Short Blotting Poems
Short Blotting Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Blotting by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Blotting by length and keyword.
I recall the old school desks,
Ink for fountain pens a pesk,
Ink wells with lots of blots,
Blotting paper smudged the lot,
There was ink on all our hands,
Ink monitors in history's land!
Amid silence filled
with tranquil fervor,
the Weeper stands
blotting the earth
green and yellow keen
against the echoes
of artillery and
dead men
damned to the
muddy wounds of war
There's only so much
That my eyes can see
The beauty of autumn dawn
Mostly hidden
A thick misty fog
Blotting out the view
Date written and posted: 07/14/2018
Comfort
A
mother
is a sponge
blotting tears and
fears
Sandra M. Haight
~NA~
Premiere Contest: Lanterne Frenzy
Sponsor: Ir0nic ZiNk
Judged: 10/10/2016
A
mother
is a sponge
blotting tears and
fears throughout her life
absorbing pains
and burdens
of her
kids
Sandra M. Haight
~3rd Place~
Contest: Ninette
Sponsor: Silent One
Judged: 10/13/2015
Oddly,
blue all day.
The sun dragged like blotting brush
across the apse of Sky; dawn apsis
to dusk apsis -
not leaving ink but life.
Not leaving marks but hues.
Blue blue blue blue blues.
The undying beauty, the
amaranthine found now at death of blue...
the reds. The brief bold reds. Death hue.
Life within.
Death without.
Life and death across the sky
some must live and some
must die
Broken wings and slivers
showing
Shredded hopes the
wind is blowing
Feathers flying, hear the
call
Of the Night Hawk
through it all
Terror blotting out
the stars
Talons leaving
battle scars
Life and death across the
sky some will live and some will die.
Form:
Though my eyes are lifted to the vacuum of blue skies, memories of you float gentle upon the whispering breeze, calling to memory gray skies and pain.
For though the heavens bright, dust of smoldering ash yet stain my feet in grim remind.... us no more to be..... thus blotting hope of sun’s radiant joy from my world as I remain cast in this, the season of my loss.
I dub a little bit of colour here
A little bit of sparkle there
Splashing out the fear
Brushing on the care
Colouring over the tears
Painting better years
Drawing blue skies clear
Blotting out the scares
Till a masterpiece appears
A painting so rare
My palette of hope is here
Bring your troubles and cares
We will paint away your drear
With the paint of prayer
So this is death again;
he comes around too often
of late by far!
Disturbing our positioning,
meddling with the dials,
blotting out our brightest star.
How will we find our way?
hands fumble along a wall,
looking for an exit or a light,
While behind him, shedding life
like a pair of wrinkled stockings,
she stands tall,
Her face, her smile, her eyes,
Ella in her radiance.
A life is a river, twisting slow.
Love, a sudden storm, can overflow.
Grief, a stone, held in the heart's deep hold.
Memory, a map, both new and old.
Hope, a fragile bird, taking sudden flight.
Despair, a heavy cloak, blotting out the light.
Words, the seeds we scatter on the breeze,
Some blooming bright, some lost among the trees.
Time, a patient sculptor, shaping bone.
And silence, sometimes, is the truest tone.
Obscurity's trenchant
sorrows blotting
tissue paper cuts,
tears aptly smeared
in hidden fears of
first dashed allusions,
darkly flippant metaphors
sans passionate accolades
left to gingerly decay,
grandiloquently speaking,
'Happily Ever After' is
hardly a verbose nuance
throughout a quinine
poet's collection
Love is ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
Blotting ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
Symptoms of ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ omens and nightmares -
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
In a darkened room,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ endure ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
(Blackout of Symptoms of Love by Robert Graves)
Wherever I turned
a cloud of flies in front of me
blotting out day, blocking my way
rubbing their legs, buzzing away
leaving me nothing good to say
Was there no solution
to the atmosphere’s dissolution
Seeing none, I doubled down
~ tried out my frown in a different town
Rain falling, pounding on the roof
Trapping me indoors
Blotting out the sun
Parroting my mood perfectly
I play music but no song is loud enough
To distract from the thoughts in my head,
I can still hear my inner voice
Speaking the truths I try to hide from
The music can’t end the torment I’m putting myself through
Sometimes the lyrics only highlight memories I try not to revisit
What used to be a sojourn from my life, an escape, is fueling my pain
Proper learning imputes proper senses
proper senses set up the mind
the mind is like blotting paper
blotting paper absorbs ink
ink inks on paper
paper shows words
words impact
INVOLUTION
playing peaceful music provides a
pointless painted pleasure
trapped in the why, time passes by
pointless painted pleasure
blotting vast hazy vague impressions
of painful involution
time passes by, trapped in the why
of painful of involution
preservation turning inside out
defence against invasion
trapped in the why, time passes by
defence against invasion
(FORMAT= not listed above called ZaniLa )
© Kim van Breda—7 May 2015
Form:
There is beauty in this world
That by nature is upheld
The trees and plants are green
So lush and not at all obscene
But the scars of industry
Blotting the landscape by our economies
Show we have been working so hard
In the last 5,000 years without heed or regard
For they say if we were to disappear
In two hundred years no one would know we had been here
And this world would then recover
To be the blue and green planet like no other.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Today, all is landscaped by mist.
North, South, East, and West
all are one floating sea.
The hedgerows are reefs,
a familiar tree-line
seems like a gray cliff face.
My own face
feels as if swept over
by a tidal spume.
Now a kitchen radio is turned on,
a truck blasts its air-horn, a child shouts,
and as if the sun were only now roused
to scatter ocean dreams
with a newly rinsed
and blotting wind.
Listen to poem:
Look at the clouds in the sky above
Puffy, vaporous, fluffy stuff,
Ephemeral, illusionary, ever-changing
A moving mass, reshaping before our eyes.
Billowing blotches spreading like
ink on blotting paper, soaking in,
imbibing a recall of inward reflections
that perspective can change sides,
change viewpoints in time and space
near and far, old and new,
up and down, side to side,
rocking to and fro,
for the spell of clouds lies
in their illusions,
on which we dwell.