Long Sketchbook Poems
Long Sketchbook Poems. Below are the most popular long Sketchbook by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sketchbook poems by poem length and keyword.
Cats are containers of
colorful personality.
A blue cat sits alone
looking at the floor before him.
His mind blank as,
a new sketchbook;
waiting for the artist within to,
paint him into a clown.
Red cats rage against life’s storms
and invaders in their yard.
Birds, squirrels and mice fear
the wrath of a red cat;
sharp teeth and claws are swift when,
propelled by a red paw.
Yellow cats have a tendency
to leave surprise gastric gifts
on your carpet, as much as possible;
always apologizing with their pale,
jaundiced eyes.
The green cat personality is rare.
You’ll find them holding it all in
until they get to that litter box.
Green behavior warrants a private box,
along with a nice treat.
Green cats, can’t stand a stench
and will scratch litter for hours
to slay a screaming smell.
The purple cats
see every opportunity for affection
and milk it.
Love emanates from their bones
and cuddling is what they do best.
When purple cats offer a hug,
you cannot resist.
Beware the polka-dotted cat!
A love bite will quickly become
piercing claws;
shredding an arm in seconds.
Pink cats are Coveted cats.
Children love pink cats
and carry them everywhere.
Their serene and constant purring
sings you to sleep, ever so gently.
A pink cats love is never-ending.
The rainbow personality,
is the comedian of all cats.
Light to dark and red to yellow;
the court jester of the species.
these side-splitting, laugh factories,
will never allow you to be bored.
Keep a camera handy;
rainbow cats are usually,
fabulous video celebrities
A sketchbook from back then
was stained with abstract colors
like our ten fingers
why didn't we arrange bright colors back then?
black, blue, and white
mixed together without a basis
I remember very well
how the pattern was ultimately
ruined by the darkness
while you labored
on your own sketch
and I only knew a little about that fetish
We grew like shoots
far away from the colors back then
like a line that had been etched
sometimes we disappeared
I still live with bangs on my forehead
exactly the same as back then
and you still like classic cars?
maybe we've only gone a few steps
Count 20, open eyes
ahh, that's just a coincidence
I still scold Wednesday
but you look good
with those stripes
Sometimes you give in
waiting for me to run awkwardly across
you strummed that music
making me confused
guessing your dream last night
but you were far more confused
because you didn't say anything
Do you still remember
the flaw in my eye?
While I was still writing poetry
I seemed to be starting to forget the calm
shape of your Adam's apple
when you drew black lines on our sketch.
PUBLICATION
In this digital age
Our
thoughts
bonded
together,
though ever apart
TWITTER
quick thoughts
cut short
POETRY SOUP
will test
the best
Pleasant people inhabit
this PS workshop of varied verse,
posting posies of many kind-
comments & opinions abound
in blogs ,of the world around-
sponsored contests in galore
brings creativity to the fore
my short poems on twitter
art ekphrasis on Flickr-
and blogs in this soup
other efforts in Sketchbook
so come now, take a quick look-
and keep in the loop
I think
so I paint,
I imagine and pen-
mix digitally together
as one
As a haiga
Here with fond wit
Opt cheer to fit
Move joy's fine bits
Etch a true style
Apt that grand smile
Thrill sparks worthwhile
Make time for space
Ink words of grace
Dream syncs this place
Treat works that tell
Old touch greets spell
Wise worth glimpse well
Now and here note
Peace brings warm tote
Ends meet brisk vote
Near and far see
Taste what will be
Heart knows mind's spree
One by one sense
Urge grows sure tense
Spruce up suspense
Easy feel knows
Mind reads deep flow
Yields thus may show
Signs flavour nice
Keep fragrant spice
Embrace good vice
Taste that pure dream
Choice and poise stream
Heart knows sure cream
Boom here fond grace
Oil in smooth trace
Old and new face
Keep lavish store
Ink words plus more
Dance from stern core
Embrace fond gist
Apt that short list
Sure feel persist
Note here and now
Opt love's endow
Work why and how
Leon Enriquez
01 June 2019
Singapore
I want a van southbound to Mexico
With paints in my big art bag!
Sun on my forehead, the future in my eyes!
There's paint on my shoes and the sky so blue!
I'm a country gal, dirt poor,
But dirt rich with clay to make sculptures.
To throw a pot of clay
And sculpt brighter days!
Mushrooms in my sketchbook,
The drawn ones!
Orange in the clay, a big cowgirl hat with cross stitch!
You hand me a brush, and I
Put it in my cowgirl boots.
And I remember to smile,
But I also laugh loudly.
Show me the colors; I'm leaving Texas for Mexico!
Show me the flow to Mexico.
Take me where the wildflowers grow.
Beautiful colors glow and lines flow!
Paint me in the pumpkin patch!
Let's hide in the pumpkin patch!
Mexico, I'm calling you back.
Crossing the wall!
I'm gonna be crossing the wall,
Standing tall; life there's enthralling.
What do you think?
Aren't the flowers beautiful there?
Let's work with clay
And enjoy bright days
With other senior Americans in Mexico!
Teach me art with open hands
And tie dye for my white tee.
Paint me in the pumpkin patch!
Oh, paint me, paint me there.
I want to mix red clay
With a little sky blue,
To laugh in the market,
While the sun burns brightly!
Gourd leaves are under my fingers.
Ink's on my thumb.
I'm learning old multicultural stories,
One by one, inspired by thr orange sun!
Show me the colors.
Show me the flow.
Take me where the wild things
Know how to grow.
Teach me art with open hands,
And to put tie dye on my white tee.
Paint me in the pumpkin patch!
Oh, paint me; paint me well,
And make me free!
Liberate me!
By George P. Lumayag
https://georgelumayag.weebly.com/
Users learn English grammar when ICT is used.
Microsoft Word can check the misspelled words,
It even reminds the users' choppy words,
Google Doc can detect the wrong structure of words,
And Grammarly.com can recommend suitable words.
Writer's original composition can be justified when Turnitin is used.
They can not publish their journals if such papers violate the rule.
The online creation tools offer young minds become prolific writers,
SketchBook provides creative students to become digital editorial cartoonists,
Photoshop enhances student-users to become digital pic lovers,
And Weebly.com offers them to become online digital layout artists.
Learners can improve their speech when Youtube.com is accessed.
Learners can enunciate English accent through parroting the Youtube channel,
They can learn tenses of verbs on Youtube Language tutorials,
Therefore, they can learn English on Youtube.com
Artificial Intelligence can be the English teacher,
So, ICT is very much related to English teaching.
Just thirteen and already hiding,
capped off like an old oil well,
ears clamped shut
with a musical flair of pink in a bush
of unkempt hair.
Thirteen and all balled up
like a tribble in a Star-Trek bin
rounded shoulders, head down tucked
nope, not, never
getting into her skin.
Already hiding behind the glass
of frames too big for her head,
legs crossed, sketchbook open
drawing the visions inside her instead.
Capped teeth with braces
if she only knew
[though she seemed to guess, I’m sure]
lots of strut was needed, swagger, panache
all of which
she abhorred.
Off she’s gone behind lashes of woe
brought on by who knows what, or who?
Like an old oil well, she sits and waits
that is unless she blows?
Ears clamped shut blaring bloody what,
who knew?
Not pretty in pink, not petite, or polite
do you know her I do.
I can hear the water,
a giggle almost,
in the small cold spring
by which I sat
that foggy morning,
sketchbook, pen, and watercolors in hand.
A weed with a single white flower
grew from the innards
of a half submerged,
humus-bound log
alive with neon-green moss.
A brilliant web
spun by a tiny jewel-orange spider
laced the flower to the log.
I dipped my brush in the spring water,
washed it around in the appropriate colors,
painted the scene as best I could,
never coming close to capturing
the brilliance of flower, moss and spider.
Only approximations of nature are possible.
The sun has been looking for me all day,
But I've chosen to hide under mismatched pajamas and layers of irritation.
I don't know what I'm angry about, I just am.
I wake up at 7:24, glare at the world, and dive back under my pillows.
My dog snuggles next to my hip.
At 9:12 I get up, bathroom, and patter into the kitchen.
I hold the refrigerator door open a long time, settling on biscuits and gravy.
They are delicious, but I focus instead on the sausage with freezer burn.
Crap! Does nothing go right around here?
I am in a bad mood; I am grouchy, and horribly mean to my husband
The dog and I hit the bed again with big plops.
At 11:21 my eyes pop open. My mind gingerly follows, wondering what mood we're in.
I trot into the kitchen, eat two chocolate candies. I am ready to do something.
Word games and crime shows have depressed me lately; they are usually my go-tos.
Am I in the painting mood? I took the day off for a reason, right?
I look at what I'm wearing. Paint cannot hurt my outfit, so I wander into my art studio.
I am always in the midst of three paintings. Today is no different. The first six brushes
I pick up are awful. I throw them into my paint water. I should have ordered new ones,
but I forgot.
Mood is waiting, eagerly, ready, hoping....are we mad? Can we stomp and yell?
I glare at mood. Who is in control here? The dog runs off, after something. I hear her barking.
I smile. Trot into my office. Try to start the computer.
It has not been started for nine months, updates keep her busy all day; sure, the week I re-discovered my words. I take a sketchbook and plop down on the couch. The sun is all over me from three giant windows. I feel warm, happy, loved. Thank god for the Sun.
I hear the door open.
It is my chance.
I run up from the basement to
see my darling offspring who used to
love me, sneak out of her room.
She looks up from her cereal.
Is that a growl?
I smile. “Hi!” I say brightly.
She looks back down, glaring now.
The crunching stops.
I take a glimmer of a sliver of a glance at her sketchbook.
surprised. I did not know she was helping herself with
her feelings. I feel heartened. “Can I see that?”
She does not move, does not make a sound.
She grunts.
I look down harder. Perfect likeness of me.
My head has been half-way chopped off.
My mouth is distorted, she is screaming.
There is a lot of blood.
An axe with a pool of it at my feet.
Although this is done only in black black pencil,
I know it feels like blood.
Can I see another one? I ask.
Silence.
You are so talented! I tell her.
You don’t get that from me.
I only draw cartoons.
I am no good at all compared to this.
Your drawing is WONDERFUL!
But she angrily whaps the notebook,
Turning rapidly to the next page.
She and her friends are laughing.
Big loud laughs, wide open wide.
Hahahahaha is written all over the page
In every corner.
She has nailed herself, and them.
I know each one of them.
Tiny image in background
Is the perfect image of me,
Just my head though,
No body or anything.
I see the blood dripping and pooling.
My head on a pike this time.
Just my head.
Perfectly drawn. I recognize myself
Instantly. Wow! I say, “This is TERRIFIC!”
You are so GOOD!
I remember what it was like to be 13.
She is 13 and a half.
Her biggest job is learning to hate her mother.
Push me away, baby.
You have to.
It is the natural way, so you can fully
Turn into a woman. Someday you will come running back,
But not today.
You need to do this now,
So you are able to leave home.
I am sorry about all the things your
Body and your hormones and your
Feelings have to go through to get
There, but this is a start.
I love you, I tell her.
This is wonderful!
Keep this forever.
When you have your own 13-year-old daughter
You are going to really need this!
She stomps off mad, just like she is supposed to.