Short Splotchy Poems
Short Splotchy Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Splotchy by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Splotchy by length and keyword.
Splotchy clouds
squeeze billions of
raindrops
from a blemished
sky bruised with purplish
charcoal grey
blotches:
as lightning
flashes
and thunder
accost the
the face of heaven;
summoning the mournful
tears
of weeping angels.
A gray and white cat sidles up
against the splotchy green dumpster
and meows despite himself.
The plastic lid slams hard at the end
of another long shift. It sounds desperately final
like the North Springs station, or the highest note
of a violin.
Lee had fried her face
She had fried her hair
Sitting in the sun
Outside her beachfront lair
She was all spotted now
Her skin was mottled and wrinkled.
Her face was splotchy like a cow
Her neck was hard and crinkled
You fried your face!
You fried your hair!
This was said by her sister.
Lee replied “I don’t care!”
what face? his back
we face
an umbrella in space
a splotchy coat embrace
striped pants
dark yellow and orange canopy
his countenance red hat you see
atmospheric happiness
of blue powder, lavender and pink
quintessential canvas
of Peter Max
pop artistry
j a z z
if it’s raining
it’s raining
J O Y
9/2/2022
Sponsor: Brian Strand
A rainy hike following mud trails.
It’s a Cadillac ‘Fleetwood’
here in the back woods!
A car crumbling out of memory.
Layers of rust have layers of moss,
a film of bird adds a splotchy frost
to the crud.
Not many Cadillac bones are left,
just metallic tree ruins and
the verdigris of blight.
Tired, wet, and bedraggled,
I wish I could have pulled that car
out of the past
and driven it home.
A rainy hike
following mud trails.
It’s a Cadillac ‘Fleetwood’
here in the back woods!
A car crumbling out of memory.
Layers of rust have layers of moss,
a film of bird crap adds a splotchy frost
to the crud.
Not even Cadillac bones are left,
just metallic tree ruins and
the verdigris of blight.
Tired, wet and bedraggled,
I wish I could have pulled that car
out of the past
and driven it home.
The lightning danced all through the night
To wrought a festival of fire
That put to torch in blackened blight,
And scorched the forest like a pyre
Now, petroglyphs of nature’s arts
In splotchy ash ‘cross craggy scarp,
Are scarred background to blackened ghosts
Now frozen in escapement’s warp.
The energy of blackened woods
And flora from the forest floor
Has left behind the fertile goods
Of nascence sown, as evermore.