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.
Popping out from under time's ruffled sun
a regally vested, chit-chatty Robin.
Cheerily navigating the lemon lime grass.
Perhaps looking for a beetle or crumb.
He daintily hip-hopped into my ring
on legs of beige twigs and lute strings.
Gently tilting a Tiffany-kissed beak.
Offering a daisy chain of silvery peeps.
I thought him just another avian busker
hustling up a mate and something to eat.
I'd little to offer and vigorously apologized.
He just glanced toward his robin egg sky.
Then offered me, in pastels, a Basho haiku.
I volleyed back with crayon-streaked senryu.
Before gliding off to sweet memory land,
he gifted an orange gem from his regal vest.
I considered this day to be impeccably blessed
by Lord Robin of the lemon-lime grass.
A True Story
Let them fall
Let the leaves
Alone
After putting one between
Two sheets
Of paper
Grab a crayon
Not black
I suggest orange
Or Sunny Yellow
Not boring green
Go over
The bumpy road
Scribble scribble scribble
To your hearts content
Hold
The paper to the light
Look how your crayon flew
Put down
Another sheet
Over
A different shape
And shimmy shimmy shimmy
Shake
That lively crayon
It’s on fire
Be friends
With the Autumn wind
Gifts sent as the branches
become naked
Cold
Warm
Your fingers
Probably your toes
Twinkle
Next up?
Pinecones
Glue, paint, glitter
O what wonder!
LIFE IS LIKE A MAYPOLE
Outstretch above are blue skies and golden sunshine
as train of threads is softly thug and braid to a pole.
Behold, this sky high pole of bright crayon colors,
they speak slowly about life in quite a number. . .
Sturdy wooden pole standing high and tall
is like a man endowed with wit and strength
The lengthy colored ribbons children install
are the shifting, rolling faces of life's events
Black as night sometimes dawn in life,
one maybe blue but not long, instead
do stand and chase rainbows on green belt bend.
Being a tickled pink to explore, never strife!
See, how the color red blush as it dance in the wind
so must we as we share love along kinship line
we aren't all born with a green finger
yet, each kindness touch, grin lingers!
Shed that yellow-bellied skin
to mingle without any charign.
Our life is given by God in silver plate.
Hence, let our daily goal be a red-letter day!
If we do, earth and sky may wed of rapport
like the ribbons together pulled and blend
by hands of dancing children that mend...
Raising the Maypole aloft with ribbon pour
so is a lived life despite black and blues decor.
As the threads slide smoothly in span of minutes
we, humans, must climb to reach our full limits.
The intertwining colors that fused, all roar
salad differences of man can be sorted, united to be one.
Screaming colors tickle lowly spirits' to fire
daring man to live before his body will retire. . .
Living life to the fullest before each setting sun!
_____________________________________________________________
©O.E. Guillermo
11:23 pm-- February 02, 2015
Sponsor: Seren Roberts
Contest Name: Life is like a Maypole
Placed 1st
As a child, colors weave the way I dream,
Then what I feel and how I perceive.
My humming voice a dandelion stream.
Carnation pink, fairytales I used to believe.
As I grow my color palette shifts,
From rainbow of softness to only neutral gray.
I wear black heels, prepare neon gifts
For dinner parties I have to stay.
Sometimes I remember, how colors linger,
How my fingers once, on paper, dragged out hue.
It smears my dream in orange and lavender,
My crayon box, the only thing staying true.
I know my paintings inevitably go unseen,
Still, every night, I color my dream spring green.
Looped of love
Cast upon a sea of symphonic scent
Cashmere soft and storm cloud kissed
Ventures forth on fingered strings
Spent alone in shuttered mist
“Curtains drawn in crayon colors…stitched on gold locket seams”
Worn of worries, frayed edges weave
Reaching deep into heart felt fear
Bland the noise, served in muted tones
Staring off to nowhere…near
“Tears now fill thy cup…once overflowing in melodic dreams”
Broken desires, a tangled spun web
Knotted by a lingering memory’s hold
Skin still warm of tanned defiance
Fractures locked out in the cold
“Heaved in piles of shoveled excess…soon to be forgotten silent on the street”
Music floods into porous caverns
Echoing a fragrant caring song
On syncopated bar chord promises
To hold you with arms forever strong
“And I play for you in the key of my heart…looped of love in constant repeat”
My mind is home to millions of my dreams,
The way a box holds colorful crayons,
Little ones that are bursting at the seams,
To the biggest ones I need to pray on.
The happy ones are all shades of yellow,
And the saddest ones are colored in blue,
Even though most of my dreams are mellow,
Some dreams are so big that they block my view.
Some of my dreams do not last very long,
But some of my dreams I hold very tight,
And there are some dreams that feel very wrong,
But yet there are some that feel very right.
Just like the way crayons fit in their case,
Every dream in my mind has its own place.
Fascinated with butterflies
midst their freedom-flight…
dear child*, secured in his wheel chair
delightfully grips yellow crayon
along creativity challenge
to pursue artwork bout
while struggling against spastic restlessness...
Soon with glee-filled countenance
championing his thumbs-up trademark
devoid of bashful gesture
he shows a masterpiece:
oh, glowing butterfly
radiant in yellow
he has painstakingly colored…
Witnessing his gracious achievement
of gradual milestones
I'm thankful* for God-wrought remarkable changes
notable indications that he is “educable”
thus, not “progressing toward retrogression”
as diagnosed by his pediatrician
more than a decade ago...
Yes, I’m beholding actual metamorphosis
toward joyous fulfillment…
so with faith in the Sovereign’s miracle
I envision our boy in his functional zest
like a butterfly that has surmounted
infantile epilepsy --- now becoming triumphant
over “global developmental delay.”
*Today, July 24, 2026, the child in our church orphanage is now 17 years old.
** 1Thessalonians 5:18 In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you..
July 23, 2020
1st place, "STRAND completely new (12) any theme any form" Poetry Contest Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 7/23/2020.
Holding head down he simmers in anguish
Scribbling restless shapes in red crayon
Concealing bitterness of a child forlorn.
At a tender young age he knows of divorce
Custody battles, and the pointed fingers
Of angry gestures condemning each other.
Any moment now they'll open the door
Pretending like there is love in the air.
He dashes towards her, gripping angst
Hearing Dad's words: "Say goodbye to Mom"
Hugging her tightly, tears rolling down,
Reddened eyes now piercing her sight
Wanting to ask if she understands why
He doesn't color anymore inside the lines,
As a smile uplifts from the depth of her eyes.
October 14, 2018
it sure ain't the south but it sure was hot
all the children danced in middle of the street
just cooling off in the fire hydrants
sirens could be heard miles away the streets were
all blocked off as civil rights leaders
waved flags of freedom while protestors shouted
no blacks allowed thee empty logos read
colored only others announced white only
my grandmother was Irish my grandfather
African American I was brown i felt distant
and rather bored with only one crayon
to color my famous drawing on this very hot day
i'd finally completed my famous masterpiece
a sheer work of art and what a sight to see
that all of the faces were brown just like me
suddenly my grandmother sighed again
it sure ain't the south but it sure is hot
~
Layers upon layers,
flaking residue...
scraping at the inner walls of my heart,
priming the ruins of my disassembled dreams while
masking off all hope of bleeding out or bleeding on
“Dare I bleed in the color of missing you?”
Scratches filled in with crayon,
vacant hues...
only on or outside of the lines of love
Woeful stick figures dancing to a lonely song,
played by the empty roller lashed to my hand
“Would you dare touch my hand prints....smear them?”
Minutes take hours to pass, but who cares,
Que Sera Sera...
the old Zenith finds Doris Day happy,
nice someone can be
stirring a smile within a gallon of semi-(g)loss
“Why are the sale brands always barren tones?”
I cringe at the thought of another moment in this position,
base boards...
bent over and touching up,
flat lining without an edge,
waiting for your voice, your tinted smile...waiting your approval
“Like watching paint dry...”