Long Bristles Poems
Long Bristles Poems. Below are the most popular long Bristles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bristles poems by poem length and keyword.
The Pink Joey or Dwarf Pink Kangaroo Paw
when cataloged made botanists quiver.
For it's a rare native Australian plant
first found along the Margaret River.
A clumping evergreen, it loves the sun
however, it’s content to stay quite small.
And unlike the larger Kangaroo Paw
it’s a perennial that don’t grow tall.
It bristles with copious strap-shaped leaves
flaunting flowers with downy-soft pink hairs.
And its subtle scent attracts butterflies
sipping on the nectar each blossom shares.
Its velvet blooms form small kangaroo paws
each a delightful down under treasure.
And displayed in their natural setting
they bring the observer so much pleasure.
(Quatrain)
Thick swirls of paint coat the blue night sky,
Luminescent stars ablaze: yellow white orbs, large in size.
Whirling white clouds under the crescent moon,
Above the asylum’s window the night sky blooms.
Below the rolling hills rests a sleepy little town,
A peaceful essence flows, cool dark colors unwound.
Reigning over the small buildings is the steeple of the church,
Beauty’s released from the bristles as he’s sitting at his perch.
With memories of Theo and thoughts of Paul Gauguin,
He attacks the canvas with broad strokes from his hand.
A single silhouette of a cypress on the left side,
Hides an early mistake as his broken heart cries.
1889, a typical night in Saint-Remy, Vincent’s puffing his pipe,
A committed genius from the asylum’s window painted the starry night.
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For Brian’s Contest PICTURE POEMS
The Starry Night
Vincent van Gogh,
1889 Oil on canvas
73 cm × 92 cm (28¾ in × 36¼ in)
Museum of Modern Art, New York City
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Starry_Night
The Brick Sayer
Tim is painting outside since it’s raining inside
Stroke upon cuddle one step at unfolding time
One inch brush gently on 10 squares of façade
The wannabee Buddhist thing when life is no race
Brightening enlightening mud bricks with caress
Whitewashing if that may still be said in South Africa
Tom Sawyer comes to mind as he glosses the fence
Sells the privilege for an apple core and a toad but
Political correctness has long banned the Twain
Now he moves the artist bristles for fine edges
Bordering on the insane he chooses to not employ
masking tape as that could cheat mask and disclosure
The paint ceases to flow as Tim seizes his furthering day
Watching it dry is the hard part of soft meditation so he
Desists and refrains but insists that some wall has vanished
25th July 2018
bringing out the garbage.
not in bags but inside boxes.
smells so bad.
books and all my bull.
bristles.
barely able to breathe.
baked in butane.
burning it all into oblivion.
banished borders.
barriers.
brine and bristle.
bursting.
buried in the backyard.
benign, yet blasphemous.
bouts of boredom begin again.
blended with bacteria.
biting at my brain.
a billion bits of alphabet.
but none is ever submit.
betting I’ll never be bred again.
bed beckons.
but there’s a therein.
biting.
bleeding out in barometers.
blisters.
blasting me for a burial of bliss.
besides what’s better?
borderline or bipolar?
not sure anymore about it.
breaking bullets.
bits of bone in a barrel.
but I’ll begin again.
bustling.
bludgeoning.
blossoming.
becoming a beast like beating.
breath bleating.
retreating into the bleak.
black holes.
buttoning up my best dress.
breast beading.
leading to a baked out feeling.
no one believes in.
bibles on the battalion bar.
brittle from the battle but bustling.
by the by I’ll buy it all back.
then pry it open from behind.
it’ll be back.
brackish but boiling like butter.
brother doesn’t bother.
before it breaks into bitty bits.
bit into by the bitten.
backstabbing.
besting all others besides Bukowski.
perhaps Blake.
for Christ’s sake baptized.
but bound by some Beelzebub.
blessed be the blind.
because they know not beauty.
but it’s 6 a.m. baby.
is that our breakfast baking?
eggs Benedict and bacon.
biscuits with gravy.
it’s all over anyway but the blues—
She was trapped in a world of turmoil
Forbidden from lustful thoughts
Swimming through a stream of endless dreams
Escaping from realities strong grasp of solitude
Sprinting around a track of intimacy
Only to portray images of a previous encounter
Hopeful to fall into a groove of forgotten love
Bringing back memories of his touch, his kiss, his strength
One day like life itself you will thrive on me
Like a vine wrapped around me
Will you with your haunted past learn to love again
My words are real, no lies lying in deceit
Like a symphony at Carnegie Hall your beautiful in every way
Your style in-sync, your rhythm inspires
An artist in loves form
Touching your body with my fingers gently
Surrounding you with my bristles
Your cream is my paint
You are my Mona-Lisa!!
On A Nail
Dust pan on a nail.
Worn out burgundy sofa in the corner.
A scratched window pane
and empty liquor bottles.
Bruised black banana in a brown bowl.
A discarded nylon stocking.
Lipstick marks on a cracked mirror
and tear-stained tissue paper.
A ripped up photograph on a bureau.
A dusty blanket and a broken porcelain vase.
Torn lace panties.
Spilled contents from a cheap jewelry box.
Dust pan on a nail.
Dried up toothpaste in the wash basin.
Fourteen strands of blond in the bristles of a brush.
A gaping green purse.
Rosary beads scattered on a scarlet bed spread.
Red strangulation marks on a svelte neck.
Stiff yellow corpse in the shower.
Two eyes bulging from crusty sockets.
Blood stains on the tile floor.
A black dagger next to a white bathtub.
Stale yellow liquid in a toilet bowl.
Dust pan on a nail.
In the dark my eyes alight
upon a thousand glowing crystals,
but as I move, their wings take flight
and surprised, my black fur bristles.
Upon a thousand glowing crystals,
my green eyes stare in wonder
and surprised, my black fur bristles
when they cast this spell I'm under.
My green eyes stare in wonder
at this lovely liquid sight
when they cast this spell I'm under
the clock calls out midnight.
At this lovely liquid sight,
as the iridescence quivers,
the clock calls out midnight
on a flowing azure river.
As the iridescence quivers,
but as I move, their wings take flight
on a flowing azure river,
in the dark my eyes alight.
paint me a face,
paint me one so blue that I can barely laugh or coo,
paint me till the colour of my skin no more exist,
but all you see is the gloom,
peering in sympathy through my window panes.
paint me my dear,
don't be shy,
it's been long I took my time and listened to the cries,
and heard for myself what's been wailed on the streets,
for it's been long indeed I sat and felt the pain of the weak,
as life has been one on the move and no time to feel.
paint me so I can hang on those walls
that discriminate your young,
and be a reflection of your strength and courage
paint till the bristles of your brush prick my skin,
paint till your hands get weary, but your heart lightened
by the sharing of your grief,
paint me the colour of your grief,
so I can judge beyond the common colour of a skin.
paint me my love,
paint me with every shade of red,
from the colour of your blood to the colour of mine,
and our thumping hearts harmonise in warm kisses of the night,
eyes glowing bright in the dark till morning light,
like antelopes in a searing jungle.
paint me oh sister,
paint me the pain of the birth of your young,
a shade of joy and anguish.
paint me till I scream your voice in the colour of my strides,
as a woman learning from a girl,
yearning to be free from the shackles of my teen.
You may rest awhile if the trek be tough,
Grab a breath when the terrain is rough;
Let the oars have some respite,
And the rower fresh viands bite.
But the going must anon continue,
For time tells motions of the brave
(According to lores heavens gave) ,
Shall all forever subdue the earth;
And man's toil shall win him mirth.
Pull your ear from naysayers' sigh
That affirms that man forever can't;
Keep the company of them that try;
Dwell in the fold of champs of hope.
Remember it's no crime to slip a cry
If bristles of fate spanner your heart;
Allow a tear if straining be too much,
But through all remember this part:
You must ever keep on keeping on!
Nothing has ever successfully stood
In the bold path of a determined man,
Who keeps walking despite the mood.
The world lacks case of one who tried,
And was the object of his zeal denied!
Give ear all that hear the spoken word,
For none like this has ever been heard -
The esoteric code that rules the world:
That you'll have to keep on keeping on!
When ballads blow kisses but no boughs to receive them.....
An everlasting poem is escorted by the whisper of winds.
I’m a man with a passionate pen but no muse to write of,
Writing under the influence of olives and forbidden liquid,
And now I’m stumbling on prints of cattle on ground,
Walking the road less taken by men,
As words told to me by men wiser than I unveil themselves,
“It is the mistake of youth that spark the flame of wisdom in elders”
And now I satiate myself to the scent of myyrh and spices...
As I witness the alchemy taking place on my face,
Bristles and a carpet of hair raging shyly,
Searching for a method to brave into manhood,
Enjoying my youth and losing my innocence to the toils of this earth,
Sweet!
But today i have decided to simmer in joy and use the right tools to climb the fortress of adulthood,
I know not when i am to sit and dine with better men than I.