"whitish" poems
Its a full-moon night
silver light drapes bare trees
where snow has left its lacy touch
the ground covered in whitish glow
a coyote howls far
unable to contain its joy
of so beautiful a night.
Its a full moon night
nocturnal world aglow
in fiery light,
fairies in silver wing fly,
I look on,
eyes stare in wonder
and
my heart is empty.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 9:56 PM UTC
As the skyline alters its guise
From the lively azure
To an idle whitish hue
Which ended into
A mournful shade of gray
Like the shade in films of retros.
A frightening sound,
A roar from an angry beast echoed
After every glowing zigzagged lines
Which I thought he drew.
Louder it went
Like drum rolls
Of an ill-staged concerto,
But uglier it turned into.
Haunted, I cupped my hands on both ears
Crept under the covers
And wished it all away.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 9:06 AM UTC
The Hummingbird
The golden egg, an Owl put
In the nest of nerd,
Out of which came then
The Hummingbird.
A gemmy nestling saw nerd,
the sooty Raven
He was terribly shocked and
in grief driven.
Aware Peahen asked Raven
Eyes aren wet?
Seethingly he answered her
The little I hate.
The restless little flatters,
As a bee unstable
And hovers above flowers
Which do wobble.
Belated Peahen took Raven
To Peacock White.
The incident she explained,
And story did recite.
Let my wisdom penetrate,
In thy empty brain,
Love begets love; hate hate
Said Whitish sane.
Take care of her, no her liberty,
The little be free.
Wish she pearches on loyalty;
A branch of Tree.
S. Bharat
Apr 10, 2019
Apr 10, 2019 at 1:03 AM UTC
A dark river flows like liquid night,
Though it’s slick with shadowed fright.
I fail to flee from its grave hold,
For darkness is my calming light.
The winds of sorrow wind past me,
Going by that river free.
I know not else what life could tell,
For cold flowing water is all I see.
The darkness binds me to its bay,
By the beach of its withered way.
I glimpse a whitish wave of light,
Beaming through the bleary day
It's too bright and clear, it makes me cry,
Streaming in to sting my eye.
I dive down deep into the depths,
To avoid the light though I don't know why.
Jul 19, 2010
Jul 19, 2010 at 10:15 AM UTC
Once upon a time we had the hymnal propped by the kitchen sink so's I could learn; years later Mum would sing along with me, and now...I like never but once in a blue moon dare to sing aloud, for missing her to tears.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCXLVII)
What's happened to--me? Rainy hours detail
Thet eye with silver's touch while green lawns fence
The minutes fog obscures by vague suspense
With softest carpets rolled out to avail,
And I'm not erm, my own in sheer betrayl;
Erst naked trees lost to mists' whitish sense
Of yonder, I could shiver, and do hence,
Cuz in a blink I'm his upon that scale.
One comment like my wont five days ere, poor
As what? now he distracts aught hours 'til through
Suggestion I am giggling, sober, tour
His deepest sorrows, and maunt say he'd woo?!
Of course, I'm better searching violets, fer
All that. Let purple wink low, saying we knew.
05Apr17b
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 12:58 AM UTC
In the villa in Sharja,
A banyan tree stood, stuck to the wall of the building.
Mind throbbed as soon as it caught sight of it,
Touched it to my forehead in reverence,
Remembered my father who understood trees.
In the book she has kept closed,
It should be possible to still see
The memory veins of a leaf-
Plucked after touching its soul and seeking permission.
‘It is a sign of prosperity,
It cleanses the atmosphere’, Mary too said.
New tenants came in the room vacated by Priyan and Anjana
Jaya aunty and her husband said that they wore skull caps
Narayanan, wearing sacred thread and sandalwood paste on his forehead,
Anthony with rosary and sacred amulet
After them,
Youngsters of this type were not seen so nearby
One night, when I went out of my way to touch that tree,
I heard speech of a rhythmic nature
From the room of those who wore caps
It passed through my mind, ‘these are times when words become music.’
It was a Friday.
While watering Basil plants,
Saw the branches of the banyan on the ground.
Its leaves, like heart shattered..
Whitish veins drained of blood
my eyes hurt
As I ran to it,
Saw the tree,
Looking like a worshipper whose hands were cut
While crying, beseeching the heavens , arms outstretched.
Father,
You used to say that there were many types of trees
Which tree is used to make crosses to crucify humans, Father?
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 9:54 AM UTC
Creamy purple
Red
Steamy bed
Silver hugs your bones
Lungs blackened
Triple blue tones
**** yellow green
Legs wrapped
Inbetween
Canvas lain down
Work of art
Abstract
Wood carved
Circles
Amber brown
Luscious lips
Painted frown
Orange ***
Tastes of grey
This is art
Hushed cries
You came
Creamy purple red
Whitish mixture
Stained bed...
This is art
Murray
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 9:15 PM UTC
Whitecaps coffee-white, a bay frosty.
Sails, 99% white,
Always, gotta be one, black or blue,
Freaking tradition-breaker
White man with white baby,
In a white onesie,
Astride his daddy's tummy,
Dad, he ain't dressed warm enough.
All these observations recorded,
Taxed and paid for, with dandy words
Floating by the nook, overlooking
The whitish sandy beach mapped
As Silver Beach,
Where I pray.
Whither white led?
A summary of twenty writes
In four labored days,
A poetry *****
To say anything else,
Too little, too more.
Overstayed my welcome,
But a white cleansing accomplished,
With look-backs submitted, got some debts paid,
Bills marked overdue, resolved.
The children unblemished,
To new schools and new troubles,
I can only inky-dinky-rinky worry.
This fall is the season of produce or die.
Of these things I don't joke.
If I get pasteurized, won't be a good thing.
This my style after all.
Simplest, to the point where
Poetry is a luxury,
I can't always afford.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 5:11 PM UTC
Along I strolled a country path
spread with leaves of happy shade,
sunspots sprinkled on the turf,
insects humming in the glade.
Towering gumtrees soar aloft
running mauve to whitish tan,
strips of bark hang limply downward
richly capped with leafy crown.
The great bowl squats, it’s fan of
massive roots inumerable.
The leaves are wet
and silver sunlight sparks from sheen to sheen,
dazzling those who care to notice
moss so green,
and lacelike in it’s tiny brittle intricacy
Sunlight stirs the breeze to eddy
swirls of leaves in turn do bring
the brown eyed blackbird out to sing
his lilting challenge;
blue crisp air.
Delightful is the word I choose
to announce my sentiments,
nature in late summer gown,
drab winter in disgust
relents another day with thunderous frown.
Marshalg
Ferntree Gully
26th March 1969
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 12:52 PM UTC
Autumn waltzing
Leaves are dancing
A scene of loveliness
The wind it blows
To free the souls
Intriguing the world
The moonlite night
It's whitish light
Illuminating
I will take a chance
and dance the dance
Maybe love will find me
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 5:38 AM UTC
Figure on the hill,
the vast and dark;
heinous conqueror
with single, vaulted eye.
That common passing mark
a whitish spear
who often in the morning
passed unheard.
Color in the walls,
the tangent all of space;
and I most meet
and he the thrilling knight.
Braggart of the ears,
where sleepest thou,
an curvature would bite
that runs upon the steely edge of wit?
In this repose, and let no man declaim
that music cannot work the bones of fame.
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 9:18 PM UTC
Adenium Obesum
Known as Desert Rose
also known as
Fat Plant
Gazelle Lily
in common prose
She is a dry land beauty
waxy leaf and trumpet flower
a lovely pink magenta
she needs gentle
desert showers
Her stem is whitish
bare of leaf
she won't thrive in a vase
her root is like a tuber
she's got an
obese base!
Her exquisite blooms
are very large
and though they have no scent
they cover all
The Desert Rose
she is heaven sent!
SoulSurvivor
(C) 6/15/2016
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC
Red spatter across green.
Ants sing.
Caterpillars pour eggnog.
A tree is raised.
Bug Christmas.
Strands of Brown tinsel lead up.
Carpeting a tan oval.
Over the ridge, and onto a bridge.
A deep, sunken hole on either side.
Devoid.
The crows have had their feast.
Lower.
Agape.
A cave lined with whitish stones.
Further, the slope continues down.
Two mirrored hills.
Gouges are ravines,
creating flowing rivers.
Down,
the red till it touches green.
Above,
the sky is mesmerizing,
drawing me in.
White clouds transform.
The sun is gone.
Blotted out, but no rain.
Deeper.
A nearing roar.
Below is celebration.
Above the blades,
severity.
Paralyzed.
You ran me over with a lawn mower
and so the lawn was painted christmas.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 11:21 PM UTC
as you swept the hair
away from my face,
i thought about how
beautiful your eyes
are.
how the brown of
them all shone behind
your half-rimmed
glasses and how they
seemed to smile
with your lips at me
too.
as you tucked the
blackness behind
my right ear,
i couldn't help but
stare at you only.
the way you chuckled
as i looked sheepishly
at you in confusion was
really enchanting to me.
"you're so weird," you said.
"looking so confused at me
fixing your hair."
"why wouldn't i be?" it was
snarky, but it wasn't supposed
to be. "it's not like a lot do
that to me."
you grinned, and your
yellowish and whitish
teeth looked brighter
than the sun itself.
"well, you got me,
and that's more than
enough to keep you
positive in life."
a warm, calloused hand
found its way to my head.
my hair was messed up,
but it was long and thick,
so it looked proper still.
"a smile looks better on you,
y'know. like how your hair
looks better beside your face."
too bad, all that hair
is gone now.
too bad, that smile
faded more now.
too bad, that girl you
knew grew farther
away now.
too bad, i cannot
see your eyes from
the same angle
anymore.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 7:20 AM UTC
It was a Merry-go-ish when I wrote for goddess
An A.B.C Montessori when I painted for Kings
I did greater than the honourable Author of Psalms when I wrote for David
Slaughterer of Goliath, the beloved of the yahweh
My diction sublimes at the gaze of your gait
My pun, vapourized at the thought of your trait
A blonde is best honoured with a long whitish strings of hair
To an African Jewel Jezzy a short shinning black hairs in rare
Which glitter like the flashes of cameras from spectators watching El Classico
Situated on d head like a bed of Roses
A gaze at the paradise still remains an imagination
The reality of it is the picture your face renders at every caption
Well set eyeballs like a black shinning button on a white Teddy bear
Perfectly structured nose, an opening to a gold-cafe
It still baffles me if God really did pain you with a neutral Emulsion glossy paint
Because if the blind calmly stare at it
Clearly will his posture be read, ready to be painted
Discussing the movie that is run in the mystery entailed in your lips
Let's just say its a gaze at the sky that is filled with tulips
Enclosing a set of teeth that looks just like a podium designed with mountain of snow
Which at every smile, causes the audiences' heart to blow
At every picture you take
Causes the saddened hearts a re-make
Go through the cardinal points
See the way Ocean of crowds cluster. to make your feet a joint
Appraisal of your beauty is too 'Waowy' to be written as a Bible
I'm a rude lad though, kindly manage this nonsense from the heart that is liable.
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 8:02 AM UTC
Is it _black,_ or is it _red,_
as it mostly makes me feel _blue,_
when a lover is just a memory in my head...
_Purple_ shades in the passion of our love,
a _yellow_ delight, if it feels destined from above.
But for some, a whitish-gray when their about to ***
Those who believe they're shooting out their love...
_Green_ for the envy of those displaying their
affections in public. _Pantone 448 C,_ for some
people's love is quite ugly. But in the warmth of
us being _orange,_ I warn the woman I love to ease off
the long hugs. As my tenderness is a light _pink,_ so a
quick hug if you please...
_We've all got our shade of colour,_
_to the feelings of love._
Aug 19, 2022
Aug 19, 2022 at 4:07 PM UTC
this poised indelible knot)
(of untranslucent lodging rock
that mets so eagerly
a
n
d
shorns the tousled bed of sky
a circlet of watching cobalt
supreme and rigidly manicured
wi
th
the stormy lips of god
they(who;are,a,marvelous’girded.fauld:of gray)
speak
with whitish freezing voice
to say upon the noble cap
this organized heap
of lean sinuous
stone
their icy tongue
which laps the bare skull
of the untremulous mountain
irrevocably spouting on the horizon
Mar 2, 2011
Mar 2, 2011 at 10:05 AM UTC
________________________________
White! keeps me thinking for awhile
An innocent color maybe
Doves that often fly in the sky
Symbolize peace that gives smile
White! a blank pages that longing for an ink
A new born child, so pure, no sins
But as time passes by, we need not to blink
A child grown up, whitish color, now was just a dream
White! I can't wait for you to show your true colors
Definitely time will paint something in you
Be shaded by green, red, black and blue
White! tell me... What's the color of your hue?
4-08-15
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 2:06 AM UTC
We are on the couch. He is fast asleep.
Cheek sinking lightly into the pillow,
breathing in soft snores peacefully,
oblivious to all emotions transpired.
Like delicate tails of aged lace
his hair covers his cheeks,
his collarbones.
Just below his milky shoulders are faint freckles
balanced on his skin like stars in the navy sky.
Light from the whitish tranquil moon seeps through sheer curtains,
along with the peculiar sound of dishes being washed in the next room.
The glimmer of the television still plays upon the walls.
Nothing changes.
But there he wakes.
Then looks me straight in the eyes.
And his orbs were unnaturally limpid.
I'd never noticed.
They gave me a bizarre, pure feeling.
Just shot right through me.
Like gazing at the sky.
Almost without thinking, I drew nearer to him.
It took no longer than a second to bury myself in his glow,
to feel his breaths and grip on my fingers tighten.
His five fingers, in search of something, roaming over my back.
He cradles me in his right arm,
I stroke his fine strands of hair with my left.
For a while, he waits for me to sleep first.
Eventually, I always do.
And that's it.
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 1:42 PM UTC
baby, someday you will be dead
you'll needlessly of nothing lustful
bodyheart or
******* hardly be (notbe, infact)
the loving stupor of thy fragrant zone
or the unchaste familiar kissing *******
not sore, not felt (save for rushing of
wormsdirtroots) not beguilers, food
instead be you'll, baby: crush of soil
or finely whitish powder scattered to
mingle in puckish breezes sweeping
the grass in your onceexquisite piercing
waist(so notdead, baby, i wonder if your
green stem supple might slightly acute
chafed of thorn, baby might like my
hands rushing
notwormsdirtroots
unfleece you, and in your livid youthful
hipsspilll them full of
me
?
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 5:23 PM UTC
i
tonight he
ard t
he
whole increasing
churn of asleep
moon light
profess
******* a pair
of giggling
gorgeous effluent
skinny skin
and peaked mounting
each lush pale
drop of flesh
a pinkest isle
dithered and
cooed a string
of pleasant
sharp rasps
of whitish
light
(the moon like
like honey drips
the whole sky fantastic
and carnal with
the imploding bulge
of her Winter
set ****
).
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 7:19 AM UTC
a soft is just as sharp as hard is tawny
fragile fingers o'er the premise
of the swelling maze of branches
up on the wind; o'er my sill
the delicious fresh breath
of the lamb of god
who put under the skirt of cobalt
(who now is wearing little
shafts of golden;
little grunts of oblong light
prattling through tufts of
whitish thoughts)
all the air in lungs
teetering past my lips
to feed the choir of blades
'gainst the mooning pallor
May 8, 2011
May 8, 2011 at 11:33 AM UTC
Massive, gray, these leaden waves
bear their unchanging burden—
the sameness of each day to day
while the wind seems to struggle to say
something half-submerged planks at the mouth of the bay
might nuzzle limp seaweed to understand.
Now collapsing dull waves drain away
from the unenticing land;
shrieking gulls shadow fish through salt spray—
whitish streaks on a fogged silver mirror.
Sizzling lightning impresses its brand.
Unseen fingers scribble something in the wet sand.
Originally published by Southwest Review
Feb 21, 2020
Feb 21, 2020 at 10:53 PM UTC
I do not like Soyinka!
Except because I love him.
I do not like Soyinka!
That in obvious allure octogenarian man.
With whitish locks.
And this is my jocose to him.
That old jolly-jocund who's in a gay.
I do not wish to be garrulous,
Or loquacious.
So I will say
For I am an enfant terrible.
And I will enfeeble him with my euphoric words.
That elderberry with no egregious egotic lines.
I loathe him, yet loathing him.
Bend to him.
That fair dinkum laureate.
I hope this is not a lese majesty?
For I have penned this accord to his standard.
I do not like Soyinka!
Unless because I love him.
My sworn, utter coruscating model.
Is that I do not like him, I love him.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 6:07 AM UTC