Short Bukowski Poems
Short Bukowski Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Bukowski by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Bukowski by length and keyword.
His dirty dog kept
moving on.
Pissing on what he liked,
but never owned.
He knows they won't
like it either.
So they throw it out.
A dog, 'Bukowski' owned.
His dirty dog kept
moving on.
Pissing on what he liked,
but never owned.
He knows they don't
like it either.
So they throw it out.
A dog, 'Bukowski' owned.
Ive been reading Bukowski
And Ive read about him
About how many poems he would write
I dont write that many poems
And mine arent like his
So can I call myself a poet?
too little
too late
too forced
too late
too restrained
too late
now it's just too late
you could have been my love
but i waited
made you my regret
no one wants to be someone's regret
Woke up,
Consumed
Bukowski
Collection of poems.
9: 01 AM
Somnolent wife lies
Awakening
To my left,
Relives me her dream.
Teenage son sleeps party
In another room.
Outside it rains,
God is in the house.
I think i'm Bukowski
because i drank three beers
He thinks he's Hemingway
because he fought a poodle
She thinks she's Nina Simone
after her third piano lesson
We all kinda suck, but that's alright, i hope
C-omposition
H-as
A-pplied
R-ighteous
L-iterary
E-xpression
S-imply
B-ringing
U-niversal
K-nowledge
O-f
W-riter
S-o
K-een
I-mpressively
Topic: Birthday of poet Charles Bukowski (August 16)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
“She is mad but she is magic,
there is no lie in her fire.”
There may be
no lie in her fire,
but there is
deception in her eyes
and wrongness
in her blood.
She is the monster
that keeps me up at night
wishing to forget.
too nervous to
sit on a stool i
need fuel
sad of the rumble
outside he was
asked inside
but a shot or two
not asked but
given to
his art is part
of the bleeding
not needing to be
taken from his
glass but as a
do anything
but it
all comes
from the fuel
Form:
The Poetry Journal
Sent my first electronic rejection slip.
Enjoyed reading my work
But the inaugural issue is full and are
Unable to publish my poetry…they say.
The Editor wishes me luck.
After reading his work,
Wish him as well.
Right now,
Feeling proud
Like Bukowski.
tis' true mere mortals
toil in turmoil
since grand is the plan
laid seasons ago
for as you can see,
presented to thee
my art is five centuries old!
*inspired by Charles Bukowski
and I quote...."we are hardly ever as strong as that which we create"
i wanna vent like Bukowski
but the censors won't let me
be heard
won't let me cock my hat
and unload my gun
won't let me
be heard
i wanna howl like Ginsberg
but the censors don't like
my words
my swagger Redd Foxx like
when allowed to write
my words
i bet i could keep you up at night
if you allowed me to
be heard
BUKOWSKI
Born with eyes open to reality
Unstated thoughts brought to the forth
Knowledge of life is ever learning
Ordinary man with knowing words
Words of wisdom written to be read with ease
Should be read by teenagers everywhere
Knowing the way their minds react
In depth yet open to reality.
I grant him the genius label
Penned 04/April 2014
torn between what's good and right
silence at times is quite unbearable
time's a bomb that's unpredictable
casting its fair share of earnest fright
i stumble in the night asking what is real
my heart's no help i don't know how i feel
"I want to be with you. It's as simple and as complicated as that" - Charles Bukowski
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
With one foot over the side
of the tub and the other
stirring the luke warm water,
my big toe inches towards the
busy drain, both my sins and
accomplishments swirling
to a place I can only imagine
my fish would enjoy and I
wonder if this is the sort of
thing Bukowski meant when
he said that we should reward
ourselves with a candy-ass poem
now and again.
“For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover.”
~ Charles Bukowski
Darkness sucked at my soul
with jealousy and intense arousal.
You are mine.
Forever, in life or death.
You shine in lifelessness
as my blade
sinks silver into your skin,
accentuated by the red of my rage.
Together, in life and death.
I love you.
I started reading again
Bukowski
the lonesome, alcoholic bastard
I moved back into my parents house recently,
if only for a time.
And I started reading again
and drinking
And then more drinking
and less reading
Until I was drunk
every night
Watching TV and
feeling real loathsome
My girlfriend and I aren't talking right now,
but I am writing this
I guess one could call that progress.
Form:
Hank was a blitz-drinking honest brute.
He wrote about the grime and grit of the streets.
Drunks, alley roaches, hookers on the beat.
Emily chose to live life in a little room.
A daydreaming spinster writing dainty verse.
Across those pages were the seeds of her hurt. *
Hank, the self-professed loner, sought out company.
Emily was really the burlap and he the delicate lace.
Poetry is a mountain made of many masks.
With the truth lying just underneath.
She wrote poems that would have made Bukowski blush.
I read one once, and twice over again, the fourth time I was in love
With her best-friend, for which it was about, well, more so her friend's ... cat.
She got mad in a way that would have made Shelley gush
Out tears and run, run, run to the monster we make out of love.
Misguided, misfired, she missed my face, more so - She also had a ... cat!
She declared in a way that would have made anyone want to …
Read her poetry.