Wrinkled Poems - Poems about Wrinkled

Makeup

Hello friends, makeup is a skillful art,                                    Do you agree or not, it is real,     

Wrinkled Bed

   Why do we make beds?
   Every night I get back in.
   Slide into sheets cool and thin.
   Strech out across the bed,
   Tossing and turning,
   Even my head.
   My bed is so neat and clean,
   My Momma makes

Song of old age

Let me now sing the song of my old age,
All I recount now belongs to the past.
Since the noticed changes are far too vast,
Let this song be sung by a real sage.

This face, now so old, ugly, and wrinkled,
Once shone with a glow, bright and appealing.
Though no longer fine, smooth, and now peeling,
This same old

A child under wrinkled skin

Monsoon’s mellow air had made my mind to 
Ponder on life’s past, fast backward and forth,
Till sudden lightning with muted thunder
Made me leave chair to look out of window. 
There, resting elbows on a windowsill,  
And bending a bit my old, wrinkled self,
I looked around with my deep-set tired eyes--
The children playing with rain

Wrinkled Rose

The moon is a wrinkled rose, quenched in quartz tears,
and I taste the citrus scent of russet rain~
from the heart of his crown, embroidered with fears,
while stars weave wishes across the astral plane.
But what if sage streaks of lunar-dusted spheres,
wrap my warm soul with twinkling trinkets in vain?
Would I then find constellations of fireflies,
be the

His Wrinkled Hands

His wrinkled hands, the texture of sand
    creases and grooves line the space of his face
  You notice his gait, a trifle unsteady
    but at 5:00 a.m., he's prayed, for work he's ready

  He's a man of the Torah, in the Land of Israel
   

A Hand In Time

I view my hand. I see an ancient land.
A melanomic crater, deep in the desert,
speaks of greedy sun-soaked days.
Wanton then. Gone now.
Sparse wispy palm trees cluster,
storm ravaged, angled randomly,
now almost invisible,
now silver in the light.
Ravines compressed in lines
symmetrical, as from space,
appearing geometric,
requiring translation,
needing understanding,
awaiting exploration.
Ahead, beyond the fault line,
mountains expand and converge,
blue-edged and rising high
above

Wrinkled On the Road

My friend had miles of highway
‘Til she’d reach her new abode
So she needed to be up and out
Before a rooster crowed.

To help her get an early start
And not be somehow slowed,
She went to bed already dressed
In all-out travel mode.

I heard about this plan of hers
And my confusion showed.
I told her she’d be wrinkled
And her laughter

Wrinkled Birds

There is a cup in your hand, and there is black water like the ocean,
Maybe she will absorb all the sorrows,
  Everything that happened before...
  My tears have dried
A transparent package is like a shroud,
  Thousands of white scarves are buried there, like birds.
They did not fly away, there was no wind
And

Through the Seasons of Time

wrinkled hands and greying hair
time ages us all
wisdom lies deep within
awaiting requests for advice
	
the beauty we once held
fleeting as it was
was lived, then disappeared
through the seasons of time

Wrinkled

A wrinkled brow adorned his face
His whistle revealed his character's grace
As he walked behind an old worn mule
In the humid heat of that home rule
Memories now surface, why?
Childhood faded, gone, but I descry 

Contest: Bite Size Poem #30
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Written:12-20-21

descry: catch sight of

Fallen Leaves

autumn reflections
wrinkled leaves wrinkled faces
mourning dead leaves

Wrinkled Babe Or Toddler Old Man

Looks like my grandfather fallen over 
Around brown with the sunken Grand 
My visaged tan round 
My hair recedes like in a sounding wave 
As I breathe nostril serenade,
puckered lips
 about stuck out like a fish 
Textured skin rough dries like an oatmeal 
Teary eyes saddened by my brow 
Hopeless cheeks of dimples plants face
With

Wrinkled Shirt

My shirt is wrinkled – who will see?
No one but my spouse and me
And grandkids, via FaceTime’s screen;
But hey! At least my clothes are clean.

My bed is made, the sink is bare.
It isn’t like I just don’t care,
Though staying in, it’s quite a job
To stop from living like a slob.

My husband vacuums, I wash clothes.
We’re

Bora, Bora

On the isle of Bora Bora
Ancient are the crafts that lie there.
White beaches beckon those who linger
and those who taste the salty air.

I met a girl there on that island.
Later she became my wife.
Now aged and wrinkled yet still a beauty
my companion for all my life.

Now our grand sons, four moreover
dig sand fleas on that

• Short Wrinkled Poems
• Famous Wrinkled Poems
• Best Wrinkled Poems
• Read Wrinkled Poems
• Long Wrinkled Poems
• Wrinkled Quotes