Short Brush Poems
Short Brush Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Brush by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Brush by length and keyword.
Tossing as much positivity,
into the air,
as possible,
to sugarcoat all,
the bitter negativity inside,
will leave,
a cavity.
Jen the human race is in a rush!
Still...
You remain serene
Like the heavenly masterpiece
Painted by God's glorious Brush.
God made you,
Adam with water brush,
At dusk
Then, he made
This world of
Watercolors with
Just the
Barest of brushstrokes
Abigail, without fail,
Each day brushed her ponytail,
She brushed so much
With her forceful touch,
She lost a little finger nail.
Brush strokes on paintings
Is a lot like life
Each one has a
Different meaning
Light strokes mean just wanting fun
Heavy strokes mean desire to have
Winter and spring
won’t
color
nor
summer
Only autumn colors me in brown
Brush Up
Autumn
cosmetic
facial features
cleansed anew niveous
Winter
2,3,4,6,2
2020 November 19
*Honorable Mention*
QUIN-TO your five line
~~Brian Strand
Pile of dried branches
fuel for October’s bonfires—
Haven for wildlife
Has the fire indeed left the passion of this brush….. leaving now only colored strokes smeared upon the canvas…
where once reigned hopes of calling to memory past days of glory and triumph
Kiss these lips
Crimson
Kiss these cheeks
Dimples
Kiss this neck
Blush
Maybe touch
Hush
My lower back
Butterflies
My upper thighs
Danger
Slip and slide
Water
That was pure fire
Desire
Master Artist's Brush
Painted upon sky and sea
Beauty to behold!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Placed No. 8 in Champagne Skies Contest
blue sky with white clouds
white swans in crystal blue stream
blue crocus white snow!
2nd placement
Haiku 5,7,5 PS syllable counter
Malabika Ray Choudhury sponsored
written 25/02/2021
Forget to brush; must maintain that gleam
Run to sink, grab a tube, no light stream
Such an odd taste in my mouth
Quickly I must spit it out
Oh, dear Lord, it’s Dad’s hemorrhoid cream!
(Sadly, a true story)
Each person is a painting brush
In the living room color paints are packed,
handed to each one on birth day
But what color do you choose?
What color do you want the world to be?
Is it black, white, red, blue or rainbow?
Painted With Same Brush
Both had been painted with same brush;
One was loser and the other a loony lush;
Both were being,
Not worth seeing;
With disaster had a crude crushing brush.
Jim Horn
Paint must have all dried out.
Never see faces
just the parts that remind me of her
Trying to arrange noises to hear
her voice
Her touch as soft as moonlight brush
and heart that shadows suns
Let page kiss page eternal
as words forever written
are never quite right
A full-bellied stray has been surveying the brush pile
I think she's carved out a stick hut for her litter
She'll have a ball of responsibilities very soon
Her life will thicken like storm clouds in winter
the bonfire can wait another season, or two.
Blue for the eyes that loved my calm sky,
green for the soft grass we slept on,
white for the lilies we picked,
yellow for small daises,
purple for sunsets,
red for wild lips,
pink for skin,
rose for
you.
Copyright 2014 (c ) by Andrew Crisci
I can’t draw,
but I paint
I still sin,
but a saint
I talk best
when I’m mute
All I’ve lost
in pursuit
I begin
at the middle
And end
at the start
To give back
to the silence
This thing
—we call art
(The New Room: March, 2021)
Painting a breathless kiss
Pressed against my lips
Whispering a prayer
Of elation, inspiration
Imagination in hues
Beautiful, spontaneous
Bite Size Poem #32 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
January 13, 2022
Twisting vines and bending branches
Intertwine and wrap around
Hiding lost, forgotten treasures,
Encasing all that's near the ground
Past the viridescent greenery
Creeping twigs that reach and claw,
All that exists will flee as you run
Stuck amid the brush’s maw
Blaine ran out of tissue, so did the stores
He had to “go” while he did some yard chores
His stomach grumbled
He ran and stumbled
Got up and “went” behind a bush outdoors
Alexis Y.
04-4-2020
Sea engulfs the sun
Blue sky turning purest gold
Another day done
Artists dare not be so bold
To paint the scene I behold
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Honorable Mention in Rick Parise's "Blue And Gold" Contest - March 2011
Listen to poem:
The Prairies Flush
David J Walker
The colors flowed from his own brush
The prairie flush in scented and sacred hues
The earth tones framed in the deepest blues
Of an unrelenting evening sky
Always changing
Nonchalantly rearranging
Always in the eye
of the artist
It fits in your palm
like flesh,
its firm plastic handle
the color of his skin.
Its bristles tingle
your scalp,
pass through your hair,
your tresses
like fingers of a lover.
Remember how he eased
that new word
across his lips: golden
tresses, giving you
the beauty of your hair.