Short Anemic Poems
Short Anemic Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Anemic by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Anemic by length and keyword.
Bonuses
Incentives
Medical
Dental
Movement
Advancement
Stressed
Depressed
Longing
Wanting
Impatient
Distant
Anemic
Homesick
Tired
Uninspired
Medics once diagnosed girls
who'd pick at their food as anemic
Advances in medicine conclusively show
that all along they were anorexic-bulimic
There once was a poet from London,
Whose verses often veered t’word a pun,
He suffered the asthma,
Had anemic plasma,
So paper and ink summed up his fun
I saw a lie cross a path
it was anemic and weak
as it made its way
craving a soul that only knows
a life in fear and pain
it did not have far to go...
//-//
The cold sun’s anemic arc,
skirts the day with crystal frill.
Prancing just above the pines,
sun dogs wag their tails.
14 Jan 2022
ANEMIC LIE
I SAW a lie cross a path
it was anemic and weak
as it made its way
craving a soul that only knows
a life of fear and pain
-- it did not have far to go.
:: ~~ ::
TIPS FOR TALES
There is an old lady from Limerick,
Says with brittle bones, she can do hot tricks.
She bounces and flips,
Collecting big tips
And she’d have you believe she’s anemic.
4/21/2018
So much to say
But, the glimpse of light
Took my seat
Left me in awe
Of his big gentle smile
Passing on anemic, passing in strength
Stagnancy retired
The eagle fly freely and back hunting again
Long live Dominion
One droplet
following another
on windowpane
crying
anemic light
ushering in
fall’s open door
to wonder
vermillion of swords
in triumph
splendor of life
in cycle
morsels on pits
to winter on
mind’s teeth
at the classroom
banquet.
He left me - alone .. so ..very .. alone
and it is such a quiet, shadowed place to be
Seems all he didn't take were the aches we made
I'm loose in time again, free to joy seek again ...
but so frozen inside anemic days am I ~~
only despair declares my way
Atmospheric grayscale mirrors my mood
where rainbow pastels are loath to intrude,
monochrome perverse looms ‘cross universe -
black powder train, mind is gun barrel gray
cold dispassionate muzzle of dismay.
My happiness; my death will reimburse -
lifeblood bleeds an anemic attitude.
Susan Ashley
November 17, 2018
hospital's antiseptic ambiance,
temple of impeccable hygiene,
the oracle, the doctor, still not in;
the wallclock looks bored, tired of ticking,
drags time at an arthritic pace,
anemic hands round its palsied face;
white coterie thrums down the hallway,
doc's rounds complete, all waiting in place
for his diagnostic curse or grace.
How happy I have been again and again,
While God allows wheels of my life to spin;
While I smile,
My natural style;
Made me happiest of all women and men.
Jim Horn
Knowledge my each poem may contain;
Read them and will have much to gain;
For you meant,
So I sent;
In my heart forever they shall remain.
Jim Horn
Pain is prolific;
Atlantic to Pacific;
Are all anemic.
Sunday did not pan out,
an iron faith faltered.
It was a wane wobble.
it was cellular rust,
it was not enough iron.
Iron pills rattle in me like BB pellets,
my stools are obsidian artifacts.
More red wine, less whine.
The day got no better,
anemic confusions swirled.
I sucked upon nuts and bolts,
listened to Metallica,
had to iron-out yet more
non-ferrous unpleasantness.
Cinnabar remittance ailerons squall federal cobblestones. Lank alpine squint modest. Nectarine grimace, cloys toothsome.
Coiffure chain rod composure anemic, primogeniture Swedish cotton murk optics
Rodeo riding maiden broadcaster network metaverse falconry. Boreal voyages legalese.
Simper treacle blanched anecdotally. Goofy balm, beardless tease, healthy as a horse, real bee knees.
Restless Heart.
Moonless night is peace
Full moon and my poor heart aches
For the impossible
Let it be said with swiftness
I’m incurable romantic
When the moon hides
Behind clouds of indifference
Her absence hurts
But I will deny utterly
That I care about romance.
What I hate to see
Is an anemic moon at noon
Tells me off failures
I should have said I love you
But in a bar a girl smiled.
hospital, with its antiseptic ambiance,
our top temple of impeccable hygiene,
its priest-oracle, the doctor,
not yet in.
weary wallclock looks bored, tired of ticking,
pulls and drags time at an arthritic pace
with anemic hands around its
palsied face.
at last, white coterie thrums down the hallway,
doc's rounds complete, everyone must wait in place
for his crucial diagnostic curse
or praise!
You raised your voice, you lifted your hand
Because I dared to expect respect
You beat me, you tore me, you cut me, you hurt me-
And now, while I still wear your wounds, and carry your cruelty
You bring me an anemic "I'm sorry," like a wilted bouquet
Like now everything's OK
And I should just forget all that "stuff"
But-
You beat me, you tore me, you cut me, you hurt me
So, No - Words aren't enough
Not even poetry.
(Glorified Pear Honey)
The lowly pear,
no zip, no burn.
Major juice, anemic flavor.
Add orange and lemon for bite.
Grind all to blend.
Add sugar for sweetness,
cook, covered, in 200 degree oven,
eight or more hours,
as you sleep.
Upon awakening,
add maraschino for color,
seal in sterilized jars,
store in pantry.
Pear Honey
on morning toast,
grants a baklava morning,
without the fat.
cfa© 10/4/2014
There was a chef named Luke,
All of his entrees were nuked.
In every dinner he planned,
All of his food was canned,
And most of his patrons puked.
Now many patrons inquired,
Why this chef was never fired,
But his boss was anemic,
and very bulimic,
Which is why Luke was hired.
This Diner's reputation lags,
But the owner always brags,
That his dining auditorium,
is a modern vomitorium
With no need for doggie bags.
More vacuous verse to the void:
abysmal, of meaning devoid.
A reflexive spasm
sends more to the chasm
where anemic arts are destroyed.
Escaping, strange thoughts from my head
go written but largely unread.
Another deposit
to add to the closet
of words that are better unsaid.
So, in the crevasse this now lurks
with woefully wonderless works:
discursive digressions
regarding obsessions
with muses and quixotic quirks.
When my father died
I had one eye left
To see the world.
I only found shells and no pearl.
You broke my heart
And I tried
To ignore the splinters
Of light
Bleeding blood anemic
Like rainbow shivering
Each time I cried.
The other eye
Looked at me so much
It never looked out for me
I was starved of touch
Walking in the arows' path.
I forgave it
And rose with wingless spirit.
Errors are not of the head
They are of the heart.
I left a week later, and I saw the old house;
An enfeebled decrepit domicile,
As quiet as a mouse.
The tall oak hung,
Anemic and fray,
The leaves that it held were withered and grey.
On a branch a rope hung,
Where I would swing when I was young,
A happy place, full of memory,
Was now a saddened place, of saddened imagery.
And the thought of never seeing James again,
Brought me tears, despair and pain.
But the saddest thing of all;
Was knowing it would happen again.
Pedaling along river drive
empty plastic grocery bags
fluttered and flapped from tree branches
like lost battle surrender flags
that line the drought-stricken river.
Their interspersed clings reminded
me of inundated levels
this now anemic river reached;
where once the floodwaters surged south
along its journey to the sea
its now imperceptive flow
struggles, its intimate's exposed:
river-bottom, water-worn rocks
sit like petrified bowler hats.
There'll be no rain the forecast said
til January's wounded pride
erupts upon the bloomless beds
and weeps a pewter morning tide.
There'll be no rain for many weeks,
just plenitudes of overcast
that burn away as daylight peaks,
when noon's anemic sun is cast.
There'll be no rain, no wet respite
to irrigate depleted earth,
just flaxen grass in withered plight
that dampens all my yuletide mirth.
There'll be no rain this Christmas Day,
just arid hillsides' umber splay.