Long Almond shaped Poems
Long Almond shaped Poems. Below are the most popular long Almond shaped by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Almond shaped poems by poem length and keyword.
The Retuning Smiles
i see beneath pairs of almond-shaped, green leavess
On white fabric, flowers set with four heart-shaped petals,
The color of sun-kissed blueberries,
Decorating the smocked sundress of the pig-tailed toddler
.Hanging over the crook of her mother’s arm, and
With her dazzling, black eyes looking all around
For some reason to be let down
Just as I was passing by,
Happy to see a pretty little child. and say, “Hi!”
The way any older woman might,
Wishing to receive a second’s gift
From the beauteous youth of the child’s smile.
But, she leaned into her mom’s chest, shy, seeing me
Stand there, one hand eagerly waving along with
My saying, “What nice flowers all over your dress,”
Diverting her attention from me down to what she wore
— The bright hearts scattered over her knees,
Causing a slight smile as her head lifted,
Which I shared, showing her my own happy,
big, slightly giggling smile,
To which her mom leamed in to kiss
Her darling girl nose to nose, thus blessing
Away the shyness…so the little girl
Shifted to sitting tall on her mom’s elbow
To seriously size me up
for herself, eye to eye —
For some moments —
While I almost lost hope.
Until at last her creased lips started to part.
The corners of her mouth rose, showing
Her several front, white baby teeth,
Set to share her smile,
Elating me, so I announced loudly,
“How pretty you are smiling!”
But when i lifted my eyes to see
Her reaction to my gleeful words,
There was no child, nor mother there. Even
Gone was the street I assumed
I’d been walking along…
And neither had I been dreaming, but
Speaking as I had into the air beyond my bed.
I’d been hallucinating. Another instance lately
That comes out of the blue, while wide awake,
Likely caused by the prefacing of exhaustion and
horrid pain I sometimes feel
Crossing my sight and mind with a
Boosting interplay with people who’re likely to smile ~
Who come, then go.
————————————————————————————————————————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 2/25/23
Thanks be to
God…
The scent of your soul
a caramelized breeze of fruit odours
reverberating softly through my memory
Throwing me right back into ninth grade
where we sat side by side
Your right arm reaching slightly for my back
Your name resonates gently with my spirit
as thoughts of you dwell in my mind
Carrying me back to the shade
of purple grape orchids in evergreen woods
Our first kiss perched upon last autumn's twig
still lingers in early morn's bone-china cup
wafting its pungent aroma of dark roast coffee beans
and so the smell of rubber tyres against the wind
Such revoked moments of unknown danger and defiant fun
Other moments,of beauty and snow angels
Of freedom and moonlights,sunrise and life
I can still recall the days,months,and years
till our footprints marked separate paths
Ah,those days,those last hours,How can I forget?
Sweet as frosty vanilla and chocolate chips of an ice cream parlour
Melting as spongy marshmallows and honey syrup
Fresh as the colour of your soul, which haunts me
like an alluring glance of almond-shaped eyes
This afternoon , like other afternoons I walk to the library
which knows the musky sweat of your palm upon my own
That fragrance 's gone now.All that is left is the fading perfume
of forgotten petals between old books and dust
No one here except my silence,and a rotten sliced apple
vacuum packed ,lacking its cinnamon and even its spice.
Back home,the mildewed strings of a guitar
await my fingertips to play once more
upon the worn out chords of my heart
What will I play,what will I sing ,a song which isn't ours ?
Fermented wine I poured into my glass
Yearning to taste its purple grape for what it was
before all it was turned bitter,acidic and sour
I wondered about where you might be ,distant or not as far
Listening to my voice on once upon a record player
Wishing on a star ?
Not for the contest
But thanks for the inspiration
Contest name-The Scent Of Your Soul
The scent of your soul
a caramalized breeze of fruit odours
reverbrating softly through my memory
Throwing me right back in ninth grade
where we sat side by side
Your right arm reaching slightly for my back
Your name resonates gently with my spirit
as thoughts of you dwell in my mind
Carrying me back to the shade
of purple grape orchids in evergreen woods
Our first kiss perched upon last autumn's twig
still lingers in early morn's bone-china cup
wafting its pungent aroma of dark roast coffee beans
and so the smell of rubber tyres against the wind
Such revoked moments of unknown danger and defiant fun
Other moments of beauty and snow angels
Of freedom and moonlights,sunrise and life
I can still recall the days,months,and years
till our footprints marked seperate paths
Ah,those days,those last hours,How can I forget?
Sweet as frosty vanilla and chocolate chips of an ice-cream parlour
Melting as spongy marshmallows and honey syrup
Fresh as the colour of every new dream which haunts me
llike an alluring glance of almond-shaped eyes
This afternoon,like other afternoons I walk to the library
which knows the musky sweat of your palm upon my own
That fragrance 's gone now,all that is left is the fading perfume
of forgotten petals between old books and dust
No one here except my silence ,and a rotten sliced apple
vacuum packed,lacking its cinnamon and even its spice.
Back home the mildewed strings of a guitar
await my fingertips to play once more
upon the worn out chords of my vacant heart
What will I play,what will I sing,a song which isn't ours?
Fermented wine I poured into a glass
Yearning to taste its purple grape for what it was
before all it was turned out bitter,acidic and sour
I wondered about where you might be,distant or not as far
Listening to my voice on once upon a record player
Or Wishing on a star ?
A repost (written : 10/15/2014
To Whomever Has Loved a Horse
Knows of that of which I speak.
To feel an equine’s glorious power
Quiver and tremble beneath one’s limbs
The emotion brought within
Can cause even the most stoic noble man
To begin to tear up and to begin to weep.
To see one’s own reflection
In the pools of their almond shaped eyes
They are the master
Of the human depth of understanding
Always given up in their intelligent vision.
One cannot help but grasp their love
Hold on to their mane and fly
Fast along the earth
As if for a moment, Icarus
Flying high above the earth
On golden wings…
Not afraid to die.
If only Icarus had known
He could fly on an earthly steed
He could have saved his soul
And flown on a glorious horse…
It would have saved his soul indeed…
Instead of failing on false wings.
(November 26, 2010 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved
Poppies burn like love under the sun that births longing,
Let me ask for forgiveness, to touch your face with light,
To be your sunbeam, to be a halo on your delicate brow,
To caress your skin with a sweet breeze, a zephyr that caresses the wheat,
Let my smile seduce you, let longing flow over your waist.
The evening wind gently blows over the field of burning poppies,
The ripe bosom to be caressed by the almond-shaped eyes' eyelid,
To lose ourselves among the fields in the fiery and ember sunset,
On partridge wings, feel the yearnings that break through.
A fire in our chests that scorches, disappearing for just a moment,
Feel the ember of the eyes, the living longing slowly taking shape,
I, enamored with you, feel through gazes how I lose you,
To run to catch you in play, to gently caress you.
I weave poppy flowers in golden rays and wheat spikes,
To embrace you at my chest, to hear what the heart says,
Mad with happiness, only the horizon to know our secret,
To sip the dewdrops from the poppies in bloom.
With my heart, I chase after your soft and hot lips,
I want to unlock the magic in your black and gentle eyes,
To cool our mouths by extinguishing the ember of burning eyes,
From poppy petals to sip sweet whispers of love.
The fleeting moment is a feast without a shadow of bitter regret,
I lock your love in the chest of my penetrating heart,
Listening to how happiness echoes from the field in trills,
Forgive me for daring to steal your loving heart.
I embroider with poppy flowers longings that burn deep in the chest,
The secret thought refreshed in a carefully kept secret pocket,
Forgive the heart's mistake if longing blinded me,
Too sweet was the lure, too strongly it bewildered me.
You started out in life just like me
hanging around in hand-me-downs
from your family
Some were nice, like
your daddy's dimples when you smile
or your mama's almond shaped eyes
While others were unfortunate
like your grandma's testy temper
or your uncle Earl's ears
But not all of these
hand-me-downs
are permanent
Some you will hopefully
change out of and
replace as you get older...
Like others' unhealthy attitudes
unhelpful coping mechanisms
uneducated assumptions
about other people
or the world at large
Your perspective
how you choose to see the world
is as changeable as a pair
of cheap sunglasses
so if they ever
hinder your view- toss them out!
And get some new
glasses that fully fit
in a style that expresses
the person you truly want to
become
In the heart of the night, under the leaden and weeping sky,
amidst the twisted shadows of our thoughts,
we let ourselves be carried by a cold wind, cold as a kiss of death,
falling into the abyss of our hidden fears,
that chain our souls with shackles of cowardice,
a silent disease that makes us see terrifying illusions,
strange and alive, like ghosts.
We are the ones who hold ourselves back,
locked in cages of fleeting names and identities,
too scared to move, too timid to live,
like wooden puppets controlled by invisible strings,
puppeteers hidden in the shadows, manipulating our amygdala,
that small, almond-shaped portion,
the oldest part of our brain,
the ancient organ that detects and organizes responses to fear,
a stone guardian in the midst of the storm.
They do it intentionally, with movies and laws, with TV programs and schools,
with justice and lies,
a grotesque spectacle staged just to maintain control over us,
and we, like hypnotized spectators,
find in this a bitter sadness,
a dark part that laughs in our faces,
a macabre irony that watches us with empty, cold eyes.
I lose myself in this labyrinth of melancholy,
as my thoughts flow like a river of ink,
writing on the unseen pages of the night,
seeking an exit, an escape from this captivity of fear,
but I always return to the same point,
a vicious circle that swallows me, and my amygdala,
that old and weary organ, flinches at every noise,
at every shadow, like a frightened animal before a predator.
We cling to dreams like colorful balloons,
hoping they will lift us above this realm of shadows and illusions,
but we are too heavy, too anchored in fear,
and the balloons burst one by one,
letting us fall back into the darkness,
in this theater of pain and fear,
where we are so small, so lost.
In the end, only we and our fears remain,
dancing a sad waltz under the pale light of the moon,
enveloped in melancholy, seeking answers in the silence of the night,
but finding only the echoes of our own fears,
like whispered voices in the dark depths of our souls.
In the backwoods of my soul
where dreams are lost
and moments grow cold
among the bitter
of a winter’s storm
as embers of frosty feelings
ooze through the melancholic
drifting, nomadic, aimless
guilty of only the grief
brought to life in the twilight
reflections still and weathered
wearied by the truth
forever and always colored in hues
soundless music, foretelling
wings like leaves, dancing free
hovering beneath the moonlit skies
bustling threats of secrets
quietly told
on the silent lips of a star
stories often buried
breathing through the darkness
glazed in shadows
trembling with yesterday’s dirty doubts
friendless and aching
breaking through the past
in hesitant pleasures
will the moon learn from these
whimsical noises,
bursting at the seams
flashing like fireflies
glassy eyed and destined to believe
wherever the joy seeks
grace, beautiful grace
there is the image of her face
almond shaped eyes, sapphires
glowing like the sea
who remembers only to see
where she is, where she’s been
there is the mirror image
of a heart who grieves
toothy grins and shallow cheeks
beyond the perfect skin,
and auburn hair – blushing
she seeks the moments
before the night reminds her why
she can never go there again,
the past cannot begin
where she left off – the tragedy
is in the faded pieces of the long-ago,
the aching glow of a time
before the light grew dim
before the shadows remember
she is still, once her energy
was wilder than July
now she’s the vanishing seed of autumn
ever weakening,
leaving a trail of useless blooms
petals on the meadow
seeking out the portal for new
the past sings for you
the past, it clings to the skin
like an adrenaline – never drunk
as the moment when it remembers
the dusty dreams of September
The scent of your soul
A caramelised breeze of fruit odours
reverberating softly through my memory
Throwing me right back in ninth grade
where we sat side by side
Your right arm reaching slightly for my back.
Thoughts of you dwell in my mind
and your name resonates gently with my spirit
carrying me back to the shade
of purple orchids in evergreen woods.
Our first kiss perched upon last autumn's twig
still lingers in early morn's bone-china cup
wafting its pungent aroma of dark roast coffee-beans
and so the smell of rubber tyres against the wind.
Such revoked moments of unknown danger
Of fearless dreams , and defiant fun.
Other moments of beauty and snow angels
Of freedom and moonlights ,sunrise and life.
I can still recall those weeks ,months ,years
till footprints marked separate paths
and our shared candles became the past.
Ah those lazy siestas, those days...those nights...
Sweet as frosty vanilla and chocolate chips of an ice -cream parlour
Melting as spongy marshmallows and honey syrup
Fresh as the linen of your shirt which haunts me
like an alluring glance of almond - shaped eyes.
This afternoon, like other afternoons, I walk to the library
that knows the musky sweat of your palm upon my own.
That fragrance 's gone now . All that is left is a fading perfume
of forgotten petals, between old books and dusty shelves.
Nobody here, except my silence and a rotten sliced apple ,
Vacuum- packed ,lacking both cinnamon and spice.
Back home, the mildewed strings of a guitar await my fingertips
to play once more ,upon the worn out chords of my heart
What willI play , What will I sing , a song that isn't ours ?
Fermented wine I pour into an empty glass
Yearning to taste the grape for what it was
before all it was turned bitter, acidic and sour.
Alone , I wonder where you might be
So far or not so distant ,listening to the mood in my voice
on once upon a record player, Wishing on a star ?