Long Colour in Poems
Long Colour in Poems. Below are the most popular long Colour in by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Colour in poems by poem length and keyword.
Crow (Blackus Menacingus)
large, clever and a scavenger
found in gardens where there’s trees
good at puzzles, can be trained
likes TV shows about celebrities
Blackbird (Blackus Not-A-Pirateus)
common gardeners friend is he
perched on the handle of a spade
looking out for bugs and worms
went on a holiday to Adelaide
Thrush (Not-The-Itchyus Sortus)
light brown plumage with spotted front
easily identifiable medium bird
known for a complex, tuneful song
makes jam tarts with lemon curd
Starling (Impressiveus In-A-Large-Flockus)
iridescent all year bird
feathers change colour in the sun
swarms in huge numbers then
off to the pub for rowdy fun
Wren (Smallus Sticky-Uppy-Tailus)
one of the tiniest garden birds
surprisingly loud and piercing voice
small, round body, quick and gone
to play boardgames and other toys
Puffin (Brightus Beakus)
black and white with colourful bill
dives the water for its food
coastal, cliffside, craggy nest
sends birthday cards that are very rude
she had attempted to colour in outside of the box
now the silver lining dangled from a broken necklace
suffocated her aspirations oozed discontent and sorrow
the shine had come off and no amount of polish would
erase smudges and impurity nor restore a once lucid soul
reflections tore at her heart and strangled in darkness
precious metal now a neck tie of craving for balance
reprieve from discomfort aberrations and delusions
pendant to be relieved from reversed penchant of life
at first she assigned emotions to one crazy error of judgement
distortion of passion disillusionment or mere false appraisal
yet resentments turned on herself in anger insecurity and fear
her whole mindset had been poisoned inflamed to the core
only complete reconstruction of Self would yield any success
which is when she decided to stop running away to face the truth
I can feel my blood,
Gushing through my veins,
I have two beating hearts,
One to lose and one that pounds,
At the door of my skin,
A caged vulture in the jungle of my ribs,
For it wants to be lost,
With a jar of ashes addressed to the ones I love.
I can feel its emulsion in my blood,
A pellet of germanium in an abyss of red,The burst of colour in my wrist reminds me of death,
And how the roles reverse in circumstance,
A blush of pink on my eyelid,
A blush of pink on the periphery of my jaw,
I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive
Guess I’ll play a song, I’ve heard before.
But it beckons me so,
The thin films of glass against my wrist,
Cold fingers running over jagged edges,
And I sip clean, every blunder I make,
Guess I’ll kiss my wrists pale again,
I see the crevices of my mind unfold,
I can see a face, a body to hold,
I choke on blunders, I choke alone.
My wardrobe has skeletons with sardonic smiles,
There’s crosses on the glass beneath my feet,
There’s crosses in my throat,
I’m running down the nape of my bones,
And like the phoenix once arose,
I’ll hear my voice at the bells when the church door swings,
My consciousness is an ocean, my awarness is a wave,
I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive
War is Lovely
It´s a hell of a war, soldiers running between burning buildings.
It is a great war good for sex feel the strength running through veins
blood oozing out of bullet holes and onto the sand that is the other guy´s
the person called an enemy.
Was this their finest hour defending whatever they have told to defend
Wonderful war brilliantly red, and women dream of joining them
only to find they are out of place; soldiers will rather masturbate in a fox-hole.
Glorious war, something the survivors can talk about in the park playing card,
name the buddy who didn´t make it out lost in reveries and full moon.
Do they see the green leaves on trees or the flowers; is it all death and ruined buildings?
Forever etched in their crippled brains.
Oh, I´m so tired it is hurting me, endless wars and commentators explaining the murdering
of the innocent according to what the think-tank pays them.
I long for the autumnal colour in Portugal, a place to heal the abused body so distressed,
facing away from the TV, screen that drips of blood or failing that of football boots.
To walk on old cobblestones and fallen leaves and remember that we live in a beautiful world.
* We were told to people watch to draw inspiration from the outside world*
Public transportation
Is
My
Source for real world information
The
introverted Man across from me shuffles his ipod
His lips move to
Lyrics of an unknown cadence
Lost in a day dream
Remembering childhood fantasies
He is Battling with Lil Wayne, Eminem or even Drake
Or feeling the guitar sing when he’s playing with the Queen
Just an ordinary man, no one would usually take notice of him
But the crowds recognition, the attention, the admiration of women
This was the life much more suited for him
The Bright pink colour in his cheeks or his laughter rising to the ceiling
Would be much more captivating
Than his dreary grey scowl, hardened from societies disapproval
He looks back across from me
Almost apologetically
Poets weren’t meant to be spies
I looked him straight in the eyes and told him Never apologize
Your dreams are closer to you than you realize
Love yourself first, and that trust will seal your fate
Form:
A brand new car is what I love,
Love the body, the new car smell,
So to local luxury garage I drove,
that’s where I met lovely Shantelle!
Bright blue was the colour in mind,
A four wheel drive good for snow,
For my golf kit, lot of space behind,
A shapely front, as men will know!
I was shown to a desk at the rear,
Sitting in her chair was Shantelle,
Divine looks, heart stopping stare,
Like a Sharon Stone, behind a Dell!
What transpired? I can’t remember!
Who spoke and if anything was said?
My mind stoned my legs were timber,
Was I dreaming? Was I still in bed?
Later in the open, to show me the car,
She walked like she was on catwalk,
Blue skin tights kept my mouth ajar,
Her pretty smile was her sales talk!
The blue she wore, was blue I love,
every breath I took was her perfume,
She was so close, when I test drove,
my eyes on her, eyes focus and zoom!
The deal was done, the car was sold,
Shantelle I loved, not the four by four!
Ignored the price, paid what I was told,
Borrowed from a bank, to settle score!
Stone by stone every necklace grows,
Drop by drop, love and ocean soar,
Shantelle I wed, with marriage vows,
Now we are four, in our four by four!
N/A 27/02/2020
Dated 18/02/2020
Premier poetry contest Shantelle
Sponsor Julia Ward
Entered for John Hamilton N-A contest
12/Jan/2021
" Artist Nature paints on sky with airbrush using Sun rays ." - Poet
PAINTED
Setting sunrays to colour in delight.
Sky canvas to get painted as twilight,
using air brush , sketching deep , dark or light :
Spectacular view mostly random !
Sun rays got reflected and refracted,
on drastic dispersion were diffracted,
human vision got allured, attracted,
overwhelmed watching splendid album.
Sun rays twined with raindrops form coloured bow.
Seven arches shown and shone on rainbow.
painted by Nature to glisten and glow:
exhibited being pasted on sky.
Spectrum of Sun ! Violet- Indigo
serially came Blue, Green and Yellow.
then Orange , Red at end: Gorgeous show.
Artist Nature painted without a die.
03\ 28\ 23
Writing Challenge - " P " words
First Place
Contest by Constance La France
Blue is the colour, blue is the period, blue is the mood
As Pablo's mind sunk, on the meaning of life he did brood.
The death by his own hand, of a friend that was close
Left Pablo the poor artist quite depressed and morose.
His feelings from deep down within his soul
Could only be expressed by his brush, his goal.
To show how he hurt and affected was he
He painted the guitarist, the one that could not see.
A blind beggar stooped and cold, a guitar in his hands
Not strumming just there, muted background looking bland
Muted colours of blue that makes one feel so cold
Of the half staved, freezing guitarist, that looks terribly old.
The oil tends to blend on the panel lacking some colour
To express his heart weary soul, his colours ever duller
The guitarist is stretched, elongated, looks almost dead
All the feeling of Picasso in his life, this picture said.
Look at me, I am starved of love money and bread
No colour in my life, perhaps I am better off with the dead.
A reflection on the times on society way back then
The hopeless, the wretched, Pablo caught with his pen.
On the bland background of blue, a guitar painted dull brown
The guitar in his hands, the player blind with a sad frown
Was he a symbol that the blind have inner vision yet can see
The dejection, the poverty, the misery of times lost on you and me.
His period of blue lasted three long years before it was then spent
He changed his style with his moods as his emotions were pent
A poor artist who suffered with his moods as we all can do
He expressed them with pen and brush, much the same as me and you.
© 23/01/2013
Contest Entry.
The Old Guitarist By Pablo Picasso
To
My Love,
He was my moon,my earth,my stars,my love,my everything,and all i
ever
wanted.
He was my oxygen,my breath,my passion,my scent, my air,and all i
ever
wanted.
He was my heart,my dream,my happiness,my joy,my fun,my life,He was all i
ever
wanted.
He was my verse,my muse,my rhmye,my every dedication, He was all i
ever
wanted.
He was the reason i wake up ,the colour in my gray,my song,and all i
ever
wanted.
He was the Robin on my window of dreams,my crave,my addiction.He
was that someone special,that treasure,the gift,the man,the stranger,the love
of my life.He was all this and so much more to me,but now i have to go,
knowing its the best choice,to run,to escape,to leave,to never return.Yet,
wherever i may go,a part of him will always be with me.
With Much love
Charmaine
A curious cocktail of odours greets us
as we move in from playground
to corridor, to cloakroom, to classroom.
Beeswax fragrance: freshly buffed parquet.
Brasso smell: base metal turned to gold.
Jeyes Fluid: vapour killing vile germs.
Such alchemy starts our day with clean slate.
Playground cacophony left behind.
Now each sound has discipline, has purpose.
First bell: registration shall begin.
Next bell: proceed to assembly hall.
Lasses stand on round marks; lads on square marks.
Regular rows, parallel precision.
Stand to attention. Uniform inspection.
At ease. Handshakes and smiles. Peace be with you.
Silence pervades as we ponder our sins.
With ramrod fingers Miss thumps on the keys.
Staccato. Left. Right.
'Ride on Ride on in Majesty'.
A short sermon on compassion is served.
Then, school notices: soccer successes
and the listing of scallywags destined
for public thrashing at high noon next day.
Third bell: learning shall begin.
RI lesson. St Paul's Journey yet again.
In silence we colour in his route map.
With crayons on auto-pilot we day dream.
Our apostle arrives in Rome by morning break.