Sharpie Poems

Endless Possibilities For Poem Ideas

Endless possibilities expand my dendrites, kicking up hopes.
Lasagna boat floats, Play Dough Dragon, Speedy envelopes
Wherever I turn I see another idea, which might be grand.
A pink penguin army shying away from a Mariachi band.

Orange stuffed chair just got mad and stomped out in a huff.
Formica table was laughing so hard, she tripped, sure enough.
Mud puddle mama is making her tree’s lipstick shine.
Other ideas are parading around; and they are all mine.

A blue and green necklace escaped from my treasure box.
They landed down river across from the home of a fox.
A crow got to it first and fell in love with its glitz.
What is happening to the sky? Is this another eclipse?

Things are happening so fast, I can barely keep up.
Trixie my muse is straddling a huge silver loving cup.
I ask her to explain and she gives me a look so very sly.
I dare not ask her anything else, yet not knowing why.

Coffee cup is in love with the Sharpie, but she is totally prissy.
She will not hold his handle or give him a wink or a kissy.
There is a blue mask that found his way downstream on his own.
These are just a few hundred ideas for tomorrow’s silliest poem.

The Vanity Wall

With a flick of all eight carpi
Our POTUS dismissed an harpy
Trump's Vanity Wall
Shall attest to all:
Donald Trump is NOT a Sharpie!

I Didn'T Do It - Sharpie Gate In Trump's Own Words

Not I, not me, uh uh, not true,
I own no Sharpies in black nor blue,
I’m sure I’m right, the chart was clear,
Dorian’s path to Alabama’s near.

The media cries I made it up,
I drew the lines right on the map;
How dare they say such lies so mean,
My words are gold, my conscience clean.

These folks do whine, they rant and rave,
To score some points they sorely crave,
Yet all they do time and again,
So well reminds of a cackling hen.

If there’s an expert that’s so me,
No-one quite sees the things I see,
Wind direction that’s my hat,
Great golfers know precisely that.

And if the storm went up the coast,
That too should earn me one loud toast,
I channeled prayers from all around,
To have it miss that Rebel ground.

The South’s my turf, I like those folks,
A land of dreamers full of hopes,
I have their vote, undying love,
Hence why I gave this thing a shove.

Towards New York, that den of thieves,
Spreading untruths like falling leaves,
Let them delight in Natures wrath,
Rewarding me with one great laugh.

Echidna and Platypus Besties

The echidna and the platypus were friends.
They both had a teeny tiny secret, one and the other.
The sweet platypus had venom on his ends.
He was told to keep this hidden by his mother.

The short-nosed echidna could lay eggs as well as a wren.
She was told to keep this under wraps, by her brother.
Their love for eating worms and insects made them friends.
That was something they could talk about with each other.

Echidna’s spikes were dangerous on the ends.
Most certainly out in the open, not hidden from platypus.
Platypus’s five sharpie claws helped make them friends.
He could dig insects up for his mate, Echidna, without fuss.

The platypus’s venom reveal might have meant no friendship,
He retained this secret; he kept it under lock and key.
Echidna’s secret would have given them another reason for kinship,
If she had discovered that Platypus can lay eggs like me.

Sharp Sharper Sharpest Sharpshooter

Sharp.
Cutting. Ouch!
Sharp writing, revered.
Sharpshooter. Wow!
Sharp-sighted. Flight cleared.
Sharp-tailed grouse.
Sharp-eyed mouse.
Sharp-witted, admired.
Sharp-tongue makes me tired.
Sharp-cut, defined.
Sharpish,
Sharpie
Sharp!

People Evolve

People, we are, and people evolve
Yet another mystery, overdue to be solved
If our views are predestined to, one day, change
Then proving our point, well it seems rather vain

I like to keep things, under my thumb
A predictable existence, nice and numb
I struggle to vouch for my current convictions
Knowing one day, I’ll coherently ditch them

If you don’t stand for something, for anything, you’ll fall
Tattooed by a sharpie in the handicap stall
 and elsewhere, too, this quote, I’ve saw
But, people, we are, and people evolve

The Deep-Down Dark

I draw my smiles with Sharpie
And avoid hand sanitizer. 
Its bitter taste-
Cleansing-
Healing-
Burns the facade I’ve built.
I’ve painted my confidence
Across the boarded windows of my body.
I wear my sensuality
Like the makeup smeared on my cheeks:
As armor.
The sun’s shadow masks my flaws
But as you turn out the lights
You find them all again
With the sweep of your fingertips.
12/6/17

A Heart Ticks In Here

You find old poems in the attic
in a box with the Remington Rand
you wrote them on in the Sixties
before computers were born.

They were published then in little
magazines like Bitterroot, the one 
put out by Menke Katz, who loved 
poetry by anyone from anywhere 
who gave everything to write it.

What to do now with these poems
still breathing on paper but 
scarred by erasures, smudges
and yellowed by time. 

You could send them out 
to a website where they might 
appear until the site disappears 
for reasons that take over 
the editor's life.

Or you could put them back in 
the box with the Remington Rand
and use a Sharpie to write
a note on the box that says
"Don’t throw this box out. 
A heart ticks in here.”


Donal Mahoney

Burnt Toast

At some point you are going to need to impress more than a few friends with some burnt toast. I used to have an old, heavy-gauge chrome-plated toaster with a dial to adjust doneness from 1-5. I took a Sharpie and scribed a 6 at the extreme. The pointer doesn’t actually go there, but it is useful for indicating my intent. It works better than the 5 setting which merely chars the surface. But 6 chars it darn near all the way through, enlarging the pore structure to retain even more melted butter. You gotta be cautious not to overuse that feature because it’ll burn the toaster, as in overheating the thermostat and melting the whispy wires. No more toast for you. Back at the store they were quick to figure out your attempt to exceed the capacity and the clearly worded statement in the ownership contract will be pointed out to you, that glamorous document with the curly-Q decorations making it supremely authentic like a stock certificate from the 1960’s. They replaced my toaster once, but the second and third times I only got a stern look of reproach. The manufacturer has black listed me through my credit card so now all my toaster purchases are cash only.

Pale Blue Sharpie

the pale blue sharpie
lies open upon the floor ...
blue tongued chihuahua

Unmatched

With lots of socks that look alike,
It’s hard to make a pair.
To try to find the perfect match,
You need some time to spare.

My husband solved the problem, though,
His gym socks the intention,
Which proves that yes, necessity’s
The mother of invention.

On every sock, he made a mark – 
First A, then B, then C;
The mate received a matching letter,
Alphabetically.

A Sharpie was his tool of choice
To keep the letters bright
In contrast to his many socks
In varied shades of white.

So from the dryer, out they pour,
Each waiting for its mate,
Which now is found so easily,
No question or debate.

It’s quite a shrewd solution
Though I think it’s also plain
That a plan like this would never come
From any woman’s brain!

Dry-Erase Seizure

expositions, preminitions
dry-erasers falling from the sky.

but I've got a chalkboard for a 
raincoat and a half dozen reasons
to change my expression.

synthetic saliva in some neon colored 
sharpie highlighters.

misplaced emphasis in shades of
 bright yellow..

 verbs and pronouns ask all the questions, 
 to vulgar to be put into print..


once an epileptic discourse unraveled and convulsed 
beautifully off of my tongue.

sitting in the corner shaking violently 
at the wrist. slumping at a computer 
writing poetry with a pocket full of 
felt tipped markers.

watching the clock turn slowly
at night shift in a breakroom.

stealing away to heaven in a fit 
under the hum of some ballis
lights.

The Butterfly Project

You see them, 
Butterflies all along my arm. 
You do not know why they're there, 
You just get angry because I've marked myself. 
Dearest Mother, 
Do not yell. 
For the butterflies hide something much worse. 
I could have chosen not to take the Sharpie to my skin, 
But had I done that, 
I would have taken a razor to my skin. 
The delicate pale skin was decorated years ago, 
It is no longer a big deal to me. 
You did not know then, 
You would not know now.

In a Tipsy Frame of Mind

   "in a tipsy frame of mind"



my pen point was swirling and twirling to be
on a romantic adventure so fun and fancy free
with a tipsy turn here and with savoir faire' there
escaping to the Poetry Palace swimming for a "pen-mate" mare.

lo! and behold! being drunk with emotion
my pen jumped a dive in word-infested ocean
it rolled and it stretched; back strokes, as it fetched
on it's clip, hung by hook, the word "love" was etched.

my pen was so excited as another invited
in a drunken stupor, would love be unrequited?
as the black and gold form grew all toasty and warm
came face to face as a SHARPIE did swarm.

the moral is simple:  when the love bug soon soars
beware! of the SHARPIE whose inks bolder than yours!


*For Joann Grisetti's Drunken Pen 2 ...

The Cardboard Man

Do you know the cardboard man?
The one who is filled with joy?
He was walking along the street
The other day, acting very coy.
His head is made of a square box,
Smiling from corner to corner,
His face drawn on with sharpie,
Always watching Time Warner.

• Short Sharpie Poems
• Famous Sharpie Poems
• Best Sharpie Poems
• Read Sharpie Poems
• Long Sharpie Poems
• Sharpie Quotes