Short Pitted Poems
Short Pitted Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Pitted by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Pitted by length and keyword.
What I want taken
fate dealt to me a taste of
then took it away
like a child from its mother,
this anguish pitted so deep.
© Harry J Horsman 2013
The wasted knowledge that comes with age,
Has become yet just pitted rage.
Each of us just turns a page.
Only play on a stage.
Left inside a cage,
Driving like phage.
Against swage,
Gauges,
Sage
Peter put up potted plants on paths and patted himself
Pasted posters on pitted parts where people paid to pee
Praised and panned , through pleas and plans, pots and pans he banned
Pipped at the post in poles and piqued, he put it all on press.
The cradle of three of the biggest faiths
Rocked by the claim one agenda stakes
Locked and loaded and ready for war
With righteous blessings for terror and gore
Sentiments civilities and landscapes pitted
All of human decency finally outwitted
Old sailor, clad in stone
anchored to the turf,
like a marble statue,
a careless navigator
washed up by the sea,
tastes the sting of salt
feels the wind whipped sand, burn the skin,
squints pitted eyes, staring out, leaning in
to the sun, rising from the sea.
Those footsteps that you left at the door,
Echo the last words I heard you say.
Turning to me, my eyes meet the floor.
I needed to prove myself today.
Again, it was your hope that I tore.
I’ve proven who I am, to your dismay.
What I say, pitted to what I do,
That I’ll never be there for you.
Going alone again, solo,
Sown an unpaved road,
Bumpy and pitted,
Rutted and ditched
Nonetheles a road,
All words spoken
A soliliquoy
Lost on the ears of the rocks,
Lost in the ripples of the puddles
Vanishing into one's own ears,
ravaged by Life and the constant of Death
Ah, the simplictiy
of the lonely, lonely road.
Form:
It held a world captive
mirroring the creep
of clouds and soft sway
of trees, unbroken
until brushed by a bird wing
when a world
fractured and sent ripples
scurrying off across
a calm, crashing into
something small,
killing it
and I can't
even give it a name
nor find what it left there
pitted briefly in the glaze
of the morning.
There is no heart in war,
All fear overcome,
It has no Law,
Till the battles won.
Lakes of innocent blood,
Drown men of life,
Land pitted mud,
His last thoughts of his wife.
But not a word is said,
Round by round,
Bitter bullets of lead,
Take cover behind the mound.
There is no heart in war,
All fear overcome,
It has no Law,
Till the battles won.
Form:
Surviving battles, losing a war I never fought
Through dissolved confidence, unknowingly lost
By neglect I encourage with convincing doubt
Pretending to not know what it is all about.
Deeply pitted in a conditioned flow
Without much care to desperately follow
Unfulfilled destiny by laziness blatantly overlooked
Trying not to realize the flight of losses booked.
Form:
Is it Really Sport?
Pitted and marked, scarred for life,
A Sportsman, Boxer, punched by knife.
Brutal the battle to knock his man down,
Broken features for belt and crown.
Commentator’s cliché, blood sweat and tear,
Blooded and bruised, year upon year.
A good-looking lad, till he started this game,
Permanent damage, but wealth and fame.
Is it really sport?
Bones crack muscle strains
within this frail body
Teeth ache eyes dim
a yellow film covers them
Arms sleek smooth now pitted
hair begins to cover them
They seem weighted useless
to this human frame
Legs lengthen oh the pain
Back hunches stretches
to beyond belief
In an angry, frothing, shivering
flash of time passing from one
world to another, I could see
the full moon rising
The wood turner takes a piece of wood
Gnarled and pitted as aged as it could
The holes are filled and bonded with resin
Which brings out the highlighted colour heaven
Attached to the lathe it turns as the tools cut down
The excess is taken off the shape as it’s found
Slowly working the eye can see
The beauty found in natural wood not found easily.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Donald ate beans to full capacitance
Added pitted prunes for extravagance
He courted the town strumpet
She said, Put down your trumpet
All Donald could produce was flatulence
________________________________
Entry in 'Open Poetry 9 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Charlotte Puddifoot
May 22, 2024
The pavement in front of great-great grandmother's
house has become pitted, scarred and worn away
from the feet of young ones, sisters and brothers,
making their way for the next overnight stay;
they never were shy to race one another
to be first through the door for a hug most gay~
today the house has been sold, sidewalk repaired,
still that old pavement held memories well shared..
velvetine clouds with symphonic melodies
encrusted within a passion filled heart
caressed and laced benevolent thrusts
of colloquial chants of love
moondrenched clay parted with care
for undulating carousels of unanswered prayers
for seasoned affairs
bounded in silence shrouded in controversy
of folklore like times of pitted runes of yester
year waiting for subterfuge from your heart
to my soul
Sharp, the swell, swirling
And cold reluctance tumbles
down into the empty pitted stomach
Pale, my shaking hands, pulling at
the weighted mindfull of memories,
that will ! Rust and drip daily
hinges will strain on posts of belief
Again held up, by disbelief.
Overgrown, and unkept, twigs touch
Ohhh, long long blades of green,
Fruitfull and empty, with plenty i leave.
Only the last apples are mine !
Eyes opening;
Gaze slowly focusing;
White sheet covering;
A cold body quivering.
Icy shallow inhales;
Straps binding loosely;
Unable to move or speak;
Yearn for eternal rest.
Forcing another breath;
Strength so very weak;
Free of all addictions;
Search for a final veil.
Pitted face; rotted flesh;
As I slip into the void,
Of this endless black.
Forgotten in the morgue,
just needle me to death.
Molly Ann could barely wait said her dad
To show her hippie grandma her cozy pad
Where would I sit? Grandma asked eying the pit.
Daddy laughed so hard, for on the floor she used to always sit.
It’s wonderful, all rainbow and stuff, Grandma admitted.
But my arthritis is acting up, and my colon is all pitted.
I don’t want to grouse or gripe any more.
But I doubt I can lift this heavy body off of the floor.
VERSE PURSE
Yearly tradition
Poetry competition
All had ambition
Just wait for the call
Announced in the Poet Hall
Said the know it all
Poems submitted
Against each other pitted
Even dim-witted
The results were in
The winner identified
And brought to the front
It was a lottery
Not based on experience
Most there were displeased
When not selected
He said to the guy behind
Not chosen, are you
A metallic muzzle
breaking through a marshy bog;
an unlikely find out here
in the rain-riddled moor.
I finger dig the soft ground,
reveal the snout of a short barrel,
clay clogged, emerging -
haul out the rest,
a revolver!
Who hid or threw this?
This ‘who done it’ out here
in the wind-swept nowhere.
Bluing worn away,
steel beneath dented and pitted,
firing pin corroded
yet heavy still
with unknowable sin.
A metallic muzzle
breaking through a marshy bog;
an unlikely find out here
in the rain-riddled moor.
I finger dig the soft ground,
reveal the snout of a short barrel,
clay clogged, emerging. -
haul out the rest,
a revolver!
Who hid or threw this?
This ‘who done it’ out here
in the wind-swept nowhere.
Bluing worn away,
steel beneath dented and pitted,
firing pin corroded
yet heavy still
with unknowable sin.
Freedom and our Flag
For those who never knew freedom.
My heart cries out in vein.
The cries of a dying nation going in sane.
Pitted against each other mud slings both ways.
The Statue of Liberty crying as clearly we lost our way.
There is the grand old flag waving proudly in the wind. Serving us with honor to provide and pave the new way again.
Rallying the troupe to serve proudly to protect our freedom with their lives.
COPLA 100 INVOCATION : This Bad Guy World
Brilliant open as the human mind
Blinkered bigoted the human spirit :
Each bleeds for gods
From the cradle to the crypt blind
Pitted one against the other split :
All crazed by gods
Said one two thousand five ago :
The business of God is not yours
Don’t do His job
If all man-made gods decide to go
And live in different galactic twirls :
No one need sob
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Inside this temple made of brick and clay
the many shades of your heart
are the prisms of my soul
Pinioned and shackled to your fires
we are vaulted by our own desires
two lovers breathing as one
Outside this prison of hell stands my nemesis
buried behind its boulders I am decaying
like a rotting apple de-pitted then discarded
Bitwise assaults to my soul,
I summon courage and finally break out
of this ridged corrugated pas-a-deux.