Short Splotches Poems

As thorns behind roses
An unnoticed pain behind every cute thing
A generalised fact

Salubrious slades
With scarlet splotches due to savagery
An organized act
...

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With August came hot breeze,
Temps above 110;
Heat, defoliated trees,
Been worse?
Don't know when.
The grass is dead,
No need to mow.
Air so dry,
The Rooster can't crow.
Today a darkened sky,
Splotches, like grey stain.
My recurring thoughts are why?
It does not rain....

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with the first peek of dawn
over the marsh
nature rubs the sleep from her eyes
leaving splotches of red, blue, and brown
as an afterimage.

Just so,

the finches, cardinals and jays eat
an early breakfast from the birdfeeder
flying off before the sun
casts the image away with a warm push...

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Blotches and splotches,
Pink and red
Don't dare scratch:
It'll spread

Treat with loathsome liniments
And soporific pills,
But there's not a real cure:
Must suffer the ills

Watch out for pointy leaves
Grouped together, numbering three
Do your best to avoid it:
Poison ivy—the devil's weed...

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Caught together, in this gentle love,
we are two colors, white and black.
Our splotches mixed, create a dove,
who's strength and beauty, never lack.

Our bird is patient, and kind to all,
It is strong, and loves to fly.
No matter the weather, it will not fall,
thus, my love for you, will never die.

10/28/09...

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Colored splotches in darkness
Learning to work on forward
Leads its way into the light
Colors do conform

Flowers shine with all glory
Coming into the bright light
Beyond the darkness that holds
The empty figures

Proudly each petal shines now
Showering with all their might
Knows that the darkness is gone
And they’re now in light

Russell Sivey...

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the back of my hands are spotted
with brownish red splotches and dashes
they are as wrinkly as a Chinese dog
blue veins are popping up in ugliness
so this is why old women wear gloves!
the same reason they wear scarves around their turkey necks
I was never prepared to get this old
did not realize it was a possibility
until I began wearing my grandmother’s hands...

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My man child born yesterday
New and peeling purple
With black and brown
Splotches of color.

Your father love you.
Your mother love you.
But still you have yourself.
You must love yourself.

My man child born yesterday
Still soft and wrinkled
With bright black eyes
That have pools inside.

You are my charge.
Yet my superior.
We gave you life
But are Beholden....

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Tell me. Tonight,
when  your mind goes blank,
where the smoldering words
will go ?

Half-submerged is the harvest 
moon. There are splotches 
of clouds, but no
clear invite.

Aerial moonlight.
tells the age of tallest pine.
I will not climb the
Everest anymore.

Sky now plunges deep in
an abyss. I will embrace
the upturned terra ferma
and write a new poem.


Satish Verma...

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f*ck justin bieber 
f*ck harold and kumar 
f*ck huey lewis 
f*ck star trek 
  
  
  
f*ck everything that isn't classical music 
f*ck art that doesn't make sense who the f*ck would pay 
5 billion dollars for splotches 
of 
paint 
  
  
  
f*ck mariah carey 
f*ck reading books 
get a kindle god dammit 
it's 2012 
and people still read books 
and listen to the beatles 
what the f*ck is wrong with you troglodytes...

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I meander among an indiscriminate sea of wildflowers 
allowing the scheduled seconds turn into unplanned hours

and as my toes browse through the rooted splotches of paint 
my thoughts sail in a nomadic wind devoid of restraint

looking for barefooted childish notions of a wander’s life
that swirl in the dreamy cosmos expelling one’s strife

but just as I found my youthful stars, away they flew
like a dandelion wish that patiently waits to come true...

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My face is covered
In splotches
My hair is dull and brown
My stomach bulges
And my butt is fat

My back- it aches
My head- it throbs
I stubbed my toe
Again

He looked at me 
She pulled my hair
And at my clothes 
The always stare

My side- it pains
My finger’s jammed
And in the door
My hand was slammed

There’s a moth
I scream with fright
I run away
With all my might

My room’s dark
My feet are cold
And there’s the boogieman
I was told....

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I feel twelve most days, on rare occasions, I feel nineteen.
When folk music from the sixties comes on, I am seventeen.
I do not remember being any ages in between these ages and my real age.
I do not recognize or revere my actual age.

So when I look into the mirror and see faded eyes,
An old woman’s neck, splotches on my skin and a sty on my eye
I forget to smile, which is great, because then I do not see missing teeth.
And I can still be twelve, seventeen or nineteen....

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Stealing what the day won
grey clouds evoke despair,
choking a waning sun.

A dullness dims the air
and flower petals close,
in order to prepare.

Bruised indigo splotches
dapple diminished blues,
with dark purple blotches.

Flashing within the gloom
lightning intensifies;
with a thunderous boom.

And its jagged claws scratch
at the air in the sky,
searching out drops to snatch.

But such strikes are in vain;
electrical talons,
can not grasp drops of rain....

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