Short Pails Poems
Short Pails Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Pails by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Pails by length and keyword.
Our playgrounds have faded
swings stilled, sandboxes unfilled
Where are the shovels and pails ~
replaced by profits and sales
I bought fish at one of PetSmarts sales
I feed them fish food that I put in pails
Back and forth they go
So happy I know
Because they are always wagging their tails!
the garbage man comes
picking up yesterday’s memories
in plastic bags
and wooden boxes
leaving behind
empty tin pails
to be filled up again
with today’s remains
He was born Alex Wanton Wells -
A healer of the incurable and a remover of spells,
Died chasing his insatiable appetite for quails;
He’s not there, for he kicked the pails!
Shells
waiting
on the shore
for children's hands
pails overflowing with summer treasures
Summertime fades in September's last hour
memories gained
shells in pails
wait for
June
As soon as we got to the county fair
The country odor got through my nose hair
Coz above some milk pails
We encountered cow tails
Which filled our senses with their dairy-air
soft shore breezes
suntan lotion glistening off bodies
umbrellas fluttering
sand castles and sand pails
shoes scattered on blankets
sail boats on the horizon
beach time perfection
along the lane
my friends and I
pick raspberries. . .
as robins chatter
we head back home -
with red pails filled . . .
sun - now crimson
saturates the sky
sept. 4, 2019
Brian Strand's 'COMPLETELY YOUR CHOICE (8)any form any theme' Poetry Contest
Winds
blow sand
through the park
and crystal grains
fly
Sand
castles
built by two
small hands forming
it
Kids
laughing
and sliding
down big and small
slides
Sand
pails
with shovels
filling them with
sand
It was
a graceful exit
with audacious idiocity.
A cyclops was going
for a dress disaster.
Visitation
of flesh, mars the beauty.
Cheating starts
between the pails of tears.
I start hitting the planet.
Let the bride
sleep in fog. A volcano
was going to shed
the sperms on your
shirt.
Satish Verma
Time paces
-tick, tock-
life trudges between its
tick, tock.
hurry, hurry
-tick, tock-
rush to all the garbage pails
each minute means
another few cents
stalling means
no job to pay the rent
tick, tock
eat, eat
-tick, tock-
slender meals and bitter thoughts
of life and all its tick, talk.
Windy wild wind whipping flailing and cutting through
You bring us together like invisible glue
Holding hats and huddling hands clasping crunched capes
Jealous soul you bold barometric beast
Hairdos, skirts, scarves, hats and pails blown away in envious fury
If we could capture you you’d be in front of a jury!
I have no nails to hang my sale of pails in a board. Otherwise my employer will wail and say that my fail would sail his business off course. Dear friend, will I ever make a good sale if I am narrated in every tale to be ranked as tail?
I need you to recover me from this fail or otherwise I will go to where I hail from.
Hs worn hands, they tell a story --
The furrows where his trusty saw rested
The closed wounds from rusty nails
The bent fingers from flinty hammer blows
The swollen redness from carrying metal pails
Once soft and smooth, now creased and hard
His hands may well be old and worn
~ Yet his conscience remains unscarred
jiggling juggernaut jockeyed judo
katie’s Korean kitties killed with kudos
lively llamas listened, learning Latin
Mischievous miscreants misused satin
Needless nimble noodles kneaded themselves
Opulence and opals were seen in land of elves
Paralyzed parlor poodles paraded past purple pails
Quarrelsome queens quickly collected quick quails
last wisps of summer
float along the empty shore
a cool mist slowly rolls in
ready for change
school bells ring
lawn mowers silent
squash left in the garden
shadows get longer
waves catch soft light
sand pails abandoned
beach plums wither
along the shore line
sandpipers scatter
carrying summer secrets
The tracks long abandoned now
weeds growing between their rails
tracks that once brought sheep and cows
thousands of workers with lunch pails
The stockyards closed 'bout seventy-one
technology spelling their doom
Buried beneath those acres of grounds
stories of blood and guts and passions bloomed
A spectacle they were to see
Their niche in history sure to be
Wild grapes
plump and juicy
we plucked along the lane -
my sisters and I, carrying
large pails
Dusk’s sky
turned violet.
From far away we heard
our grandmother calling us to
supper
The night
bled a wine hue
as swinging our pails, we
ran with glee on that sweet day of
purple
April 17, 2023
for Sotto Poet's Traditional Cinquain Contest
even with an upturned boulder
sitting solid like Gibraltar
the blazing fire
has not been quenched
Too many pails
have been drenched,
punctured and patched
while drawing out water
to douse this blazing fire
from raging into a fiery sun
blistering the skin
scorching the minds
while intending
to obliterate the soul
making the man meaningless
because of your own dark souls
Form:
Sunglass water pails
The cover up, never fails
Draining water from her
Heartbroken pools
A screaming silence
Blocked behind her
Tinted view
With a blink, rivers flow
She is lost and all alone
Who is there ?
When there is nobody else
Beside her.
She feels
As separated as her tears
As they are falling
Hope disappears
Collecting pain
Where the hazel pools drain
In her
Sunglass water pails..
The bottles sat, empty, clean,
timelessly transparent upon the purity
of a chalk walkway;
antiquated memories
of morning milkmen linger.
The hollow hourglass shapes
lacking the grains of time,
reflecting, and refracting lemon light
dollops of cream, buttermilk dreams.
Devon Red herds await
the bottles empty state,
to fill with froth, to zing tin pails,
to drowse to the lilt of a milkmaids’ aire.
Red statues bestirring beside sturdy brown
Golden yellow tassels, the talk of the town
Rich green blanket spread as far as meets the eye
The idyllic scene framed under the bluest of skies
Textured white ripples rise and fall in silver pails
Perky, pale curlicues wave, pretty pink tails
A color-splashed canvass greets Mr. Farmer every morn
As he wends his way to and from the faded red, rustic barn
The Bells
The bells
The bells
The shells
The shells
The scales
The scales
The whales
The whales
The snails
The snails
The quails
The quails
The tails
The tails
The nails
The nails
The rails
The rails
The trails
The trails
The sails
The sails
The fails
The fails
The pails
The pails
The ales
The ales
The veils
The veils
The tales
The tales
Marckincia Jean
Free verse
11/06/19
Clouds puffy white teddy bears drifting above
Colliding then separating, dancing it seemed
The sun tired now, sinking into the horizon
But not before sharing its glorious hues
Fiery red, goldenrod yellow, streaked with azure
Like the most vibrant of rainbows
Her children sat on the beach patting turrets onto sand castles
Pebbles in pails of water, glistening in the wet
Black, rust, and pink granite
Souvenirs of a hot happy summer day
Swaying in the breeze
All regimented tufty haired straight
Planted securely a foothold in time
Stretching to heaven
Sun sky sublime
Stretch grow and wait
For the end
Tips ripely flaxen haired
Plump
For the end comes to all
Shreds of dust
Shatters the company
Limbs severed and broken
Agony unspoken
Yet life prevails
In death’s yellow pails
Giving up all
For mathematics
One becomes many
Many multiplies
As death becomes seed
And time flies