Short Matchsticks Poems
Short Matchsticks Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Matchsticks by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Matchsticks by length and keyword.
Village School empty
boys engaged bundle matchsticks
in the village Match factory
DUCHAMP URINAL
toilette
to wet
LOWRY PEOPLE
matchsticks
in pics
HOPPER URBANITY
film stills
sans frills
Someone lit a fire,
Knowing someone like me would
Find it, feel it… why?
Odd to see flames here,
Strange… it’s something wilder than
Matchsticks or candles.
Listen to poem:
a pulp paradox
one million matchsticks
from one tree and one matchstick
burns one million trees
2019 August 19
*3rd Place*
Tree Themed Haiku
~~Tania Kitchin
matchsticks s
t
r
i
k
e
passion
sulfur dioxide
e x p l o d e s ~
fierce
fiery
fervor
In her resting place — she’d toy
with shadows, matchsticks
and glow in the dark paint.
Out and about — she’d fly
through the night, wax her teeth
and loudly sip her straw.
A mordacious-red stain upon her tongue.
1/29/2018
Brian Strand’s Premiere Contest 125
Sevenling Poem
the un-struck match, does darkness bring,,
the unfair world's a bitter thing,
the unloosed demon meets his match,
so poor, the former rich do sing...
when logic don't smoke the hash,
yes lassie, per alas,
i'm thinking,
its just a logic swing...
Don
re: Dr Ram "The Matchsticks"
...
You saved me and our boys
when you count the matchsticks
you might think you came out
on the side that don't flick
And so we fight
You love a slightly unbalanced wife
you endure an unbalanced checkbook
you live a life that keeps you breathing
a life based on a chance you took
But you were right
Between life and death
a photo finish race
will decide the relationship.
There was intoxication
at heights. Your throat had
become hoarsed, sliced
after a scream. Matchsticks
were thrust in the
gnawed mound of kneaded
flour. The kitchen
was going to explode.
Barehands you were
picking the black beans;
parting me lip by lip
caressing me thumb by thumb.
Satish Verma
Do not remove the hyphens.
The stars were trekking
on foot.
All that was a mirage.
A hot rood was leading
to a watershed.
The wholeness splatters
on the bank. The water,
takes all the dots and dashes.
The black tree was stark
naked. No leaves, no fruits.
Only the singed wood.
You cannot make the
matchsticks. You will have
to rub your hands to start the fire.
Satish Verma
She stains her thoughts persimmon
and pastes them to the walls
to catch the attic exhale
in brilliance of ideas
She wraps each meditation
in a ribbon in her hair
and bruises self defiance
sending doubt into the air
She blinds the room in matchsticks
and peaks out at the trees
with just the snap of buds to see
a prelude to the bloom
She's full of stretches, cat and paw
and soaks her privacy
into her thoughts to be recovered,
shining them to gleam.
COUPLET MATCHSTICKS - A CONVERSATION STARTER
The lyrics crescent of bravado
Toes of the ballerina apropos
The gymnast - a sculpture in motion
A wrestlers seamless grip
The poet’s morse code
Tears dripping from clothesline
Simmering heat from pavement
Snow white encampment
Cheap underwear
Kilmer’s trees
Serpentine legs, sharp Argentine tango
Carmen’s March of the Toreadors
Golden streets, pearls, living water
Plath’s Tulips
10/23/2017
Don’t eat cake, they said; it goes to your hips
That’d be sexy, I think and lick the cream on my lips
Don’t eat cake, they said; it goes to your thigh
A little cushion on those matchsticks I can’t deny
I ate seconds with cream so yummy
It sat layered on my once flat tummy
Making it protrude in bulk out of my jeans
Now I know what a muffin top means
As crunches and planks make me ache
Oh! I regret those pieces of cake
Written on :08/02/2016
Contest:'Regretting Cake' by Julia Ward
Making match sticks from the bridges
We haven’t yet burned.
Making match sticks to burn the bridges
We haven’t yet burned.
So busy with drinking cocktails,
sweating sex in hotel rooms,
Running from boredom
Soaking up the smiles from homeless on the pristine streets,
Widdling away the reflections in the shop windows,
That’s not me, I am me, here with a flask and an appointment
At a speakeasy, staying busy.
So busy making matchsticks we ran out of bridges to burn.
Michael F. Lewis
3/20/2014