Long Stencil Poems
Long Stencil Poems. Below are the most popular long Stencil by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stencil poems by poem length and keyword.
If I were to collage next year
I’d place bronze across gold
and third over first,
stick paper upon electric,
paste glutton below thirst.
If I were to sculpt next year
I’d chisel women into boardrooms,
chip away white to reveal colour,
smooth borders, fences and walls,
curve catwalks with something fuller.
If I were to paint next year
I’d splash rainbows over churches
and shade Xs in boxes to stay,
I’d smudge pay gaps, titles and labels,
etch over surgeries, filters and Black Friday.
But if I were to sketch last year,
using invisible ink I’d draw a stage, ruined,
without watercolour I’d wax a bridge, rammed apart,
in fine liner I’d retouch a city’s cycle path, attacked,
keeping a vanishing point in sight and restart.
So if art was time, and I free to design,
I’d graffiti the White House
with handprints the paint of all races,
I’d stencil love above hate,
and erase hurtful mouths from all faces.
I loved my make up today
My yellow concealer blended mighty well
At least it didn't turn out gray
Don't forget to draw water from the well
I kissed his fist so hard today
I smiled as I touched my bleeding lip
I admired the color in the mirror
I begged the heavens for this day
His artwork has no error
At least he touched me
ME
I won't forget to draw water from the well
The green and purple looked good today
I'm thinking of having the pattern tatted
Stencil huh
My mother chased me away
I don't think she liked the tattoo idea
As long as I remain the perfect canvas
I will draw water from the well
To be. To feel.
To feel, to love,
To love. To rage,
To rage, to die
Like a good Romantic, or to sleep like this,
Ghosting about
Like a loose plastic bag
That flaps on a windy night
Under a sodium street lamp’s
Eerie all-submerging light.
O Shakespeare, pity us,
O Wilkes, O Pope,
O Voltaire, O Heine,
O Byron. O Shelley,
Shed tears for us.
We have mislaid the liberties
You fought for.
And the truths you taught us.
The Board of Standardisation
In the interests of this nation
Will suppress the imagination.
Like ranters at Hyde Park
We’re still good for a Sunday lark.
Our patrons are benign
as long as we are innocuous.
They’ll allow a little room for satire
(as long as we keep our hats on)
Just to show what sports they are.
Toothless protest’s just a cliché,
But don’t let slip a waspish quip,
Or “Sirrah, Sirrah, the whip!”
Tow the line. That’s fine.
“Douse that prophetic fire by nightfall, sir,
Or the neighbours will complain.”
A D-Notice served on the brain
deadens every joy and pan.
Cross the heart with this red pencil
And with this stencil write:
THE END OF ART.”
This responds to “Operation Raise the Colours,” where some have painted the St. George’s Cross across streets, roundabouts, and takeaway shops. Claimed as patriotism, these acts are vandalism and an attempt to erase community spaces and stirring division.
Red bleeds across zebra crossings,
slick on high street tarmac,
smearing over takeaway shutters,
stretched across roundabouts, stubborn as lead.
Rollers scrape and flake,
pigment cheap, sunlight shakes it loose,
drips into puddles,
history seeping through plaster,
like damp beneath primer that never hides the past.
The streets run red and white,
paint claimed by hands insistent on marking stone, brick, tarmac—
silence made loud in streaks and drips.
Roundabouts stand proud under fresh coats.
Slash Dulux over despair—
coverage meant to hide, but failing.
Paint bleeds over more than roadway—
onto takeaway windowpanes, pavements, shop signs—
a mural of identity, impulse, defiance.
Undercoat logic tries to cover the past,
but no sealant ever lasts.
Brushstroke patriots,
disciples of feeling,
armed with rollers like substitute rifles.
The painting’s wrap is hollow,
dressing decline as though it were destiny.
Every slogan,
a stencil sprayed on the breeze.
Pigment flakes with ease,
truth showing through the layers.
Heritage red becomes eviction scarlet,
brilliant white papered over target.
Crowns drip Crown paint onto stone,
monarchs in tester pots,
empires reduced to monochrome.
Borders cut by shaky hands,
masking tape straining against the straight line of intention.
Edges bleed in private,
lines never straight.
Revolutions run off into puddles of hate,
mirroring the sky distorted,
clouds stretched, colours torn thin.
Tins are stirred, paint slapped on the ground.
Every revolution circles round,
because property cannot be glossed,
despair cannot be mapped.
Whitewashed roundabouts cannot hide the cracks.
Paint peels, drips, bleeds into puddles,
but the fissures of history remain—
veins in stone, stories in tarmac,
layers no roller can erase.
Crowns, crosses, streaks of red and white
twirl and fall like the last dance
over streets that remember,
over walls that refuse to forget.
The cracks take the floor,
silent but insistent,
and they will not be painted over.
It sits on the pantry shelf where it's always been
The old blue bread box made of tin
with faded white letters B R E A D stencil on
for some reason of it I am fond
It no longer stores loafs or buns
It now holds things forgotten
A dish towel whose pattern was pretty and fun
A rubber glove in case we found the other one
Some rubber bands and bread ties too
and don't forget that bottle of old wood glue
The timer that doesn't time
a baby spoon I think was mine
A candlestick and yellow lighter
A recipe for holiday apple cider
Old refrigerator magnets that don't stick
An half empty jar of Vicks
That old squirt gun that always leaked
A Tootsie Roll we forever keep
Why we keep the bread box I don't know
But I am glad it's there if just to show
some things other think are useless and old
are the treasured memories of us they hold
Master piece
A masterpiece
A work of Art
Created from our fathers heart
Unique and wonderfully made
He mastered and completed
Yet some defeated
They left you out
Mastering a piece
Don't come easy
It comes with revision
Different decisions
Different outcomes
Different phases
Also different stages
Have you ever tried to perfect?
A craft ?
And all some did was laugh
Like it was funny
Have you ever tried to fit in?
And they left you out
Let me tell you children of God
Are always made to stand out
Drop dead different
Amazing
Speaking to a world
That need saving
I took a pen
Rewrote my story again
This time including sin
Because I'm not perfect
But in the end I was worth it
Yes me
I was 100%gurantee
Labeled
By a world that was unstable
I pressed play I fast forward and rewind
They say things get easier with time
I agreed
I just wanted to succeed
I was like a canvas
With no drawing
An apartment with no walling
A footstep with no falling
A manifestation with no calling
Whew I was created to be
More than a settled opportunity at the door
I was a key with the right lock
I was a go getter couldn't be stopped
I was a blessing that couldn't be blocked
I was a voice behind the pen
You see I was in it to win
Some people said win what
I said win back me
You see we are in a world
That has lost the value of living
We need to start giving
Without expecting to get anything back
We need to get back on track
And realize we were made in God's eye he mastered
Yet this world is a disaster
But we can turn it around
Be kings and queens
Wear our crowns
Keep your head up
Never put it down
You were not traced
No not a stencil
God made you from scratch
Like using paper and a pencil
Creating something perfect
Hug yourself we are all worth it
Just because we take a picture
Don't mean you captured the perfect shot
Look through the lense
What would be if we were not cleansed
We would be a wreck
But luckily God not through with us yet
I hope that this put your mind at ease
That you are the perfect masterpiece
Written by : Concetta Hardnett
01/24/2021
Along the edge of a forgotten woodland
There slithers a wave of auroral tint,
As daybreak burnishes its crimson strand
Glistening a pool of lilies an imprint:
Fertile the clay where shore rises gently--
That I reflect on youth’s laughter, aglow
The silver-blue waters ebb contently ;
While fields of thistle in new harvest blow.
Despite June’s tempest, I relish life’s grace
My eyes marking the stencil of ripped trees
A yesterday which draws me to embrace ;
The comfort of kin amidst storm’s reprise.
And rambling up the woodpath I still love
The misty tides speak of childhood tunes--
Like hums dulcet from a skyscape above
Inviting me home, night sparkling old moons.
Resubmitted 4/30/2018
Contest of Laura Loo: Any Rhyming Poem In April
Form: Quatrain
Should I start at the middle
and spiral outward?
I mean I don’t know what I’m doing,
just winging it.
I’m going to need some colorless beads
for the scarecrow eyes
of raw memories.
This is more a mandala thing,
a montage of the still evolving.
Maybe I’ll add a few straw stick figures
to represent lost causes,
a few spavined horses and windmills perhaps?
Some snippets of old photos,
fragmented keepsakes from the unkempt
and fading.
Some scrimshawed marks
of misplaced love affairs,
a few scratched runes on a wishbone.
Moving outwards there are vows
and betrayals, I’ll brand these
onto scraps of yellow legal paper.
Beyond the sadness
there is joy, amity, and more love.
How do you represent such things
perhaps with cotton candy blobs,
with invisible ink,
with a rod calibrated
for measuring kismet?
More twists and gyrations.
I should stencil in a trapdoor or two
there will always be the unexpected.
Now maybe surround the whole thing
with autumnal leaf
but I will need more straw
for soft landings
soon I am going to fall off the edge
of this crude model of self-illustration.
I don’t think I can do this,
I see endings and not beginnings,
maybe I’ll just keep a journal.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
an edit
My homies that don't know me from the outside in
And wherever home is I feel outside in
I feel inside out
Wide open and shut
I keep silent but inside me i am screaming aloud
I keep trying to learn me how to figure me out
Why do they stencil always try to figure me out
Let me sink to the bottom
Then they try to finger me out
Sometimes the world feels scaled down like a figurine house
And I'm a real boy
Or perhaps the houses chew toy
Now I know why they keep swallowing then spitting me out
Yes, I am never about
Yes I am hiding out loud
To my homies that don't know me from the inside out
Though her life span was less than a week,
The Pink Lady of Malibu was a glorious sight,
Never to be forgotten by anyone who was lucky enough to see her
The daring escapade spanned six months
Timing her final foray on the cliff to coincide with the full moon
On October 31st, 1966, seemingly overnight
there appeared on the sheer cliff wall
above the Malibu Canyon tunnel
a 60-foot-tall painting of a nude woman
gamboling freely with her black hair flowing behind her
and a fistful of yellow lilies
No one knew who had created this guerrilla artwork
but scandalized Los Angeles County officials
Fearing traffic congestion and looky-loo accidents
They had decided she couldn't stay
House paint and a giant stencil to accomplish the artwork
The paint had soaked into the porous rock
Finding it impossible to remove her
The county ended up covering the Pink Lady in beige paint