Soot Poems - Poems about Soot

The world was my darkness The soot in my blackened sights I once cried in shallows Words entomed within my grave Dug with smiles merrit of fading sorrows My final morrows led by fate Towards the rejoicing of tomorrow. 3.11.23...

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Children play by the tree Rope slung over, far above Gaping knot, left lose and free Flying by, a soot filled dove Nature blurred Bodies burnt Head held heavy Tear filled eyes Hope kept deadly Blackened skies...

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Soot on LA highway signs. Billboard of you, a real estate agent. All endeavor slides toward inertia, extinction, forgetfulness. It’s very tropical. Vegetation invades the house unless constant inputs of joy apply. The scientist in you feels the great ape in you. The great ape feels death growing wide. What about work? I devote my present to my future existence. In what way, in...

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The anacrusis, please, andante maestoso, six bars, before the chorus comes… Hell, what is wrong with you, the mighty mage of music, virtuoso, the treble clefsmith? Why the plain and silly song a pretty flower girl sings outside the window on her way home from night dating made you put aside your magic bow? As holy Aurobindo once said in such a...

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FROM SOOT TO RICHES Cinderella lost her tiny glass shoe, And after the ball there was much ado, To find the owner it took A while, she was sitting in soot A princess she was made and no longer blue....

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When living in any big city, The air might be sooty or gritty, So many will lose Their apartment’s nice views Due to windows with grime – what a pity! It’s cumbersome keeping them clean. All New Yorkers will know what I mean; For the sparkle I got When I Windexed, will not, By tomorrow, retain any sheen. So my vistas are subtly skewed, Since with...

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It erosion my thought to Tyson bouts molded me to who I am today. Acid liquid rocks the precocious cockroaches disguising under the shade of table waiting to hit the night dinner. Sweeping smoke to mugs shape, water trickle wet my mustaches pointing to the sea, promising the land to germination, eggs aroma no iota...

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Tom Fowler was a chimney sweeper who was also a window peeper. Caught black-handed folks demanded Fowler be made a breathless sleeper....

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Stranded on black soot in mood Pile of dusts sight, forsaken by time In the mangled maze, I glued Grief finally tranquilized, honored as it should Still, sense's writhing in a silent polemic Steal the realities which still running As was strolling in the haze of hallucinations The bitter whispers through scratches and melts into dripping sores Upon the night which had stolen Astonished...

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so what?i got fourty more before hitting the bed,at least its read....

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