This page is specially prepared for color poems. You can reach newest and popular color poems from this page. You can vote and comment on the color poems you read.
Red is the color of love
But; 4 me red
Is a color of stop
My red signal;my periods
three simple words
and it changed the oceans tides,
the strength of the wind.
the color of the leaves,
You pretty soul in the back seat
Your diamond voice is super neat
It wows me like a magical trick
It does make me want to flirt
Down The Lanes Of August
DOWN the lanes of Augustâ??and the bees upon the wing,
All the world's in color now, and all the song birds sing;
Never reds will redder be, more golden be the gold,
Down the lanes of August, and the summer getting old.
Edgar Albert Guest
" Men "
The heart of men thirst for blood as it was in the beginning, fulfillment is the end.
I heard the cry of a lamb far beyond as it's life was taken away remorselessly.
It is blue-butterfly day here in spring,
And with these sky-flakes down in flurry on flurry
There is more unmixed color on the wing
Than flowers will show for days unless they hurry.
Loving Without Identification
When you love your neighbour
Even if he has not the same skin color with you
That how you call true happiness in your life
This loving attitude gives you entire freedom
Song At Sunset
Splendor of ended day, floating and filling me!
Hour prophetic-hour resuming the past!
Inflating my throat-you, divine average!
You, Earth and Life, till the last ray gleams, I sing.
From what portion of my mind do my thoughts come from?
If only I knew,
there would be many I'm sure.
Once I knew a noble peasant
From a line of men large-hearted.
Light and strength were in his mind,
Lifted like a peak clear-lined
My night sweats grease his breakfast plate.
The same placard of blue fog is wheeled into position
With the same trees and headstones.
Is that all he can come up with,
From out the desolation of the North
An iceberg took it away,
From its detaining comrades breaking forth,
And traveling night and day.
Waking In Winter
I can taste the tin of the sky â??- the real tin thing.
Winter dawn is the color of metal,
The trees stiffen into place like burnt nerves.
All night I have dreamed of destruction, annihilations â??-
These tales of old disguisings, are they not
Strange myths of souls that found themselves among
Unwonted folk that spake an hostile tongue,
Some soul from all the rest who'd not forgot
Remember the 1340's? We were doing a dance called the Catapult.
You always wore brown, the color craze of the decade,
and I was draped in one of those capes that were popular,
the ones with unicorns and pomegranates in needlework.
they clapped when we landed
thinking africa was just an extension
of the black world
they smiled as we taxied home to be met
This is not my home. How did I get so far from water? It must
be over that way somewhere.
I am the color of wine, of tinta. The inside of my powerful
right claw is saffron-yellow. See, I see it now; I wave it like a
On the wide lawn the snow lay deep,
Ridged o'er with many a drifted heap;
The wind that through the pine-trees sung
The naked elm-boughs tossed and swung;
John Greenleaf Whittier
The clouds as I see them, rising
urgently, roseate in the
mounting of somber power
A middle-northern March, now as always-
gusts from the South broken against cold winds-
but from under, as if a slow hand lifted a tide,
it moves-not into April-into a second March,
William Carlos Williams
of ice. Deceptively reserved and flat,
it lies “in grandeur and in mass”
beneath a sea of shifting snow-dunes;
dots of cyclamen-red and maroon on its clearly defined
An agate-black, your roguish eyes
Claim no proud lineage of the skies,
No starry blue; but of good earth
The reckless witchery and mirth.
Madison Julius Cawein
I lift my heart as spring lifts up
A yellow daisy to the rain;
My heart will be a lovely cup
Altho' it holds but pain.
Two Tramps In Mud Time
Out of the mud two strangers came
And caught me splitting wood in the yard,
And one of them put me off my aim
By hailing cheerily “Hit them hard!”
Price Lake: 1961
Mouths shackled, dead or dying,
the bluegills, rainbows and browns
dangled from shiny metal
my father had thrown like chain
Some one ('tis hardly new) has oddly said
The color of a trumpet's blare is red;
And Joseph Emmett thinks the crimson shame
On woman's cheek a trumpet-note of fame.
"Always Be Closing," Liam told usâ??
abc of real estate, used cars,
It was a Maine lobster townâ??
each morning boatloads of hands
pushed off for granite
quarries on the islands,
A Brave And Startling Truth
We, this people, on a small and lonely planet
Traveling through casual space
Past aloof stars, across the way of indifferent suns
To a destination where all signs tell us
Staying At Ed's Place
I like being in your apartment, and not disturbing anything.
As in the woods I wouldn't want to move a tree,
or change the play of sun and shadow on the ground.
To my friend, Ralph Waldo Emerson.
He who could beard the lion in his lair,