Long Crayon Poems
Long Crayon Poems. Below are the most popular long Crayon by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Crayon poems by poem length and keyword.
O souls of the Island,
I have silently
heard through
tropical torrents
and surpassed
a million miles
of the milky seas,
away from
mint-marine
silhouettes of my
utopian wonderland,
as strawberry
ripples and
coconut-scented
musings called
upon my
flamboyant spirit,
to explore those
ebony-emeralds
of universe and
envelop my hope in
creamy pink shells.
I have soaked in
sepia impressions,
ebbing as
crepe currents
on splitting shores
and windsurfed
through the
hibiscus rays
of life by forbidding
heartache hymns
of yesteryears,
from lurking in
jewelled hours
of today
and built a
kryptonite kayak
to sail in the
turquoise times
of tomorrow.
For, now I know
that the
opalescent ocean
has chosen me,
to return the
riveting spirit
of sage-rufescent
rivulets back to
the 'Heart of
Humanity's Cosmos',
shaped in
soft serenades
of seraphim.
When the
whispers of a
mauve french-rose,
blooming within,
will uncurl their
farthest wish
in silken twinkles,
my eyes will always
remember these
watercolor heights
splashing crayon dusks
and revealing
silver moon truths,
for there's more
beyond the
neon networks
of syzygy pearl skies
and chestnut reefs,
yearning to be
cherished by the
blonde alchemy of love.
So, I abandon
those sooty
regrets that snorkel
with their fragile fins in
kohl-lily gulfs
and observe these
constellations
of intuitions, formed
by the star-kissed
manta rays and
sketch sagacious
saudades laced
with hope, as a
halo around the
lilac Pole Star.
In this mortal
seascape of
the seventh heaven,
every orphan
of darkness
shimmers as
the beacon
of lustrous
sugar-scintilla that
shapes this world,
in ivory-smitten
spheres of
magically
diaphanous helix,
waltzing in whispers
of wind and water.
Every lava-skinned,
feminine flame
of doleful daffodils
was once a glittered
cherry-red gardenia,
laced with
cardinal buds,
who nurtured
velvet seeds
in the womb of
celeste compassion
and edenic empathy.
And like myself,
every sea-maiden of
sequined lush ruminations,
crowned with
purple plumerias,
is a whimsical wayfinder,
wishing for ~
white bells of serenity
and blue-star petals of peace.
The water tower stands above the town and can be seen for miles around. It has a
ladder leading up to the base of the tank. This ladder has been climbed by countless
teenagers, for thrills and mischief and young kids answering a dare.
Over the years, many symbols and words have been painted on the tank. From
Highschool mascots, to hearts of love and proposals. Flowers and Holiday wishes
joined in.
It had always been one mans job to keep the water tank painted and to cover up
any impromptu artwork. He always took his time about it though. Making sure that
each message stayed up at least two weeks before he would paint over it.
One day he received a phone call. On the line was a little boy. This little boy asked
the man to please not paint over his message he had written on the tank, as it was
very important.
The man explained to the boy that it was his job to keep the tank painted and
clean. But, that he would leave his message up there, untouched, for two weeks. The
little boy, with tears in his voice said "Thank you, I hope it will be long enough".
The next day, as the man was driving past the water tank, he looked up. He saw no
message or pictures of any kind on that tank. He shrugged and assumed that the boy
had just been to scared to make the climb all the way to the top.
Three weeks later, the mans phone rings again. It was that same little boy. Very
excited, he proclaimed "Mister, I just wanted to thank you for not painting over my
message...It really worked!"
Intrigued, the man went to the tank with his paint and supplies. He climbed to the
top, set down his paint and brush. He walked around that tank several times and still
did not see a message. But, as he bent to pick up the paint can, there it was.
Towards the bottom of the tank, in crayon with a young child scroll was written:
"Dear God, pleeze let my daddy come home frum war I miss him
Your frend Mike"
The years passed. Many drawings and words were painted over by one man and then
the other, as they took the job over. But never, the one small patch, with that heart
felt prayer.
For the contest: Story Time
Hostess: Carol Brown
Placement: 2nd
A crying drunk and tears on my sleeves A bleeding heart all over the page So deep and profound Letting go with the pen Is this lfe about to end While another one begins A writing frenzy spurned on by intoxication The thoughts seem now like putrefaction Between the self-loathing tear stains smudged in time Broken thoughts and a half empty pen The readable crapula a very made head ache And something scribbled in crayon I think not to ever do it again
I am the brown crayon in your crayon box,
and it is clear that you need me.
I can color in the sand your child plays in,
or I can be the trunk of the tree that gives you shade.
Don't try to make me just like you,
I am pretty sure I need you too.
I am the orange crayon in your crayon box,
and it is clear that you need me.
I am the color of the fruit that holds my name,
that makes a juice so very sweet.
Don t try to make me just like you,
I am pretty sure I need you too.
I am the blue crayon in your crayon box,
and it is clear that you need me.
I can color the sky that is the cosmos above your head,
and I can give you a refreshing drink of water.
Don't try to make me just like you,
I am pretty sure I need you too.
I am the green crayon in your crayon box,
and it is clear that you need me.
I am the color of the leaves that give you shade,
and I represent the money you spend.
Don't try to make me just like you,
I am pretty sure that I need you too.
I am the purple crayon in your crayon box,
and it is clear that you need me.
Your art teacher might have told you that my name is violet.
I am the color of grapes round and sweet.
Don't try to make me just like you,
I am pretty sure that I need you too.
I am the black crayon in your crayon box,
and it is clear that you need me.
I am the most popular font color on your computer.
I am the color of the lines that make the picture in your child's coloring book.
Don't try to make me just like you,
I am pretty sure that I need you too.
I am the yellow crayon in your crayon box,
and it is clear that you need me.
I color the sun that warms the day.
and I am the color of the lemons that make lemonade you drink.
Don't try to make me just like you,
I am pretty sure that I need you too.
I am the red crayon in your crayon box,
and it is clear that you need me.
I color the cheery that taste oh so sweet,
and I am the color on map to indicate heat.
Don't try to make me just like you,
I am pretty sure that I need you too.
We are the colors in your crayon box,
and we are sure that you need us all.
We work together in harmony,
but yet we are all different as can be.
Don't try to make us just like you,
We are pretty sure that we need you too.
Maybe Tomorrow Night?
by Odin Roark
Early last night
thinking got heavy.
Uncomfortable feelings crept in.
The mix was,
I don't know…
Revealing, I guess.
How much?
How much is one person supposed to carry?
How strong this body thin?
Have I not hammered enough nails,
untangled enough twisted synaptic vines?
When will it be finished,
this lean-to in the forest of high-rise expectancies,
these mindscapes where insomniacs of abandoned conscience
meet persistent awareness in flames?
Is there only sitting alone on empty subway cars
careening through express stops,
where ghosts of ancient ether float suspended,
waving their giddy hands as the blur passes,
where the burning midnight oil insistence
searches for better light,
illuminated dream signs,
visions that never cease?
That was before I reached the last stop,
climbed the stairs into midnight darkness,
listened to my cacophony of silence,
pushed through that familiar door,
straddled my stool at O'Riley's,
made my pencil write,
while five and dime glassware
became faceted crystal of my dreams,
sloshing melted memories about,
elbowing their way into napkin after napkin,
crossed out words after crossed out words,
caramel river after caramel river,
finding my liver oh so accommodating.
Later last night,
I found my perch atop the familiar railing.
You know,
the same one as before,
and before,
and before,
studying the arc.
Did you know water runs deepest
when you know it's really the right time?
And they keep telling me two-hundred feet
allows plenty of gravity to collect.
But…
They've got me in this awful green room again.
Took my pencil.
Gave me a crayon.
Black this time.
Words don't care.
Curls and lines.
Paper doesn’t care.
Late last night,
they said i had to stay awhile.
Again, you know,
‘til I convinced them, again
that I'm all here,
all together,
just a little lonely,
no harm.
You know,
I'm thinkin'
there's gotta be another way,
you know.
Better than making you up all the time.
Maybe we could meet,
you and me.
Coffee.
Nothin’ fancy.
Just...
Maybe early
tomorrow night,
before my believin’ gets heavy again.
Maybe?
Sweetheart?
Maybe Tomorrow Night?
by Odin Roark
Early last night
thinking got heavy.
Uncomfortable feelings crept in.
The mix was,
I don't know…
Revealing, I guess.
How much?
How much is one person supposed to carry?
How strong this body thin?
Have I not hammered enough nails,
untangled enough twisted synaptic vines?
When will it be finished,
this lean-to in the forest of high-rise expectancies,
these mindscapes where insomniacs of abandoned conscience
meet persistent awareness in flames?
Is there only sitting alone on empty subway cars
careening through express stops,
where ghosts of ancient ether float suspended,
waving their giddy hands as the blur passes,
where the burning midnight oil insistence
searches for better light,
illuminated dream signs,
visions that never cease?
That was before I reached the last stop,
climbed the stairs into midnight darkness,
listened to my cacophony of silence,
pushed through that familiar door,
straddled my stool at O'Riley's,
made my pencil write,
while five and dime glassware
became faceted crystal of my dreams,
sloshing melted memories about,
elbowing their way into napkin after napkin,
crossed out words after crossed out words,
caramel river after caramel river,
finding my liver oh so accommodating.
Later last night,
I found my perch atop the familiar railing.
You know,
the same one as before,
and before,
and before,
studying the arc.
Did you know water runs deepest
when you know it's really the right time?
And they keep telling me two-hundred feet
allows plenty of gravity to collect.
But…
They've got me in this awful green room again.
Took my pencil.
Gave me a crayon.
Black this time.
Words don't care.
Curls and lines.
Paper doesn’t care.
Late last night,
they said I had to stay awhile.
Again, you know,
‘til I convinced them, again
that I'm all here,
all together,
just a little lonely,
no harm.
You know,
I'm thinkin'
there's gotta be another way,
you know.
Better than making you up all the time.
Maybe we could meet,
you and me.
Coffee.
Nothin’ fancy.
Just...
Maybe early
tomorrow night,
before my believin’ gets heavy again.
Maybe?
Sweetheart?
The animals know better than us. The rain has never poured so loudly in a key so soft.
To the front, the sailing of city buses and mini vans cruising across in this weather makes the water underneath their tires sound like the street is crying out for 5 more minutes of sleep. Up above, the trees are protecting a nest of baby blue jays before they get washed away by the silence of their mother not being there. But with sky blue young spirits, and small empty stomachs, they keep hope alive in the fact that even children know storms and struggles don’t last forever.
Below the trees, nature has found a name to call it’s own. From the hole dug by the little boy next door, a family of three foxes have named human nature sanctuary, and burrowed their problems into the sediment to rest for a while.
To the side of the hole, a flock of ducks are swimming in the water with eyes open wide enough to where you can see their loyalty to love one another rushes wild.
To the right of the pond, caged up in a man made blanket, and lost in his own mind, is the boy. From what he remembers, last night was like a train accident; A head on collision of two people he could’ve sworn he saw holding hands just the other day. He hears the sound of plates shattering in C-minor, and the chorus of words that his parents screamed in F-sharp, so he imprisoned himself in his own bed sheets, accompanied by the courageous corduroy bear who he swears keeps hearing whisper “everything will be okay.”
It’s raining outside, and the crescendos of screams have been silenced by it’s peaceful security.
The boy, sleeps soundly now. The rain has protected his ears, and guarded his heart from being washed away by all of his nightmares.
He doesn’t care whether he wakes up. The baby blue jay, the resourceful fox and the brave little duck are all he wants to keep dreaming about.
Maybe he’ll run away into the rain? Or maybe into the arms if his mother?, whom he prays he can still recognize. To the left of his bed, he picked up the blank page of his coloring book and a crayon, and became a life long poet in that moment that morning. Taking a deep breath in, and giving a soft breath out, his first sentence was
“The animals know better than us.”
what lurks behind the shadows takes refuge in the
places that one cannot speak without a lawyer and
a place to stay when the going gets rough in the
shadows right out there buried & bustling without
restraint without subjection to the parameters in
which the most of us dwell & operate so obediently
on a daily basis throughout the utter insane boring
mundane nature of everyday existence & whether
or not you yourself choose to abide by these lines
drawn round your own individual life is of course
no one’s decision but your own but know that the
crayons in your hand are your own crayons and
there is no one alive who can make you color within
the lines if you feel that you don’t want to there is
no force out there that can make you sharpen the tip
with the convenient little crayon-sharpener that
resides on the back of the crayola box & of course
there’s no one out there who can make you draw on
lined paper, graphed paper, or even construction
paper for that matter if you want to you have the
right to draw all over everything around you the
chair you are sitting in the walls the floor the
pavement outside all over your clothes the windows
as you walk down the street the street itself because
who is going to stop you the worse that will happen
is that they will smack a label on you and lock you
up somewhere where the first thing that they will
do is pump you full of free drugs and place you in
a craft room anyway where you will receive a
pile of crayons and the whole process will start all
over again fear not those that want you to use your
crayons “correctly” for they cannot truly harm you
they can only wish silently inside themselves where
they think that all their little secrets stay hidden
that they could be just exactly like you and live in
the moment coloring whatever you feel like with
these beautiful crayons and leave the rest of life
alone to its beautiful shadows its wondrous “liars”
& “cheaters” & “thieves” & “murderers” & folks
that never for a second agreed to live by anyone else’s
rules except their own who let the untalented
uninteresting doorknobs of history decide in their
wake their value to society.
No dear
Make the date for the tea
Friday at three
For the moon will be
At the windows
At the wee hours
And it will be the full moons
We will pick up as much as we choose
With the scarlet spoon
Monday the sun is hot
No room to look at the blooms
Right and left a lot of the knots
No freedom to consume
The aroma of the kettle and teapot
And ample warmth
Fruitless will be the perfume
So hungrily sought
Make it on Friday, dear
I will have the bouquet
Wet with the dew
Under the shade of the brown cashew
Waiting Haikus
Under the moons
The globes of love
We will bring it down from above
Blend it with the doors to the stories
Of the blue breeze and white cheese
This Friday way
We two
The unbuttoned blue
Tuesdays we stay too much buttoned
Questioning and questioned
The ears of rice and wheat flattened
All the almonds dampened
No point to meet
With all the oceans discreet
Nice will be the bay
No bridle on Friday
We will make the crochet
As the full moons sway
Opening the dizzy doorway
To the interplay
Into the next day too
The lovely lingering blue
No other work to attend to
No socks no shoe
All brakes broken
In the Garden of Eden
Both Wednesday and Thursday
Too much to pay and repay
So busy with our purse
It is a rank commerce
No eyes to see the dove
Let alone the circle of love
That will shine far above
Beyond our reach
Far off from the beach
No stories to stitch together
Just the toxic work
The shoulder into the jerk
No time
My pen and your rhyme
Won’t chime
The Friday will come and open
The gates of the jasmine garden
No concern for the absolute tick tock
In the mirror the exposed peacock
Fulfillment of the golden wildfire
The hillocks loving the playing lyre
The next day is a holiday too
Followed by the Sunday hue
Here is a time of planting the tree
In the festival of the artery
On the happy Friday in the jasmine garden
The day of moons and green lemons
No full-stop
Just comma and colon
For the hundreds of flying herons
With the pink crayon
______________________________________
February 26, 2018
Friday feeling - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
Running, dripping, or still;
Life's a faucet, we’re a thirst,
To never drink our fill.
We drink and think
We are immune to pain from one another,
But brother, when it comes,
The waterfall or shower towers each
To block the sun.
Into a depth of puddles we stare
With all the wishes hearts forsake.
While voices whisper
From each rain for us to wake.
All drops stop, then disappear,
Take no side but reach our ear
In long or shorter stride to touch
The origin inside.
The place from which no one can hide;
The Hand that turns our faucet on or off.
From caves to huts and soup to nuts,
Each of us an entertainment,
The scope of which directed by
The compass of our choice.
We have and hear a different voice,
But it is our own we stretch
Across this voided earth,
Spiked with certain curtains and callings
Our ceilings manufactured.
These times are not newer
Because there are fewer miles
Of synapse between us.
It is a small but constant distance
From cheek to cuspidor
And what is not expected
Is expectorant on the floor
As we walk into our slippers
Through each shower of hours.
Chapters of happiness layered
With a faith that is guided by
What we have been without.
It is far more elegant to dress
Our moments in what is missing
Than dismissing the obvious
For the want of more,
Yet to stop is to become
That which we were chasing.
Our ears grow with age.
While cold guides our fingers flattened rage.
We can say what we will, turn the page,
Or eat a pie, starting every bite with I.
Who would be the wiser?
What gains a penny whose face is proud
And speaks aloud to the backside of a life?
Follow or fallow It’s what we are made of;
Harvesting hairs, split with indifferences
Spilling from the mouths of babes,
But Maybe baby, we just want to be held
One more time before we go,
While knowledge and understanding
Come from the language of others.
Each place or face is a foreign orb
That we err or blur into a refinement.
It is not a magic pencil but a crazy crayon
From which the cartoons of our life are born.
Oh Gabriel, come blow that horn!