Long Pinkish Poems
Long Pinkish Poems. Below are the most popular long Pinkish by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pinkish poems by poem length and keyword.
I found the end of a rainbow
It wasn't so hard to find
One day it just occurred to me
that Ive never even tried
Now, I was told when I was young
It's all about the relationship
Of where you stand, and of the sun
That you can see, but could not touch
Raindrops and sunlight
And refractions and such
And I believed it, just as they had
And never bothered to look
Until one day, i seen a rainbow
it seemed just close enough to touch
I couldn't help myself
And put my boots to work
I crossed wet earth and swollen streams,
Passing people hiding under trees
I left the roads, and through the hills
I climbed slick rocks and boulder fields
Until, there it was
With waterfalls, and swimming holes
That flowed from Rhododendron hills
Blooming purple and pinkish red
Mountain mist that turned to honey wine
All dipped in rays of warm sunshine
Although, I never did find a pot of gold
But I didn't mind,
I found what I was looking for
And proved it could be done
And that was just enough
Gift and passion are pearls caught up in a riptide of sadness.
An aurora of blue and green.
Can you make it past the dream breakers
over the reef and back onto shore.
Nobody embraces those that live on the tassel.
Hard to embrace something spinning at the speed of the masses.
How long can you live on the rim of a volcano
before the spirit catches fire and collapses.
Gift and passion
a pearl caught up in a riptide of sadness.
At the end of the day,
You just wanted acceptance and love from THEM.
But to THEM you were only prey.
I can tell you this
I would have loved you anyway in any form....
The 90-proof charm.
The string of rubies on your wrist
A soul branded in a variety of blue.
I'd take it all in. Give it haven.
Even the scorpions that jumped your turnstile brain.
Riding free in your heart vein.
Gift and passion
A pearl caught in a riptide of sadness.
If we ever crossed paths, we would have become fast friends.
Two old souls sharing the last drop of whisky
and a bowl of sweet Panama red.
I would have gently teased the blue and green
from your soul.
We would have made love between full moons
of gilded leather and pinkish lace.
In the frothy aftermath
I would have told you exactly how I felt.
It would come easy because it would have been
exactly what you lived to hear.
It wasn't meant to be.
We were conceived on a different breeze.
You quickly hit your stride, then crashed, breathing your last...on the eve of your prime...
While I was graduating from the swings and sandboxes,
stride for stride with sundial time...
I take a sip of pinkish liquid – White Zin.
Will I be able to drive home now?
The goblet seems much more fun than it should be.
I am horrified by her fullness. It shocks me. Too much liquor!
My brain screams at the young waiter, who is probably new,
Does he think he is helping out an old lady without friends?
Without a home? A crone who lives under a bridge on a storm grate?
The bar and grille’s loud music no longer bothers me.
One sip of White Zin wiped out my irritation station.
Spiders who live in my spinal column scurry away for
An evening of “who cares?” We are unconcerned.
My back cord is relaxing into a pudding pop of herself.
For the first second I realize the music is Country Western
and I am not cringing. I reach for the glass goblet. The
White Zin sloshes into my mouth, with a happy war cry.
I know my mouth is now in her “ugly-fat-protruding mode”
I do not often take this mouth out in public,
But the white zin has convinced me I do not care.
I do not know these people, nor do I want to know them.
A gaggle of gabbing women two tables down are laughing now.
Someone has recently left this earth-plane. They are
celebrating tonight to honor her memory. By the time
my friend arrives, I have used up all three of the dinky
napkins, writing words willy, nilly and yon.
None make sense.
Care I?
No.
We have a lovely time, out-cackling and out-laughing
the grieving table, my friend and I. She has a liquor drink
too so she is insanely silly.
Some old geezer wanders over and says he is sitting down.
We hold firm and he falls off the seat onto the floor.
Oops. Maybe I was the one who held firm.
We promptly leave. Hug goodbye. No kissing.
I let her pull out first. She can barely see. She has
hit lots of cars. I wait for a bit.
White Zin and I are not the friends we once were.
I throw up promptly when I arrive home.
Second or third reminder to me that I should not drink alcohol.
They hung stiff up on the tree
as if they were in the air and free.
Covered in an icy coating reflecting from the snow
that set that color deep, dark red and bold.
Tiny apples cast against the naked branch
clinging tight holding squirrel and bird entranced.
A little warmer and they can still ripen
colored fruit of a small crab apple titan.
It bloomed in spring with pinkish tipped flowers
and summer awakened it's fruiting powers.
Now, they hang suspended
frozen solid new winter not near ended.
Cast against the sea of white clear ice
promise of Christmas all sugared with spice.
Cleanse the earth, cover well the un-laid seed
rouse the hope of ending want and need.
Let the season sweep boldly in
and mankind rise up to display the truth of him.
Like fruit frozen in time and place upon a tree
we should never be too proud to bend our knee
Ask God for guidance, truth, love and peace
thank him for conscience making only promises you can keep.
A tiny apple on the branch survives
still tempting us for the prize
living and loving well
breaks that final spell.
Born with the skin I'm in
likely for all my life,
the color, some describe to be
a shade of pasty white.
Those sunshine rays
are no friend to me,
I seek the shade as shelter,
and safety beneath the trees.
I've suffered the pain of many burns,
some as close to third degree,
my skin tone is so white,
it at times distresses me.
Never will I get a tan,
my skin is melanin free,
a pinkish hue for color,
is as close as I'll ever be.
No time is spent at beaches
or drifting with the tides,
the shore provides no places,
for a guy like me to hide.
If it seems like I'm complaining,
perhaps, that could be true.
My whiteness curse or privilege
well.....
I'll leave that up to you.
The sea of boundless Oneness
Cognised by ascending consciousness
Transitioning to pure awareness
We are as such in stark aloneness
Within deep meditational stillness
Our form blending with our formlessness
The beginning is non thought presence
In humble innocence
With no memory linked remembrance
Our innate magnetisation
Divine harmonious vibration
Is our intuitive orientation
The third eye active
Funnels energy to the crown receptive
Dispersing the flow into space enigmatic
Our consciousness pauses momentarily
Has to choicelessly choose here voluntarily
To dissolve in the stream unhesitatingly
A soft pinkish white light does shine
From a multi-petaled lotus divine
Partly shielded by violet clouds as a sign
We are then in the sea of formless oneness
Vibrant, aglow, complete be-ness
Consciousness is now pure indivisible awareness
We are absolute awareness all encompassing
Within & without form, linear time vanishing
Separateness dissolved, singularity resonating
We are here in the ocean of bliss
Where nothing is amiss
We know that WE ARE IT & IT IS THIS
By choiceless choice we descend into matter gross
All nodes, chakras within in a dance synchronous
With pure awareness replacing delusion anomalous
05-November-2020
Flashback to 17-December-2018
One day in May, I sat nearby a stream
where a few mulberry trees were flourishing.
I rested my head against the trunk of one
where clusters of white comfrey grew nearby.
Beautiful yarrow were also scattered there,
with pinkish-purple bells; some were yellow.
I must have fallen into a dream
because I saw the stream was rippling
with fizzy sounds of bubbles.
The stream was pink champagne!
The flowers around me performed a ballet,
swaying delicately in the breeze
as the bells of the yarrow rang a dulcet tune.
I woke up all a sudden,
noticing that many leaves of my mulberry tree
were not leaves at all.
They were actually butterflies coral streaked.
I’d startled them on waking,
and a cloud of them fluttered all together
away from my tree.
Other bright butterflies joined the throng,
partaking of the nectar of the once-dancing flowers.
Although the stream no longer bubbled champagne,
the reality of mulberry trees and butterflies
was more breath-taking
than what I ever
could have dreamed.
WINTER WONDERLAND
The snowmen line the silent street at night.
Their bright smiles gleam with frozen teeth of stone.
Until the crackle of a bunny’s light —
its paws so sweetly greet the dark alone.
His fluffy fur, does mimic, soft snow sown.
His beady red eyes blink at Jack Frost’s throne.
Then dawn spurs pinkish pride upon the land.
The sun does tease a melt, but won’t deprive
the children’s vacation of all ‘tis planned.
They dash with suits and gloves and boots to drive
their old and new gay sleighs, red cheeks alive —
the snow does fly, like buzzing bees of hive.
The wild prints scar, delight, the cache of snow.
A springer gnaws the fallen carrot prize.
The skates relentlessly slide to and fro,
the cheers of fright and glee from hills arise.
At bottom rung — sure thing — a snowball flies.
As moms call each, they sigh and wave sad byes.
This Winter wonderland delights all things.
At angel’s excitement, the church bell rings.
12/26/2018
Contest: Winter Wonderland
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
Seeing a rare flamingo on our favorite beach…so far away from her home
is so special…so magnificent…so wonderful…it deserves a second poem.
When we returned the next morning to take a walk along shore
we found the flamingo in the same place we’d left her the day before.
She once again stood out because of her beautiful pinkish hue…
Just like we left her yesterday she was eating…and I thought…
is that all flamingos do?
But there is something about her eating you notice at first glance…
in order for her to find her food…the flamingo has to dance.
If you watch her closely…the way she rhythmically stomps her feet…
then moves them forwards and backward…you notice this flamingo feels the beat.
And while she’s dancing back and forth…right in the middle of her sway
she places her head under the water to enjoy her freshly churned up buffet.
She must have been quite hungry…because just like the day before
this flamingo kept on dancing and going under to eat some more.
How blessed we were to see this flamingo…
to share in the same space…
to witness not only her beauty but her elegance and grace….
And as we watched how intense she was…how proud…
how expressive…the way she rhythmically stamped her feet…
we thought how this is one of the most wondrous birds we’re ever going to meet…
We enjoyed the moment so much…we know we’ll be back for more…
for how often do we get the chance too see a flamingo
dancing the flamenco
in the water…
so close to shore.
Invisible orchid on a broken, dark shelf
Cellophane of tears in a silent loud speaker shape
Rushed steps looking for the right gift
Frustrated men not knowing how to show love
It's still alive, patterns of pinkish godly beauty
Veins of neglect succumb to delusion
A lost bird panicked, skidding on a man made shinny floor,
spreads its wings colliding with the glassy desire for freedom
It's trash day, compactor spits out dreams of gardens
Back doors reveal a weak sunshine, oh, but it's too late
The janitor mops traces of unfulfilled declaration of love
Store closes, new flowers kept in refrigerators for potential customers
Godly pinkish petals make friends with the full moon
Foggy, ghostly bouquets of Angel Breath caress the Golden Gate
Dirt and muddy tire tracks struggle up the Reality Hill
An invisible bulb rolls down the “Crookedest Street” in the world...