Short Crinkles Poems
Short Crinkles Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Crinkles by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Crinkles by length and keyword.
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.
I pass the bag
thinking I need salt
the bag shakes, crinkles and laughs at me
“Open me! Open me!” she yells into my head.
I do not dare.
I cannot eat just one.
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
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
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
I will not repeat myself in a song
Or among rumbles, crinkles, or prolong
My Tuesday remaining mostly cloudy
I am wet beyond pants and a hoodie
I give anyone the ear from the stage
Because I cannot tell which path is phage
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.
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
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
Drizzle and frizzled hair crinkles,
such sounds demand a symphony;
Clammy cold showered with sprinkles
there’s a vibe that says ‘Be easy.’
Stock up the wood burning fire place,
it’s raining I’ll send you a song;
Smoke creates a treble clef trace,
that rhythm will help you along.
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
A crinkled shore on the Upper Peninsula.
We are hunting Golden Eagles
cameras at the ready.
You find a small stone.
On its surface, a
crimp and cockle depiction
of wind and waves
has rucked up an impression
of an eagle in flight.
"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 divinely inspired crinkles.
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
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.
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?
Form:
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.
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.
Note here in this romantic journal,
Singing of our love eternal,
Infinite love, bliss timeless,
You feel your oats, poet's guess,
Comfort loving in the night,
Surprise, you're a bit of all right,
Is this wisdom or not?
Breathless, true love has not forgot,
Our secret blooms to treasure,
Love is our tender pleasure,
Roses bring our glowing wrinkles,
Grey romance gives us crinkles,
Smiling, once we were so young,
Romance grows, still so much fun.
In this moment,
I see visions of bed sheet caught in slow motion,
I see crinkles in corners of eyes and smiles that turn into giggles,
I see screaming fingers tips up and down my skin,
I see something new to brush my fingers through,
I see him grazing his facial hair on my upper thighs,
I see my new poems and problems coming about,
I see myself saying “I need you” again.
oh no it’s happening again,
Oh Oh it’s happening again,
Oh it’s happened again.
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.
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
Form: