Short Chalk Poems
Short Chalk Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Chalk by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Chalk by length and keyword.
The mix of colors
creates a new world
for me to live in
A painted picture
can turn into magic
and keep me safe and happy forever
to bad timing
again
as I watch you
squirm
within my flaring
presence
like a patient
wincing
at the sight of
another
needle primed to
jab.
There once lived
a girl named Chalk
she loved to walk
in the park
one day she ran in to a
piece of bark.
Aunika Alch
Age 12
Trump bragged he was smarter than Spock
And would race him around the block
But had to concede
When Spock took the lead
Because Trump was dragging white chalk.
As I turn away, no tears left to cry
We should’ve talked—I tried before goodbye
The love we laid to rest, now marked in chalk
Not all your fault, not mine—we both did our best
I keep what’s left locked deep inside
A place in me where you still hide
She's written my name in chalk
On the blackboard of her heart
Without a second thought
She could easily brush me off
With eraser in her hand
She's always making other plans
Always with some other man
Whose name is also written in chalk
On the blackboard of her heart
as the chalk snaps . . .
a flash of horrid torment
makes you wince and
cringe,
raw, searing pain throbs
with the grating of your
fingernails
scraping down, scratching
across the smooth, shiny
blackboard,
as the chalk snaps . . .!
Your voice is
Like nails on chalk board.
It makes me want to
Cut my ears out so
I no longer can hear.
Anything you say
Any more.
Your eyes pierce my soul.
Looking at me
Hating who I am.
Hating who I be become.
Judging everyone
Around you
Who isn't like you
Who don't believe in
What you believe in.
Who don't live the
Way you do
One that won’t my sandals sag
Nor my garments shrinks:
My journeys unduly drag
Nor on me impress that I ‘d soon sink!
A path that shouldn’t me repaint
As though an Art Work now faint …
And commonsense warns me, also you;
One that is like a gospel true
Not a highway but still gets through
All these, please mark with chalk
About the path to walk.
Gentle breeze, reedbeds quiver
Seed heads brush the sky
Golden straw reflects in mirror
Chalk stream slipping by
Dimple disturbs surface shimmer
Trout beneath the willow
Sips small floating black gnat dinner
Eddy's swirling shadow
Kingfisher dives down the river
Orange belly banking
Fleeting flash of turquoise glitter
Picturesque enchanting
Chalk
White powder rock.
Just 45 minutes on the clock.
Teacher is the tool.
The chalk is the writer.
Many lesions, many words.
White dust across the black board.
Erase to smudge.
Chalk re-writes discipline.
Learn as much as you can.
Let poetry begin.
Refining thoughts.
Lost time writing in cursive.
White limestone,
To a soft smoked poem
Written: October 26, 2025, for contest sponsored by Line Gauthier
***********
Crease-lined poetry conveys a liberated mind,
Your brain transforms chalk on slate into a canvas.
Reading wonderful poems may elicit vibrant imagery,
Recollection may reveal concealed and elusive secrets.
Our inspiration ignites flames with artistic doodling.
Winter fairies tunnel deep in snowbanks
pop up here and there- unleashing a prank
they're fond of black ice pie
canning fruit and fireflies
above each of their doors hangs a snowflake.
Come spring they have to be on the caution
when the skyline pocks with blackbird and hawk
if they let their shields rest
bones will line every nest
and their souls will become wee puffs of chalk.
A shudder, a tremble,
hearing a screech.
Was it that chalk again -
on that board or this wall?
We tend to hear things
at the strangest of times:
midnight, noon, three-seventeen.
But seven minutes to ten?
Hmm. That's an odd time.
It may come again tomorrow.
But what is weird is that
it will come yesterday.
Yet I knew nothing of that till today.
We have the strangest of brains.
(Aug 2022)
White chalk in the rain
I can’t stand the thought of
sitting on a street corner,
writing on the curb
with white chalk in the rain
Outlining puddles
in runoff contaminants,
bleeding into the asphalt,
following the cracks and crevices
of the last poem I wrote
in permanent ink,
when the sun danced
across her smile
and my words
brought blue skies
to the pages of
my heart’s desire
I hate chalk…..
oblivion is nothing new ~ i’ve been there once and will go back too
i awoke crying as sensations grew ~ til death rubbed out all i knew
god only knows who’s really who ~ i’m bamboozled a sign could do
blackboard equations esoteric and true ~ chalk dust for us to chew
can’t see past these monokus ~ that’s okay try this existential clue
life blindly flails on through ~ to bumble and fumble like mr magoo
By
David Kavanagh