Pink Poems | Best Poems about the Colour Pink


    Barbie Doll Poem by Marge Piercy

    This girlchild was born as usual
    and presented dolls that did pee-pee
    and miniature GE stoves and irons
    and wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy.
    Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said:
    You have a great big nose and fat legs.

    She was healthy, tested intelligent,
    possessed strong arms and back,
    abundant sexual drive and manual dexterity.
    She went to and fro apologizing.
    Everyone saw a fat nose on thick legs.

    She was advised to play coy,
    exhorted to come on hearty,
    exercise, diet, smile and wheedle.
    Her good nature wore out
    like a fan belt.
    So she cut off her nose and her legs
    and offered them up.

    In the casket displayed on satin she lay
    with the undertaker’s cosmetics painted on,
    a turned-up putty nose,
    dressed in a pink and white nightie.
    Doesn’t she look pretty? everyone said.
    Consummation at last.
    To every woman a happy ending.



    I Say I Say I Say Poem by Simon Armitage

    Anyone here had a go at themselves
    for a laugh? Anyone opened their wrists
    with a blade in the bath? Those in the dark
    at the back, listen hard. Those at the front
    in the know, those of us who have, hands up,
    let’s show that inch of lacerated skin
    between the forearm and the fist. Let’s tell it
    like it is: strong drink, a crimson tidemark
    round the tub, a yard of lint, white towels
    washed a dozen times, still pink. Tough luck.
    A passion then for watches, bangles, cuffs.
    A likely story: you were lashed by brambles
    picking berries from the woods. Come clean, come good,
    repeat with me the punch line ‘Just like blood’
    when those at the back rush forward to say
    how a little love goes a long long long way.



    Flying Inside Your Own Body Poem by Margaret Atwood

    Your lungs fill & spread themselves,
    wings of pink blood, and your bones
    empty themselves and become hollow.
    When you breathe in you’ll lift like a balloon
    and your heart is light too & huge,
    beating with pure joy, pure helium.
    The sun’s white winds blow through you,
    there’s nothing above you,
    you see the earth now as an oval jewel,
    radiant & seablue with love.
    It’s only in dreams you can do this.
    Waking, your heart is a shaken fist,
    a fine dust clogs the air you breathe in;
    the sun’s a hot copper weight pressing straight
    down on the think pink rind of your skull.
    It’s always the moment just before gunshot.
    You try & try to rise but you cannot.



    Heartaches Will Never Last Poem by Bernard F. Asuncion

    Heartaches will never last nor will they ever stay;
    sorrow shall go so fast in the passing of day.
    Once in a little while, one’s heart may break and bleed;
    abandoned by the smile, his teardrops want to plead.

    The colors of life’s way are not just pink and bright
    but also dark and gray for the day and the night.
    The pain and hopelessness are just in someone’s mind;
    causing some mental stress, better leave them behind.

    Nobody else can cure your wound but you alone;
    self-confidence for sure takes you from your cry zone.
    The sweet smile of your own makes the whole world laugh too;
    yes, the sadder you moan, the more it’s only you.

    Getting out of deep well of severe depression
    is easier to tell than to show in action.
    If forgiveness will rise and will forget the past,
    then you shall realize, heartaches will never last.



    Before The Dawn Poem by Mary Havran

    Before dawn wind rushes
    driving night’s chill westward
    so vestiges of darkness
    send shivers along my spine.
    Facing east I fight
    cold’s piercing urge to wince,
    and huddled await morn’s blush.
    No wind or cold may dissuade
    my eyes from pending purchase
    of that precious brief pink palette,
    clouds trimmed in rosy piping
    which dress the sky at dawn.



    Snow Poem by Louis Macneice

    The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
    Spawning snow and pink roses against it
    Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
    World is suddener than we fancy it.

    World is crazier and more of it than we think,
    Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
    A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
    The drunkenness of things being various.

    And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
    Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes–
    On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of your hands–
    There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.



    The Shadow Voice Poem by Margaret Atwood

    My shadow said to me:
    what is the matter

    Isn’t the moon warm
    enough for you
    why do you need
    the blanket of another body

    Whose kiss is moss

    Around the picnic tables
    The bright pink hands held sandwiches
    crumbled by distance. Flies crawl
    over the sweet instant

    You know what is in these blankets

    The trees outside are bending with
    children shooting guns. Leave
    them alone. They are playing
    games of their own.

    I give water, I give clean crusts

    Aren’t there enough words
    flowing in your veins
    to keep you going.



    Alone Poem by Walter de la Mare

    The abode of the nightingale is bare,
    Flowered frost congeals in the gelid air,
    The fox howls from his frozen lair:
    Alas, my loved one is gone,
    I am alone:
    It is winter.

    Once the pink cast a winy smell,
    The wild bee hung in the hyacinth bell,
    Light in effulgence of beauty fell:
    I am alone:
    It is winter.

    My candle a silent fire doth shed,
    Starry Orion hunts o’erhead;
    Come moth, come shadow, the world is dead:
    Alas, my loved one is gone,
    I am alone;
    It is winter.



    The Microbe Poem by Hilaire Belloc

    The Microbe is so very small
    You cannot make him out at all,
    But many sanguine people hope
    To see him through a microscope.
    His jointed tongue that lies beneath
    A hundred curious rows of teeth;
    His seven tufted tails with lots
    Of lovely pink and purple spots,
    On each of which a pattern stands,
    Composed of forty separate bands;
    His eyebrows of a tender green;
    All these have never yet been seen–
    But Scientists, who ought to know,
    Assure us that they must be so….
    Oh! let us never, never doubt
    What nobody is sure about!



    The Flower-School Poem by Rabindranath Tagore

    When storm-clouds rumble in the sky and June showers come down.
    The moist east wind comes marching over the heath to blow its
    bagpipes among the bamboos.
    Then crowds of flowers come out of a sudden, from nobody knows
    where, and dance upon the grass in wild glee.
    Mother, I really think the flowers go to school underground.
    They do their lessons with doors shut, and if they want to
    come out to play before it is time, their master makes them stand
    in a corner.
    When the rain come they have their holidays.
    Branches clash together in the forest, and the leaves rustle
    in the wild wind, the thunder-clouds clap their giant hands and the
    flower children rush out in dresses of pink and yellow and white.
    Do you know, mother, their home is in the sky, where the stars
    Haven’t you see how eager they are to get there? Don’t you
    know why they are in such a hurry?
    Of course, I can guess to whom they raise their arms; they
    have their mother as I have my own.