Short Smudges Poems
Short Smudges Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Smudges by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Smudges by length and keyword.
Do you ever feel like a song
Written on a blank page
No melody
Just black lines, smudges on an empty page
The red wheelbarrow
with its cement smudges
and rusty scratches
dwarfs the white rabbit
nibbling young lettuce
covered in morning dew
next to the flowering
crepe myrtle.
The sunlight sparkling upon a solitary lake,
As the light exposes smudges on a window.
The clouds gather, and then the winds bring snow,
Leaving only leaves for old man winter to rake.
Mt style is styless
words made from smudges and dots
like cots of baby robots
fraught with thought
a despot naught
stop
the game is afoot
is forever endless ?
or will this pain not stop
As I drive to work
This morning
I see the
Beautiful picture
God has painted.
Smudges of gold
Red, yellow
And orange
As the sun glows
From behind
I realize
How lucky
I am that I can
See this wondrous
Art each day
Are there lives at stake?
The risk I'll take.
To help and to save
Like Jesus; His life He gave.
No time to hold grudges
No matter the smudges
Freely give.
Quickly forgive.
Smile extend peace and hope
Help others to cope.
neon warning
blinking- swarming,
stinging the cautious
unconscious.
fear is a snake
swallowing its
tail- it drips &
smudges away all
detail. directions
are useless bridges,
breaking violently
under the weight
of loss.
marvelous day
inside;
pollinating coronavirus
somewhere outdoors
nose smudges on my reflection,
glass of Springtime refection
lipstick on window — sucker fish;
I forfeit a sunny payday
4/6/2020
You baby, were like the sky,
A bright blue canvas,
Our story, still yet to be painted,
Along the way I've made a few smudges,
And now I wait for the clouds
to creep back and erase all my mistakes,
so that we may start our journey anew.
I bought the shroud of Turin
the vatican had a sale
they have legal expenses
and priests that needed bail.
It was just an old dusty cloth
so I put it in the wash
that Tide detergent, never fails
all the smudges and stuff washed off.
don’t get excited, i was raised a catholic
pots of very hot tea
silence
dog on the quilt in my bed
rests his head on my lap
MAC, workbooks, spread around
writing
answering
students are sleepy, clients are lazy
rain smudges my outdoor view
close my eyes rest back on the pillows
cant move
but why should I
a rare and perfect day
Imbued rose colors
of birth. Sky tinted billowed
petals, junked. Florid
gardens, immaculate.
Scents of citrus heavens. Bloodshot
tinctured cotton
colors. Rubicund
chalk crumbles, powders highlands
thrusting. An ingress
kerfs a hyloid
barrier. Cruer clots. Spook.
Cimmeran smudges.
Pinpoints of lightened tones blush in grace
with impressionistic smudges…
ornate yet mellow like hues
glistening fine textures
on Monet’s lattice,
breathing alive
as I soak
in his
oil !
………….
Brian Strand's Contest No 219, Max 14 lines
Painting: Pathways in Monet's Garden
In Giverny 1902
`
Watching her board bathed in fog at the station
Spectacles slide down the bridge of his nose
Usually a blur, not in this situation
Smudges can’t hide every beauty she shows
12/18/19
Taken from my Poem: An Unlikely Duo
Originally posted: 11/29/16
For the: Arbitrium Divisa 5 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Gregory R Barden
Graduate Kid
Nature’s invidious corn
With school, Genius is born!
With crayons of every colour
The World may lose dolour!
Like determined drudges
With gusto he smudges;
On my car, my painted wall
My Credit cards and my all!
***Dedicated to my Grade 1 Son; Elisha, whose crayons leave no walls unturned!
JM
9th February 2014
The slap-dash marks
of a painter's brush -
modern art, abstract,
enigmatic.
It could be a wordless poem
it speaks in smudges
and streaks of color,
it beggars' belief or reason
and yet...
as we watch it unfold its form,
it begins to speak
in a language
that only eyes may hear.
Another kind of poem
for the insightful
to hang in the air.
I woke in the night
out for a pee
How tedious.
It was half-past two.
Then I remembered.
On with slippers
and dressing gown.
Outside
adjusting my vision
away from the moon –
orange pink smudges
to west and north,
a wavy whitish line
and above the horizon
a glow of light.
The aurora.
A reward.
A ticket
from my ageing bladder!
I watch at the last minute
a solitary petal falling
from the cracked bough
through thin glass of my window--
it rustles and soars way high
along a grappled wind,
sailng over the chilly vale .
It aligns with a hundred other petals,
all together waltzing in space.
Watching their unrehearsed dance
in glorious animation, a tear of awe
smudges my eyes.
I am obsessed with poetic words
that haunt me all day long
leaving my hands ink-stained black
and smudges on every page of my poetry journal
from poetry created
_____________________________
May 24, 2019
Poetry/Verse/obsessed
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1146-665-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Smoke lit and it makes that noise.
Hand draws for pen.
And then- it begins.
The device of destruction
leaks black ink.
Blood smudges the page
in neatness. And then
thought come back to
present. Under the cresent,
and smike rises infront of my
eyes. In the outdoors
freezing, but quite not yet.
Light shines down on hand.
But it stays in darkness and this
masacre is not seen.
Away in the attic,
No dusting for years,
I'm sneezing and sneezing!
Eyes brimming with tears!
Now why did I come here?
For that box of books,
Too heavy and dirty,
Ruined my good looks!
Brown smears on my blue dress,
Smudges on my cheeks!
It's better I climb down,
Before someone peeks!
Atishoo! Atishoo!
Oh my! Falling down!
No wonder they call me
"The clumsiest clown"!!
A turquoise sky marbled with wisps of Xanadu clouds,
Framing smudges of magenta layered over wrinkles of denim,
Smeared above remnants of a setting orb
Outlining silhouettes of barren limbs stretching into space.
Let’s walk along the shadows wrapped in weary contentment
Hands intertwined in night’s rhapsody
Silently sharing the crescendo of a days demise
As it graciously releases its last breathe into twilight.
how long have you been watching
oblivious as I sleep
snoring softly, maybe not
your arm tight around me as I stir
I stretch and yawn in the early darkness
deep blue eyes looking into sea green
me: "good morning, baby!"
my hair, tangled and flat
mascara smudges under my lashes
breath not as sweet from hours of sleep
I stretch full length, roll into your arms
green eyes looking into deep blue
you: "good morning, beautiful"
Here we lay etched upon the grass
The sun rained down in broken rays
Seared to smudges, fried-onion brass
The colour that will haunt our days
Here we stood carved into a tree
Wobbly letters at the ends of a spear
Driven through a heart doomed to be
The lodestone of every shattered tear
Here we sailed forth in a cockel-shell
Round the world, round and back again
Here the ocean sounded its old knell
Whirled us back into the old pain
He really should use
a ballpoint pen
ink blots are hard to remove,
and they can mask our reality.
The blots form mysteriously
shaped smears and smudges
that conceal rather than reveal.
We who avidly read His works
are apt to badly misinterpret.
He should have learned to type,
or at least used a computer,
but no
and now all we have are
these mysterious word-puzzles
many of which
are half-hidden between
speculation and conjecture.