Taupe Poems | Examples

sand castle hiku

           ^
    ^   /   \  ^    ~    ~  in taupe twilight calm
   |     |    |    |          tiny  kingdom softly    f    a    d   e   s   ~ 
   ~  ____ ~           tide ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ whispers   a
                                                                              d
                                                                                 i
                                                                                       e
                                                                                              u

Autumn Bird

Brown as a withered leaf
Crimson neckband with flashing wings of
winter taupe - bright green underneath.
Perched each day in the window’s bay
ever out of reach.

 If I could bring you in
 and teach your wild heart how to stay
every secret I hold would tell me
why you’ll fly  away. 

Autumn Bird stay here with me

and trill the notes to waken spring.

Beside the Sea - POTD

Beside the sea I wait~
the dreamy dawn to shine
and paint horizon's hue
in tawny, taupe and teal
unveiling vivid view.

Beside the sea I wait~
the early birds in flight
arching like tiara 
making sky a painting 
of placid aurora.

Beside the sea I wait~
the whisper of the breeze
soaring as sunshine sings
her stellar symphony
reviving lost musings.

Beside the sea I wait~
the crashing of the waves
sparkling like sunlit snow
as they return to shore
my love will, too, I know.

Colorful Fall

Carnelian and crimsons orchestrate eye music
Ornate as orange oboes that blare a fiery woo 
Loud in the hills, flaring flutes of maroon thrill,
Oscillating in burgundy trills of a breezy banjo
Red rises in volumes that the silent trees hear,
For they farewell warmth, in sun-setting relief,  
Undulating in vermillion wavelengths an adieu,
Lingering long in mellowing yellows, autumnal

Free leaves wind-whorl a gold saxophone-puff
As apples blush in whistles of a taupe wisteria
Looping branches bare-brown in tuned annual
Love-fest festooned in earthen melody eternal

(9/14/18)

Landscape

Caressing the mind
And kissing
Glossy, smooth stones
Liquid rippling
Flowing over the bed
Hues of taupe
Sand and charcoal
With hints of lavender
Coloring the emotions
Wistful, willful, warm
Like the flavor
Of a rising storm

Resting on the sand
Brilliant like the sunshine
Glowing in moonlight
Smooth stones
Risking their stability
In the currents
Gracefully pouring
Along the edge
Of an emerald forest
Pines, oaks and birch
A leaf dancing
In the starry flames
Night’s radiance
Whispering to souls
In prayers of faith
Discovered on
The winds of a day
Bought by the songs
Of wren and robin
Frogs on mossy stones
Beckoning to the 
Promise of rainfall

Smooth, lasting stones
Layered on shores
Of rivers and creeks
Awakening the bare feet
To memories 
Of childhood days
Spent wading, playing
In the clear, cool waters
Alive with sinuous fluid
Waters surging, rolling
Across the mind
Who delights in praising
The Creator who 
Rests these stones
Upon the shores
Of hope and faith
Love which praises
As it slides 
Across the surface
Of these fluent waves
Both agile and gracious
Molding the stones
In their favor






L Contest

Going Steady

The heels’ climbing trellis —
Crimson roses, bold and beautiful.
Wrapped like a winding staircase,
The taupe strap shin high.
Snazzy red toenails.
The fashion’d lady primped,
Ready for her handsome “steady.”

4/23/2021

Prelude

As the taupe-toned twilight 
begins to capture the day~
his image is slowly etched
upon the drifting penumbra
waiting to immerse
in her winter dreams.

And as the nocturnal shades 
slowly transform~
from sepia to radiant hues;
He swims into her lake of blue~
as her fiery eyes emit
igneous air that lightens
silent secret sanctuaries
melting them in shaded winter dreams. 

His hands fill the spaces
of her arid fingertips~
making her glide one more time
into another episode of winter dreams.

02.06.2021


“P” Contest, New or Old Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France

Burn, Ovid

Burn, Ovid
by Michael R. Burch

“Burn Ovid”—Austin Clarke

Sunday School,
Faith Free Will Baptist, 1973:
I sat imagining watery folds
of pale silk encircling her waist.
Explicit sex was the day’s “hot” topic
(how breathlessly I imagined hers)
as she taught us the perils of lust
fraught with inhibition.

I found her unaccountably beautiful,
rolling implausible nouns off the edge of her tongue:
adultery, fornication, masturbation, sodomy.
Acts made suddenly plausible by the faint blush
of her unrouged cheeks,
by her pale lips
accented only by a slight quiver,
a trepidation.

What did those lustrous folds foretell
of our uncommon desire?
Why did she cross and uncross her legs
lovely and long in their taupe sheaths?
Why did her breasts rise pointedly,
as if indicating a direction?

“Come unto me,
(unto me),”
together, we sang,

cheek to breast,
lips on lips,
devout, afire,

my hands
up her skirt,
her pants at her knees:

all night long,
all night long,
in the heavenly choir.

Keywords/Tags: Ovid, god, religion, church, Sunday school, sex, sexy, sensual, lust, desire, passion, choir, hymn, hymns, devout, devotion, faith, purity, chastity

The Foxy Neutrino

The psychology of the sun is strange...

The violinist's taupe 
strapped sandals, color of beach 
sand, burning, slap tiles

with embedded grime, like
the charred plaster walls of a Syrerian
merchant. Anytime...a fear:

bombs dropped, scarring 
an isolated biped life.
Morning edges spill

light the tint of egg-
whites commixed with the yolk, brewing
the dream that souses

the intangable 
permeation of the air;
imbued rose colors

of birth; or a prom's
carnation, white tinted blue
like the cottony sky

draped over the fringes
of liminal lives cast onto
the arcane stage

of a paralyzed 
mortality. A need
of warmth for the flower,

the snug petals that breach 
an infernal cut into 
the animus in life.

A stygian gash
insufferable like a pompei 
brain cooked into glass,

a fossil the tinct
of diabolical eyes. An
appollyn rises 
 
to seize the sun's foxy
neutrino, more easily 
snared than bombs.

Mind Games

There’s one place I go to, quite frequently I may add.
It’s quiet and secluded from everything, but most importantly, everyone.
No one knows of this room,
The color is taupe with bare walls all except one picture.
The floor is slate and cold to the touch.
This box seemed to get bigger the longer I was there
But the air seemed to get thinner by the second. 
One chair. One picture frame. And no door.
No means of escape. 
The chair, posed so that you are gazing into the picture frame.
Sitting. Staring. Thinking.
The picture, hanging on the wall, mocking you.
Look at it closer. What is it? What does it mean? What do you see?
The longer you look the more distorted it becomes.
You throw your head into your hands and try to catch your breath.
The room, getting bigger. The air, getting thinner.
Slowing raising your head from the grips of your hands you look into the frame,
Only this time, it’s not a picture.
Looking back at you, in the eyes, is yourself.
Sitting. Staring. Thinking.
You and only you.
Nothing there, no one there, just your thoughts.
Sitting. Staring. Thinking.

Sahara Moon

The Sahara's flaring moon
weaves sand castles in hombre dusk,
jacquard ridges unraveling down burlap slopes.

Under taupe sky a balmy loom 
spins dust into tawny gold for a sultan sun,
eroding an oasis to sate his rapture
with effete wealth tatted in the shadows
cast by white peacock clouds
floating above seedless dunes
once shimmering with emerald palms
and sapphire waters.

Unseen hands of a sightless pearl
now craft his exfoliated sheikdom
from the dry scraps of Eden.

Written In Beige

Written In Beige

Against the bleak bank wall he leans
as the sidewalk moves sideways
across his tangential thoughts.
People pass, the dull parade,
the money-grubbers and hoarders
in their shiny suits that mock
his existence. Sad clouds meld
into a sullen gray sky…it must be raining
somewhere. Clink! Silver coin
rattles metal can. He wonders, when
did the colours disappear?
The pungent aroma from Mickey’s
Taco Wagon punishes his senses
and his eyes begin to leak. He’s hungry.
There was a time when his words
were golden, a rainbow of passion.
He had a family, people who loved him.
A November wind kicks him…no, wait!
Security guard motions as another
peers from behind motion-sensing
cameras. Not wanted. He disappears
next to the discoloured taupe wall.
The mystery: how did his life story
get written in beige?


*Note: this is written in honour of a homeless poet named Raimundo Arruda Sobrinho but, in essence, for every homeless person.

Mosul

Arabia desert
Crème Brulee of land
Taupe color buildings in the desert
Mosul

Eminem Rising

Fire of timing
Lyrics shining
Unveiling the mining
Emotions rhyming
Rap to the beat
Feel his heat
Given a seat
His door is opening
He's only hoping
Don't be moping
His color isn't taupe
Don't give him a rope
That's not his soap
Reborn a phoenix
Into his mix
Get your fix
He won't nix

No Longer Hand In Glove

My leather glove is missing - now I only have one
It’s useless on it’s own when all is said and done

These gloves were precious to me, I’m sure you’ll understand
But I can’t leave the house with a glove just on one hand!

I discovered one single glove on the front seat of my car
The other one has gone astray - surely it can’t be far

So I’ve hunted high and I’ve hunted low
But my taupe leather glove is still a no show

Now I’ve found some similar gloves on E-bay
They’ll be here soon and will really make my day

*The gloves were an absolutely perfect fit - mum brought me them when we were in Dublin in 2010 - I will always have the memories but I am so sad at losing one glove

Jan Allison
19th April 2016

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