Short Crinkles Poems

Crinkles in our sheets
Are like road maps to the love
We'll make beneath them...

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She laughs,
A hollow shallow mirthless sound;
her mouth crinkles,
her forehead wrinkles,
her eyes die
as she laughs....

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She doesn't like her jowls and wattle; 
her wrinkles, crinkles and her mottle.  
She rubs in a lotion 
then applies a potion; 
if a little won't, maybe a lot'll....

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LIMITED VISION


Cats   see us  mostly as ankles
Small child is lost in a forest of knees
Grandad is mostly crinkles and wrinkles
Sometimes hard to see wood for trees...

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Disrespected youth, bug guts on a windshield
Happiness confronted with indifference
Sealed with plastic, it crinkles my tympanum
Washed aloft a cerulean sea
Blankets keep me warm, not safe...

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Saltiest of flats
Plainly addictive
Bag crinkles open
We eat them in two’s
Not a bit healthy

Tiny pieces
Casserole tops
Picnic staple
Bring a bag please

High salt taste
Greasy too
Teen delight

Crinkly
Salty

Chips...

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A pome _a heart without a home,
finding its way alone no song
singing endlessly in time
never drinking wine but sober this time
righting words in the nite and then
writing them on paper that never crinkles
sensing smiles in ladies dimples
wondering at love....

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The Night Lamp

As night stumbles in
The lamp crinkles on
And the evening rides
The light - 
Which upon
The lamp’s tenderness
And glory encapsulates
Its harmony within…

It escapes the night

17 November 2017
Pic Motifs Contest, Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
29 words...

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giggle
pop bubbles burst
tears drizzle from crinkles
run down overheated rose cheeks
spit sputtering the side wiggler's guffaw
drop rolling to the greening grass
sibling tormentors tryst
belly bubbler 
giggle 


Contest: The Sound of Emotion
Poet: D. Guzzi
Date: 6/1/12...

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Whiteflowers Poem 

A Pome for Amarylliss 

A pome _a heart without a home, 
finding its way alone no song 
singing endlessly in time 
never drinking wine but sober this time 
righting words in the nite and then 
writing them on paper that never crinkles 
sensing smiles in ladies dimples 
wondering at love. 


Copyright © 2006 charles hice...

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I cherish people that are like old books
Though their covers worn, pages gone soft at the edge
And rips and tears and coffee stains, words torn
Dried tears, crinkles from being clutched in fear,
Smudged ink from loving finger tips

I treasure old books that are like people
They are ragged because they were loved, and carried through storms,
Worth holding, worth loving
And their words precious 
And corners worth folding...

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A crinkled shore on the Upper Peninsula.
We are hunting Golden Eagles.

You find a small stone.
On the surface, a crimp and cockle
of wind and waves
has rucked an impression
of an eagle in flight.

“It's only ripple art, not even
a good depiction,
just water-wear. “
I say.

You throw it back into Lake Huron,
won’t hold my hand,
won’t even look at me,
until I admit the possibility
of divine crinkles....

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Girl wearing fruit basket glides on a blade...
Twirling and swirling in the landscape she's made.
Laughter and giggles echo from the ice,
Til she falls and her blades click twice,
And her nose crinkles and her thoughts aren't nice.
But back up she goes, onto her toes,
And irons the wrinkles from her nose.
Laughing, still at the thrill of the show.
The stars in her eyes are really the Snow.
She knows how to play...
Didn't you know?...

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A crinkled shore on the Upper Peninsula.
We are hunting Golden Eagles.
Cameras fully loaded.

You find a small stone,
on it, a crimp and cockle
of wind and waves
has rucked an impression
of an eagle in flight.

“It's only ripple art, not even
a good depiction,
just water-wear. “
I say.

You throw it back into Lake Huron,
won’t hold my hand,
won’t even look at me,
until I admit the possibility
of prophetically placed crinkles....

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Frost crinkles late blooms, a lacy white netting
invades upon a morning haze.

Fall sheds itself, undrapes heat
discarding warmth in leafy twill and tissue.

Later the sun will counterattack
the chill will melt
upon a tepid winds still gilded breath,

yet

a shade of winter is moving,
weaving itself into the mud and earth,
it is tracing a chill unseen river

and where that cooling pauses
the living must find cover
or pass away....

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On its surface a crimp and cockle
of a purling tide have rucked an impression
on a stone.
We are here to find Eagles
but the sky is too low and the wind too high.

You show the image on the stone
as if this were the very thing
we had been looking for.

I look at it squint eyed:
could be a crow

You throw the stone into Lake Huron,
won’t hold my hand
won’t speak again
until I admit to the endless possibilities
of crinkles, tides and wind
to produce
magical eagles....

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It’s the softness in her eyes
They reflect all the pain
It’s the way her nose crinkles up when she laughs 
Her lips curl above her teeth
And her eyes, glimmer 
And she is radiant
And she is brilliant
And our love is forever

It’s the way my hands run through her hair
The way her words dance through my heart
The way she sets my world on fire
It burns hot, but with a lot of destruction 
My heart will never be the same

That’s what love can do to you
And to me that’s beautiful...

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