Short Dusty Poems
Short Dusty Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Dusty by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Dusty by length and keyword.
briefly concerned
original love novel
dust heap on a shelf
Major League Baseball Manager, Dusty Baker.
He's a great character and a playmaker.
In San Francisco, a World Series loser.
In Houston, a World Series Winner.
Age old emotion
Endless as the ocean
What was
What is
What potential
Lost in the commotion
Dusty dreams
Tarnished heart
Seperated from me
The day you did depart
Dusty road covers your shoes
scratchy throat, raspy your blues
Keep walking, keep going, it’s all you can do
phone’s dried up too, ain’t no more good news…
Dusty trails leading to nowhere
Through the annals of a wasted life
Bring to mind the cold vacant stare
Of poverty, want, and nagging strife.
Written August 25, 2022
There was a dusty man, and he drove a dusty mile,
He found s rusty engine by a rickety old stile;
He bought a mangy hound, who chased a mangy deer,
And they all lived together on a porch and drank a beer.
DUSTY WIND
Cheerful sparrows chirp, peck at ground as spring gust chases dust.
04/16/17
Monoku 3: fire, earth, water and air Contest by Silent One
At end of life Back to Dust :
Is that the end of one's life ?
What about soul, if it exists !
Will that also to extinct ?
Dust, small scrap tiny chip dirt
kisses dead offering last treat.
In a dusty hedge apart
Leaves all blighted
A frail flower touched my heart
Once 'twas sighted
For her character was stitched
Not in clothes hem
Her inner beauty bewitched
From a sweet stem
My Spanish Needle, gold heart
Innocence true
Pure humility and art
Fed on rare dew.
Within an old box
in my musty, dark basement;
I found my journals.
So many- sad, I held one,
a dusty book of dead dreams.
__________________
April 9, 2017
Tanka/"Dusty"
Copyright Protected, ID 891013
One Tanka
Rick Parise
Fifth Place
True friends need not walk on tip toes
Hoping you’ll catch the wind
Massaging so gently the ego
Has got to be a sin
The unclear paths lead to nowhere
Lost in a hopeless recall
While vacant eyes in wonder, stare
Leaves, all parched and dusty fall
~*~
This old house is a mystery,
it is filled with lots of history.
It needs to be cleaned out,
now what are we going to talk about?
Let's go to the big closet,
mom made this her big bank deposit.
Look a very old dusty shoebox,
wow!!! is it Ralph our pet blue fox?
in a used books store
tomes of recorded history
line up on dusty shelves
"Those that fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”
~Winston Churchill
For: Bite Size Poem no.38 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
March 4, 2022
When you are done flying
And are forced to land
Follow the Angels (cat) eye's
And park your wing's
And rest up
In the V.G.P section
With all the other angels
A samaritans work is never over
As the world is in need of
Good
Great
Giving
Gracious
Grateful
People aka such as you
I never open that dusty box of memory,
it's just another box of clutter
left stored amongst other boxes of clutter
in an attic with the door shut tight.
There is never a time quite right
to fling open the mind's dark shutter,
let dust motes flit and flutter,
put yesterday pains into the day's new treasury
SEARCH FOR ME on the dusty bookshelf,
in this room filled with very old books.
I sit here waiting to be chosen,
needing to be read by a reader.
Do you know it is hard to find me?
Old books standing cover to cover,
wait for a reader to SEARCH FOR ME.
I long to be in your loving hands,
and being read by your loving eyes.
from below, erratic night traffic
gently taps at the wide windows
whose glass looks enigmatic,
though its graphite grayness
is really not a solid part of itself,
no dusting can darken it less,
a cathedral pane of ages olden,
but from across the noisy street,
a pizza neon tarnishes it golden!
Improperly furnished with words alike the proper onstage guffawed and remarked, slighted and sent ribbons for acts that blanket at dusk with the manuscript rack, heaving against the pages like a concubine the throes of these pages batches of wine, like those that are deleterious these are cursed the same but they struck from their pages, the unequal dim range.
Dust swirls up from the country lane
Traffic stirs clouds of gravel and sand
And swearing from the unhappy profane
Dust swirls up from the country lane
Driving unhappy housewives insane
The natural result of crusty, dry land
Traffic stirs clouds of gravel and sand
Dust swirls up from the country lane.
Written June 17, 2021
[triolet slightly modified]
Upon the shelf there is nothing but a hat,
all dusty and faded from where it has sat,
being in the same place and the same spot,
since the very day that it was bought,
it does not seem to have a purpose,
only to keep dust off of the surface,
of the shelf on which it sits,
high above all of the other outfits,
but perhaps it was too small,
maybe i just don't recall.
Spring has spent her youth
her hours have swiftly gone
summer comes burning like an aching tooth
Dusty wind blow softly on
Keep back the blasting heat
that leaves no stone to rest upon
the very earth burns the feet
Dusty wind blow softly on
Gently kiss one last spring flower
bury her seed before your powers wan
awaiting silently some spring shower
Dusty wind blow softly on.
I saw an image sitting in
The corner collecting dust
It was an old mirror
Covered with bright red rust
It had some cracks
Long markings and gum
It had a story to tell
The time had come
The mirror suddenly
Got frosty and cold
As fog covers, it didn’t
Want its story told
So, I placed it back
Into the corner it was found
It was obvious to me
The story had to be profound
wanky wind wretching
felon fury bruising
bounty blitzkrieg bleaching
blur biddings bleeding
hoisted hankering hibernated
jumpy jazz cremated
dark dribbles drooled
prescribing pulpy clue
punctured healing pruned
kaleidoscopic chaos cupped
gaunt gifts gulped
moaning mist munched
callous complexities clenched
dusty dregs drenched
'20:04:09:20:57
Note: Of wanky wind.
Dusty shelf
still I look up
to where they sit
on a shelf high
collecting dust
once it seems
so long ago
I carried them
everywhere with me
and I did show them
and I was so proud
and in time I learned
no one did care
so there they sit
dreams and ideals
from when I was young
so long ago
still I love them
and them I keep
but now tucked away
collecting dust
Dusty Dreams
I lay here on the desk pondering my worth
nearby stark white pages slowly yellow.
I am but an instrument to fulfill their need
yet stoic in my sentimentality. Dust
counts the weaving of nights into days
measures the shadows of a silenced muse
as we sit idle in the hope of its awakening.
©6/18/2019
YOUR CHOICE (10) PERSONIFICATION Poetry Contest
Brian Strand sponsor