests.
Football games are taking husbands away
From their chores and families
Wives are plotting foods to get them back.
Wholesome campfire songs.
Children are peeking outside.
The younger ones throwing leaves
Annoying their siblings holding cell phones.
"Hey!"
Homecoming last week.
PTA Conferences tomorrow.
One quarter down. Three to go.
Halloween pumpkins and costumes are in the stores.
Homes smell of cinnamon and pine.
Babies are conceived.
Autumn is readying for winter.
Winter planning spring.
There are parts of a whole and time undivided
A poet is more than an inkwell lost in half essence
Opposites contradictions and strife for harmony
An abundance of minutes and a scribe just the same
The nib scratches the surface and yet the fountain
Emerges from the bottomless depth of the well
When blotches and smudges refused to emerge from the pot
He utilizes festering wounds and heart blood
Treasures of hope joy and exuberant passion
Links dot to dot on canvass of words never lost
Fragments remain but he rearranged schedules
Measures rhythm rhyme and meters connections
Some call him a part time ‘unemployed’ poet
‘It’s just a hobby and foolish distraction’
Others reminded him that muse and artistic endeavour
Would not feed his body but he stomachs the pain
‘Irresponsible and insane’ yet one more accusation
A dreamer reckless idealist refusing to grow up and get real
A scriptorium can never be a half-way house and Tim is
A full slate writer whatever the say to diminish his craft
29th June 2019
Vancouver looks flooded from this bridge
I see one lone brave water skier rounding a curve
It is November, but there are no biting wind chills
It is unrecognizably warm for Thanksgiving week
there are blotches and blips of leaves on the water
Oranges, tangerines and cinnamons twirling a bit
Let’s take a peek at the autumn faeries, I suggest
I hear one laugh, she sounds like a tingling chime
No one wants to take the hike, which is okay
Solitude is my preferred hobby, making photographs easier
no pushy humans demanding selfies and such
I linger for a while, now a fulfilled pirate queen
In a sort of way I was like her pen.
Whenever she needed a place to vent I was there.
In the times when truth was hard to bare. The world a bit colder.
Is when she stained me with her hands. A place she felt most comfortable.
She'd wake out of a dead sleep, to tell me all of her dreams.
The things that kept her up at night. Her fears, her aspirations.
She inspired me as well.
To give as much as I could.
Knowing her to be all I could depend.
Generous in the way I laid beneath her words.
I remained humble. Replacing my top with every syllable she spoke.
learning to speak in the times she didn't know which word felt best.
Shutting the world out for moments longer.
In times I wasn't my best. She never minded the ink on her hands.
The moments that became hesitant. Large blotches of ink clogged in a moment of weakness.
The silence of a moment where silence spoke volume.
Closed pen top. The inadequacy of being used until nothing was left.
This was how I viewed the world until she opened me up.
Often times I'd dangle from her front pocket. Kept warm by her side.
Away from all the other things she'd carry in her bag.
In all honesty I loved every story she'd tell.
Shedding light on her perspective of life.
To leave the old me somewhere on a desk
I felt at home living and breathing, nestled between her fingers.
At neither time did we feel we'd run out of ink.
Scribbling her pain, her pleasure
With my fingers.
And I, curled up in a blanket until the sun rose in her eyes
I was scratched and scraped to smithereens,
But luckily had collected enough sticklefarts
to bake a pie, and make some tasty tartlsnidds with greens.
We have some cracklwhif, mom suggested with cozy hearts.
I ate a tiddlewad of hamburgers and some snackpoots to get ready
For the dessert hot out of the oven, and man was it ever fine!
My limperfitch said “Good job little humperwhip,” instead of Freddy.
A marvelous asswarpletrip from this man who always towed the line.
Can you boodenphasrhump yourself up enough to help me in the kitchen?
Asked my crabblicious sister who is always got some hives that are itch’n.
She cannot resist sticklefarts, and was glad to see her scarf down a pie.
Soon she had blotches all over her face, even over each one of her eyes.
“You know better!” Limerfitch said to her. “Get the Benadryl and go to bed.”
I had a chance to beat him at Sticklefingke and I smirked in my head.
Part of me gets scratched up and soiled just to see my sister get sent away.
Because it is more fun to win a game than lose every single time you play.
The Lady of the Night
Alone, Luna dominates the sky,
glowing from Sol’s reflected light.
Her mares, dark blotches set
against the white light.
She is the queen of the night sky,
full face proudly displayed.
Strange things are said to happen
when she rides her chariot across the sky.
Wolves utter
lonesome cries.
Cursed individuals take the
form of the werewolf.
Humans go stark raving
mad.
We have physically touched her face
six times.
We have found her to be a harsh mistress
with no room for error.
She attracts our attention like no
other night figure.
We will return, she is that gilded
lady that beckons us.
We cannot stay away.
When all falls...apart
at the seams of the impact
stitch up some scribbles on paper
and find meaning from descent
The fountain pen never fails once smudges
have carefully dried over dissolute tears
pale into insignificant blotches untold
The scale tips when expression
finds designation and flows slowly
from shackles and utter despair
Wail if you must but find your pitch
let fever assemble the heat to cool
down up again in letters and script
When everything falls...rise above it
from catacombs and pitiful pits
mute the cacophonous silence
And write to your hearts discontent
Sooner or later the broken soul will tell
another story to link freedom and ink