Short Pallor Poems

When it's cold it's very cold
the wind even feels the cold wind
the sky is only blue pallor...

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chaos lashes the word
    crisis bites the action
    pallor adorns the figure
     blush enchants the idyll...

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A
pale stream
that feeds on
twisted pallor—
sworn, it never sinks;
as tears fall for colored
morn—thus done by the Maker
Artist— to mar lack. I dreamt in
scars; before fiery dawn wind came
for me within; so hit my heart; bid rise!...

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Behold the bed of nails
    that lurks in chambers horror
beneath a bulging gibbon’s eye
    bleached skin to corpse-like pallor

A green-eyed lass lies bleeding
    the torment drains away
her paste-white body pleading
    his life for hers betrayed...

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There was a dying breed outside
The forest.
They rose with pallor relished
And true.
Like rhythmic bramble they 
Trotted through stream,
Mares and lovers gave way.
Rivered with Rilke,
A new day came to pass.
The ferrets of the un-furrowed brow
Gave brilliance to our every breathe....

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Verbose word
among deaf...
brilliant gesticulator
among blind...
wobbly loser
in lonely races,
  harmless digger
from the deep void...
you have a fast hand
inside the fatal night,
you have a fleeting gesture
and an atrocious glow...!
you have no heroism
in the nameless pallor
of all your acts... !...

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My dark pallor, but
my hope is pink...
My fear is bluish, for the protected sky...
In this red life I have calm blood
and I'm hooked on ebony, but
I'm a champion of shine... So here I  come !
accompanied by spells and being
complacent with my delusions...
I live thus coloring the darkness
of this ugly world...!...

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Your silence
casts a shadow
your stillness
is my weakness
your pallor
leaves me wretched
like a fallen leaf
prostrate with grief
I lie, by the tree
which gave me life

My senses 
are dulled
Time is relentless
Tomorrow I walk
the slow path of sorrow
Near to me still
yet already lost
you lie
and my wishes
are dust
at my feet...

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Heroes have many faces

Despite their deathlike pallor

The sum of any soldier

Is measured by their valor

The fear they feel in battle

But never ever flinches

Is purely a reflection

Of courage in the trenches

Even with odds against them

Will still fight to their last breath

Ever stalwartly they stand

And march bravely to their death...

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We are
crazy
poets,
with signs of
real
of madness...
  we are
lovers
loving, and
mortals when
we suffer...
when we created
we are immortal...
we drink
of the ethereal,
we appreciate
the pallor
of the chimera,
and we feed
of the love we have...
Words set us free,
words heal us.
are the signs of ideas
and the food of our sustenance
when we write poetry...!...

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PEARLS OF PERPETUITY 

Memorable jaunt, one never to daunt.
Returned very gaunt, yet pearls she doth vaunt.
Pallor didn’t want. Now spectre doth haunt.

Calligraphy font of eccentric aunt.
Executor chaunt - ridiculous flaunt.
Niece struts pearls to taunt - doppelgänger wont.

3rd Place
4/26/2017
John Hamilton’s Rhymers delight-internal monorhyme-2 contest...

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Gray evening's like gray dawn's ties thicken
At the exact same pacing expanse—
Both briefly hold the sun's motions in
Pallor moored with unmistakableness.
I am shaken by her warrior crest,
For I more than feel gray's breaking touch;
Though not cutting paths perused in lust,
But being where gentle pigeons send—
For gray evenings like gray dawns there must
Be a soft kindred line between them....

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Love became 
Then the crystal rain 
Doors and portals 
The beast knowing itself 
Knowing the cold rain
Midnights plain pallor 
The oft repeated wind all the same 
Foot dredges a path beaten 
Dug and dragged, moved loose
The self from its pillar prose
What came the circular ride
A life inside cloth netting
Exploring to go home 
And bring back what was found
Consolidate beacons and return...

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Within the quiet of the night,
amid the shadows of my pain,
the strength I held so fast to,
ebbs, as another tear does gain.

With out the giving of consent,
it brings forth a fellow traveler.
To follow a chaotic coarse,
across my cheeks, twilight pallor.

Bare of conscience thought,  I brush aside,
the meaning each holds alone.
I hide behind my false bravado,
as my tears dry on their own....

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A detritus
of malaise, tugs at my solitary hour.
There was a question of stature
amongst the old fractured feet.

What was it which made you feel
taller than your own son ?
I  was looking at the antlers of a deer,
his round eyes were full of pallor,
I begin to talk in his tongue.

The terror of a man, a speeding car,
my childhood, moving in the dark corridor,
afraid of the unending highways.



SATISH VERMA...

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On arrogate life, should one stare so?
Under such gaze, Thanatos peeps thru!
Rained-out vigor streaks pastel of pallor…

Death beckons as the lime does bleed
evanescing color, bleaching to a white
spreading over oak as if Spanish moss
treading, lichen-like, over a tree spent
its tendrils holding in a choking surety
neath a receding eye so dark and worn
yonder-bound already on soul’s destiny…

6/9/22...

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SHAPES AND COLOURS

why the name of colour?
what the feel of shape?

soft rose curtains
fluttering down
square window 
pain

oval opium
navy nudes
orange Geraniums
red rules

soap coloured circles
distant black hues
mist painted mountains
with breathtaking
views

blue veined marble
green stained shoes
white handed pallor
shape coloured muse





© Kim van Breda—11 September 2015...

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A detritus
of malaise, tugs at my solitary hour.
There was a question of stature
amongst the old fractured feet.

What was it which made you feel
taller than your own son ?
I  was looking at the antlers of a deer,
his round eyes were full of pallor,
I begin to talk in his tongue.

The terror of a man, a speeding car,
my childhood, moving in the dark corridor,
afraid of the unending highways.



SATISH VERMA...

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A detritus
of malaise, tugs at my solitary hour.
There was a question of stature
amongst the old fractured feet.

What was it which made you feel
taller than your own son ?
I  was looking at the antlers of a deer,
his round eyes were full of pallor,
I begin to talk in his tongue.

The terror of a man, a speeding car,
my childhood, moving in the dark corridor,
afraid of the unending highways.



SATISH VERMA...

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A child you granted favor
You’ve given a new labor
To often your sight savor,
Talk about you with savor:
“Equal to men of valor!”
In your presence no pallor:
You have fridge in your parlor
And your TV best color…

Yet, it depends on favor.
Some could add or trim labor.
If it was a big favor
In the streets your First Waver
To “it’s enough.” their “Never!”

Then, should we hold back favors?
Won’t we child’s malice harbor?...

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He now says goodbye to his trusted friends
So much missed now, as their time ends  

Their road together had its ups and downs
A visual spectrum, from dapper to clowns

Though he fought to keep them from going astray
A stubborn few had to go there own way

He tried to stall their leaving, to no avail
With those left remaining their pallor a tale

A natural departure, not diabolical 
He misses each one, every fallen follicle!...

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A tinge of guilt or a twinge of sin
Ghostly pallor on his calloused skin
Taking a man's life away again
Might the hangman's conscience be in pain?


Society's dregs must pay their due
And to him it's just a job to do
Innocent, guilty, it matters not
He must obey those who call the shot.


Tonight he'll have sumptuous dinner
Grateful folks treat him like a winner
Like royalty, not a commoner
A toast to the executioner!


....

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ghostly pallor on his calloused skin,
a twinge of guilt for a tinge of sin?
taking a man's life away again,
may the hangman's conscience be in pain?

no, to him it's just a job to do,
society's dregs must pay their due,
guilty, innocent, it matters not,
he just obeys those who call the shot;

and tonight he'll have sumptuous dinner,
grateful folks treat him like a winner,
like royalty, not a commoner,
a toast to the executioner !...

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Autumn blooming with colour,
From Nature’s palette of 
Copper and gold.
Large leaves lying still,
Damp and mouldy, in this late sun.

Pears slowly ripening, 
In harvest’s jamboree.
Pinkish tinged, speckled,
They lie heavy with camouflage,
Ripe for the pot.

Skinned, their crystalline beauty
Cannot be held too long.
Their life is done, long before
Winter’s pallor and seasoned, frosty crust,
Binds the rivers with ice.

22.10.18...

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Listen to poem:

The Season of Grieving Color
David J Walker

The day dawns in golden streams
Of pinks and grays 
And the frays of  things 
In moist and curious blues

What color of the pallor 
Could be piled upon
the pallet to bring
In the days news 

Seasons are soon changing 
Rearranging the specter 
Of views we’ve become
Used to

There is little heat in  yellows & greens
Scenes of desires in 
Cool violet fires 
That preens in convex mirrors...

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