They would seem to sit side by side,
both were right; each was left.
She was wrapped in her ragged cardigan,
would gaze beyond her present
into the echo of her past.
Each wrinkle told a story.
Twilight years were with them and they knew
each would continue to be alone.
His memories would flood now
but then fade, as he sighed;
she would sigh as she remembered
his ragged-trousered bearing.
Apart now, but memories keep them together.
She and he gaze back, each wishing for rest.
Memories keep them silent,
memories of husband and wife,
memories of youth as they think
of that ball at his side, once shared
but no longer with her.
The ball is a globe of memory,
once kicked, gazed upon by both,
but now by him with keen eyes;
she with her mind.
Life was a ball, now an empty hall;
it has but an echo.
Each is alive - but who will be the first to depart?
(March/April 2026)
Along the shoreline we saunter
Gazing at the bright stars on the water
And the purple painted clouds in the sky
She began to speak with her words barely louder than the restless waves
She talked about how pointless performing for others is
“Never once has anyone congratulated someone for being a fake version of herself.”
Her words resonated deep within my soul
My feet suddenly grounded in the soft sand
She turned back to face me with her shoulders drooping sadly
My body magnetized to her
And my arms wrapped around her warm body and felt her loose-fitted sweater
She ran her nails through my short blonde hair as I cried on her neck
Her calming voice whispered in my ears
And the palm of her other hand heated my back
Gently my tears poured into her light blue cardigan
The water reached our feet as we embraced under the star’s light
God's lover prophet's dear friend
Uways Al Qarani at the Yemen country
Neither tell a lie nor eat prohibited
Uways Al Qarani at the Yemen country
At the dawn standing up wanded to road
With his thousand titles praised the Lord
Saying Allah Allah, grazed camels herd
Uways Al Qarani at the Yemen country
At his hand his baton from branch of date
At his waist his cardigan from camel hide
By his tongue never ever becomes mistake
Uways Al Qarani at the Yemen country
Wish that i would go too, Jonah the Lover says
Wish to see his face that is lovely and blessed
To the dust of his foot wish to daub my face
Uways Al Qarani at the Yemen country
Written by Yunus Emre (Dervish Jonah)
Translation Onur Ünlü
the train wheels stopped at a station
and the roads leads to lake harmony
my homestead, the town my memories roots run deep
the air feels fresh while the sun is overhead
walking down the road, it brings me to a house
where a friend of mine once resided
i faded away from her life when i was eight
i try to summon her face but
her haunting childhood flash before my eyes
seven but her abusive father left her traumatized
stranded in an ocean from which she can't swim out
she would sit alone in her room
playing with the dolls wearing her mother's cardigan
and whenever i saw her, she would just smile
all she could wish was to fly high in the sky
too young to know the right steps
i wonder about her whereabouts
and is she fine?
i should've ran away with her
to a place far away from her father's reach
to a place in the mountains
where the cold winter feels like summer
where she would've spent time singing like crazy in valleys
where no one would've dare to hurt her again
Your actions speaks louder than words
Your desertion of me this whole summer
Brought me to end of my life
You said you love me but hid her on the side
Traitor and betrayer lack the feeling
To describe your actions
While I was struggling for breathing
Darkness of night became my new friend
Slept alone, telling her our folk tale
I painted in my head
Like an old cardigan one refuses to wear
I carried the weight with spear in my chest dear
I let the porch light turned on
But you showed at my party with another spear
SARTORIAL SELF-PORTRAIT
Even as a young man,
I dressed just like my dad.
‘Clothes are what defines you,’
Was a saying my mother had.
But now I’ve retired from the city,
Perhaps it’s time to break free.
So I’m looking through my wardrobe
To find out what defines me.
Here’s a row of pin-striped suits,
Three-piece, in the main.
With waistcoats with a pocket,
For a watch on the end of a chain.
And now the shirts, all white of course,
With collars that detach.
Long sleeves with fancy cuff links
And a smart tie pin to match.
There’s a lingering smell of moth balls
As I move along the rails.
Especially in the section
Where I keep my top hat and tails.
Even at home I wear a tie,
Though, to help me to relax,
I have a long-sleeved cardigan
And a pair of well-cut slacks.
But, right at the end, in a cover,
To make sure it doesn’t fade,
A memory of a brief interlude,
When I wasn’t quite so staid.
A reminder of my salad days,
When I lived life with a passion.
I’ve kept those flares for fifty years,
In case they come back in fashion.
Metro Cardigan
with a slim fit.
Be in your thinking mature.
Hero of the day.
Atlantic Starr
Moving steadily besides the still waters.
May goodness follow me.
Ensemble Cymbalta.
Skyscrapers on top of cloud atlas,
Vanilla sky fools delight of a purple sky.
Rotating around the earth's axis.
Now let's end it on a good good note.
I worry that my coat will murder me.
Hanging on Banister’s Edge it’s a man lurking, dark.
I’ve seen rows of killers shadowed and waiting,
hidden in the ridges of the living room radiator,
ready to pounce during a moonlit trip to the toilet.
From my position in bed, a stool could be a gremlin hunched,
the door frame a monstrous arm arching and looming, holding a hollow void.
The sheets around my feet are vines, all patterns the jaws of a Venus flytrap.
Snap.
Black cabs are hearses, flowerbeds fresh graves;
babbling brook rope swings form a noose, gravel paths stone me to death.
My cardigan knows it should be a straitjacket,
socks and watches nod knowingly towards shackles and manacles imaginary.
Cushions on a sofa? Nothing but false sense of security quicksand.
(Competition title: No 1299)
I just needed to be
That young woman in the red, cable-knit cardigan one more time
Who mama had to make excuses for…
“She’s very intelligent.”
And there were silence and blank stares all around the table
I just needed to be that young woman in the red, cable-knit cardigan
Maybe things would be different
And I could be “enough”
Was I an English major then?
Lost in Radcliffe and Love Story illusions of bliss
The reality of being adrift on a tumbling log of family dysfunction
Losses in the raging rapids and tousling winds
Threatening to overtake me…Soon, too soon.
But I smiled and drank my coffee cautiously, ever so carefully
Fading away like swallowed cream swirling in the throat
Trying to be unnoticed…a guest in this house of unfamiliarity
A visitor beside family who had to make excuses for my being
My very presence an apology
we paraded behind him
he in a fawn casual jacket
military badge right breast pocket
over a maroon v neck cardigan
even in summer
dark blue trousers
sharp crease
hands behind back
hair neatly slicked down -
stiffly upright
me next aged 7
gray flannel shorts
gray slipover
clunky brown lace up shoes
newly scrubbed
eyes round as saucers
mum last
head down
brown slacks
white blouse
sandy blond
vacantly beautiful
I would keep turning to look back
at mums place
mum had a place
last was here place
not wanting to fall back
trying to keep up with long striding dad
occasionally trying to get in front
the sharp knuckled rap
on my head
from an unyielding god
people looked at us *****
as we marched down the road
all the way to the park
to sit on a bench
dad on one side
me in the middle
mum at the end
sitting silent
pigeons drew near
seeking breadcrumbs
we had no bread crumbs
when it was time
(dad always decided)
we stood up
then filed back home
to listen to the radio
listening
dad nearest to the set
nothing to say
me on the floor fidgeting
mum in the kitchen
fading away
I reminisce, I miss
the sound of the stair lift that brings you down,
and your voice as you ask for morning coffee,
mother, the silence is too harsh to bear!
the half knit cardigan that is on your bed,
needles still attached as if you left halfway,
mother, we know you won’t be coming back.
that chair in front of me that you would take,
and rubbing your palms would talk to me,
mother, the cat sits there awaiting your return.
your room is unkempt, things as you left,
I do not have the heart to go in there,
mother, I promise, I shall tidy up today!
today would have been your 90th birthday,
we had plans to celebrate in a grand style,
mother, we have tear drops with cake today.
you glow in us brighter than anytime before,
memories are precious our hearts still sore,
mother, on your birthday,
I reminisce, I miss.....
1st place win
Written 2nd April 2021
My mother’s 90th birthday
I reminisce, I miss poetry competition
James Edward Lee Sr. sponsored.
and the arm around her shoulder hanging
that once felt like a teenage promise of a love affair
a sign of romance of flirtation of lingering looks to come
now feels more like a clasp a tie a noose a chain
to the rules she must today everyday follow
I’ll go to the shop for milk and a paper in case you
see that bloke again you know I don’t like how
he looks at you and how you giggle back that grin
inside old dreams of weekends together and coffee in
bed there are now jolt upright sweaty nightmares of
having to ask for a few quid or to use the phone to call
mum her mum who’s not allowed round anymore who
knows something’s wrong but doesn’t want to ask
his hand that held hers whilst softly grazing under a
cardigan gold whispering sweet nothings holds her
wrist now whilst shouting angry somethings she tries to
fade out dull out black out and just lay down to sleep
Stupid Things People Say.
.
Stupid things people say
I hear them every day
.
Is it the weather or me?
How do you want your tea
In or out
Well it make more sense to have it in a cup
To me
.
Is that a guitar on your shoulder?
No it’s an ironing board
And a boulder
Can you play?
No I just carry it about all day
.
Is that a camera are you filming?
No I’ve got something stuck in my eye
Goodbye
.
Are they your dogs?
No I’m taking them back for the ransom money
Are you trying to be funny honey?
.
It always rains but never pours
So you've been to this planet before?
.
I’m going shopping for a bargain
Not if you didn’t want it in the first place
Not another frying pan and cardigan
.
Money makes the world go round
Well if it does
Here’s half a crown
.
I bet you were a beautiful baby
I still am beautiful
Lady
.
The wheels on the bus go around and around
Of course they do
Or we’d never get around
.
The grass is always greener on the other side
Not if you have a mudslide
.
You never know what’s around the corner
I do
Big Ada I have to warn you
.
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush?
.
Peter Dome©2020.
A walk through the forest
a breath of fresh air
a cardigan feel
shades of soft teal
Soft crispy leaves with audio crunch
mingled in tariqua paths;
The humusk and scent of a leaf in the wind
the musky sweet hint, a permeate fresh ;
Here lives the deer
and the rabbit that sprints
as I walk through the forest
in search of myself,
the tinniest leaf falls asleep, at my feet.
Nov. 11, 2019
Contest Name: Scented Leaves
Sponsor: Kim Rodrigues
panama
hats
canvas
caps
cravats
&slacks-
a kaftan
or two
tabards
brand new-
sandal
brogue
leather
shoe,
jeans
with
seams
cardigan
jumpers
socks
too true-
braces
laces
shirt
&skirt..
one or two-
or three!
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.