Long Scribbles Poems
Long Scribbles Poems. Below are the most popular long Scribbles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scribbles poems by poem length and keyword.
After planting a seed
in fallow ground
a saint,
grew a forest
of imagination
another,
advocate of devils
shoved their foot,
through the door
of unconscious delusions,
hoping reality leaked through,
to start its seep
petals of pine,
pour,to soften
realities hard road,
tarred in primrose
a daisy
birthed
to life
freed
from the matrix
soaring to
merge,in the body corporal
complete,
a substance,
that breathes in shimmer
evermore
closing the door,
to delusions masks
on the petals
of one Daisy
memoirs
of time,
trail a wake to
eternity
and one hand
scribbles,
evermore sure
Of all the colors in the world
There isn't just one that perfectly describes you,
A coloring book filled with all kinds of scribbles
and vibrant hues.
Tracing each line with the zest of reassurance.
A splash of purple and brown to highlight the horizon of your eyes.
A budding violet blooming in the wind
With specs of pink and blue between your fingers
An love affair begun with the touch of eyes.
Imagining our bodies drenched in red then double dipped in brown.
Curiously empathizing with pink hearts without the weight of heavy burden
The beauty of coloring outside the lines without hesitation.
In a kaleidoscope lost in an ocean of dark colored hair,
An mosaic colored in bright yellow, blue, green and brown.
Laid flat against white paper expanding in color, devouring each line of insecurity. An kiss over orange eye lids in a flash of white.
Bright stained eyes that sigh each moment that passes.
Tasted in the fountain of lips
Strawberry kiwi, Banana berry and rocky road
Shut flowers, soon to open; flourishing at your very thought.
Delicate with their touch
They Flicker then flash with the quiver of open lips.
Inhaling each breath that spreads against your neck
ink scratches on paper
tears smudge the words
scribbles and nibbles
for wisdom and love
meanings flow in and out
of consciousness and thought
emote passion and wonderment
a path of no return as it stands
as poets we don’t go but flow
with musings and feelings
reason and reflections
condense and prise open
the poet’s cradle weeps gently
rocks doubts and composure
envelops discards and contains
everlasting impermanent time
weeping willows inhale tears
cosmos flowers shed smiles
weeds become herb gardens
as a tomb stone beckons
in my warm grave I’ll be happy
if mourners wear orange and purple
when my epitaph becomes prologue
and I hand on the pen and a torch
when worms sift through the debris
my coffin rots and gives birth to soil
kind memories may keep me going
and proceed with my journey
26th November 2020
written for the contests 'where do we poets go'
Small gathering
Chat and booze;
Cheer mixes well
~~~~~~~~~
Public outcry
Corrupt cult;
Reduced sentence
~~~~~~~~~
Words retreat
Darkness floods;
Cicadas chatter
~~~~~~~~~
By temple facade
Glimpse mindful maze;
Karmic winds
~~~~~~~~~
Joy greets
Sorrows teary;
Compromise
~~~~~~~~~
Hot news today
Discounted appeal;
Sentences halved
~~~~~~~~~
Squirrel zigzag
Tree trunk track;
Curious tact
~~~~~~~~~
Walkway parade
Busy bodies fly past;
Workday side show
~~~~~~~~~
Lamplight glow
Evening interlude;
Bedtime story
~~~~~~~~~
Faces familiar
Evening meal here;
Gourmet finesse
~~~~~~~~~
Note book scribbles
Tentative words stretch;
Meandering take
~~~~~~~~~
Copy write
Clever glimpses;
Highlight ideas
~~~~~~~~~
Water colour sketch
Tints and hues blot;
Emergent picture
~~~~~~~~~
Prayer time
Temple bells;
Joss sticks smoke
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
08 April 2017
Singapore
Some people say he scribbles when
they see that boy draw.
But once I took a closer look;
this is what I saw.
I saw imagination in
every shape he drew.
Where loopy circles interlocked,
he had colored blue.
Stick figures walked across his page,
but at a second glance,
I noticed one or two of them
had done a little dance!
He’s very young to focus so,
and this you need to know.
Encourage him, for he might be
our very next *Van Gogh.
* Pronouncing Van Gogh's name the most common American way. I am used to it and it is easier to rhyme with something that way!
Written 11/14/2015 for Oil Paintings 1-2-3 any Poem form Contest of Eve Roper
Morning Turns the Page
Night lies softly across the beach
as delicate as a black, silken scarf
while, underneath its dark veil,
the sea is blue tissue paper
with whitened finger tips,
wrapping an early morning present.
Then night, nature’s magician,
magically removes its black disguise
allowing early morning light to reveal its gift -
an awakening beach washed by sea and sun.
A hurrying-scurrying train rushes up,
sprinting between houses,
swerving towards the beach,
as if trying to catch an elusive wave.
Next, with a deeply drawn breath,
its metal body ducks under a hump of bridge,
rattling out the other side with a whistled scream.
A giant, oak jumps back in surprise
branches fumbling, acorns tumbling
like golden coins being spent
while blades of grass ripple and flex
waving the chattering carriages on their way.
Speedily, the train scribbles its way forward
reaching for the distance where a town awaits,
where streets and cars are a working toy set;
at the seashore, waves calm themselves
throwing final cups of cappuccino froth
over coffee, coloured grains of sand.
The sea slows to a mutter, a white whisper
while the beach gradually relaxes and waits
to be toasted by a warming sun.
Later when the morning gradually
turns the page into the afternoon,
the day loses its chuckle
as the seaside scene is met with
a push of wind and a punch of a storm.
Long departed the train
continues to stretch its journey
searching scenery to entertain its passengers
while hugging the coast like a long, lost friend.
Ian Souter
We were at first hopeful in finding a logical solution.
By blazing through all the impossibilities.
So that all that are left are the improbabilities.
But as all the causes are withered away one by one…
I am forced to cycle through them again.
Each night, I fall asleep to my ideas trailing off...
Until morning, when my mind feels more scattered than ever.
We were at first hopeful in finding a logical solution.
And although there may be one out there…
For now, the only realization I have come to…
Is that having resolve is only wearing me down.
So I reluctantly put away my lists and scribbles.
And focus on patience.
And remember that even if we discover a horrible answer-
At least I will have a reason to grieve.
The old widower kept a tidy yard.
Bright flowers -snowball hedges,
a sparrow house and apple tree
gnomes chasing ceramic frogs
pinwheels spinning sunlight
round and round silver dreams.
He put a picket fence around his little Eden.
Like an artist framing a masterpiece.
It wasn't long before the graffiti ogres wormed in.
They inked a scruffy tattoo on his Mona Lisa.
Kicked in a few of her teeth.
Turned her into "The Scream".
He painted over those angry scribbles,
but they kept pace.
His glitter garden was soon overrun by hate.
The ogres stepped up the assault,
slashing another petal of his peace.
He finally caved in, taking down the remains of the fence...
One night he had a big bonfire.
One by one he fed his defaced masterpiece to the flames.
Afterwards, he didn't frolic in the yard as much.
The hedges grew wild like green afros on fire.
The breeze shunned the pinwheels
All the frogs and gnomes fled.
The birdbath cracked and bled dry.
Not long after, the old widower died.
For "sails" drifted about his rotting apple yard.
The ogres moved on to the next Eden,
the one right next to mine.
The doctor's office smelled of saline
And the lingering worries of diagnosis
"You sure she isn't just a bit shy?"
"Nope, your daughter's got autism."
Words hit my dear mother like a racecar
Her eyes of cloudy blue filled with tears
Would her creation ever succeed?
Or shrivel down to the ankles of society?
They watched as wooden blocks slipped
From my glistening fingertips
Scribbles of red ink glided over papers
And frowns painted faces with gloom
As maturity dawned upon me
Plenty became enlightened
They watched as 'brainy bambina'
Sailed her way to the aisle of books
"She reads so far above her age!"
Teachers would shout with glee
Their eyes lit up like lavender candles
With a smile worth more than gold
If I could write neurodivergence a letter
I'd thank it for its contributions
Without its wit and knack for uniqueness
Poor old me would be just another societal slave
My time on Earth has been rocky and steep
Yet I found my male mirror image
We live like swans sharing a brook
Joined by our love to escape the box's clutch
My sovereignty scares the majority
They cry Munchausen, then flee
Don't they realize we share a podium
On the competition we call typical life?
It no longer bothers me
What others are too blinded to see.
*Note: This was made on July 2nd. I honestly forgot I wrote it. It was mostly written in incoherent scribbles. AND NOW IT'S A MASTERPIECE. Just kidding. It's....uh... a fickle drizzle of thought let's just say. ;)
---------------
Ideas...ideas....
Trying to find a certain balance of genius
Within this tired dollop of foolishness...
Craving excitement....messy...indulgent words...
I never knew the difficulty would rise so substantially under such little pressure
You don't see me, do you..?
I'm not so good at these damn writes, about you...
When I look out of the window of a car,
Sometimes I get lost in myself
I feel so pensive...often, very sad...
Like I'm in a movie, and I am missing someone, or something
Almost as if I am lost in the death of a loved one
But it's not usually someone in particular
Other times it is...
I think about his side of earth...
Yeah, him...
It gets crazy in my head from there..
I guess I harbor bitter toward people that will never feel the same way
Though I harbor bitterness from seemingly nowhere sometimes
My thoughts often go back to the majority of people
And how fickle we are
It's a little bit depressing but,
More annoying I suppose
I am strange...
There could be opportunities that I don't even see
I guess you can call it blindness
I don't know...I guess the first step of getting rid of the blindness
Is acknowledging the fact that you are blind...
Sometimes the darkness of not knowing is rather comforting...
Maybe I'm just writing from my ass, but who cares?
Laughter...I've done a lot of that lately
I guess it's difficult to get back to that groove, at least for me
I'm so emotional, it hurts
I sometimes wish I was more grounded...more realistic
I never ask for normality
Because I don't think that there's anybody who knows exactly what that means
Whatever though; that's not really significant, is it?
What is important though?
I'm not sure anymore
Maybe I do know; I just don't acknowledge it enough
I am better than that, aren't I?
I'm just so lost in myself..
I know I am better than this...
But who cares about me?
Shut up already!
Gain some perspective for once!
The bottom line is, I need to learn to love myself
Otherwise, I'll become the fickle one.