Long Beaded Poems
Long Beaded Poems. Below are the most popular long Beaded by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Beaded poems by poem length and keyword.
Toy collector:
He holds the bear gently in his old wrinkled hands as he gazes into its kind beaded eyes. The toy collector sees love lined in its double stitches and his childhood in the busted toys smile.
There stitched in black thread he can hear the sound of a child laughter, happiness, and growth reviving his memory of youth, like a jolt of life to an empty vein.
The years have passed freely, almost fleeting by. He had no more time to play in grassy school yards or hide from girls wearing satin dress, he had to grow up. The boy eventually turned into a man and was forced to pack away his toys regrettably into a wooden box.
There they sat in the attic awaiting the return of their beloved friend while he aged slowly into an adult.
High school came and went, college, even marriage but unfortunately he was never blessed with his own child. No one to share in the lined pleats of his own childhood. All of this he now recognizes in the bears sandy eyes.
The toy collector hands his most prized procession to his wife, a dazed look covering his forlorn face.
She takes his withered hand and speaks gently in his ear.
“All the memories in the world could never replace the love between a man and his bear.”
“Yes, but even the toy collector eventually grows to old and must let go.”
He replies in woe.
His thin lips force a smile as he repacks the boxes that escaped him long ago and in the early morn of the next day he patently sits alone outside for a bus to come.
The driver honks her horn and greats him with a warming smile.
“Are all of these toys for our orphanage?”
The toy collector regrettably nods.
“Things have been pretty rough but this will surly lift there sprits up.”
She confesses as she gently grabs a random box.
As she stacks them one by on into the now cluttered van his bear falls onto the pavement below.
Unable to pick it up he wrinkles his brow with great sadness.
Suddenly the passenger door opens revealing the face of a young girl and as she draws near she extends her hand and clutches the bear.
“Did you find a friend little Lou?”
His heart melts as she kisses the teddy gently then smiles.
“thank you.”
The child coos softly.
The toy collector lives in the toys he collects, but the man lives forever in the bear the child now possesses.
uniting farcical flocks all over the world,
gregarious garments, talismans &
little good luck charms required by religions
to ward off “evil spirits,” to separate man
from “god,” or to just protect the fuzzy sheep
from the rest of us heathens,
are donned by believers everywhere
(but kept oh so secret).
the infamous magical mormon underwear
whose mere mention offends the mormons
strike the nonbeliever as an extra special case
as one may envision horny hocus-pocus
surrounding the ceremonies held within the guise of a
uniquely ludicrous worship of fiction---
the lds correct one quickly, saying that these “temple garments”
are sacred & that is why they are secret,
once bearing stitched “L’s & V’s,” thought at best to be
squares & compasses,
evidence of founder joseph smith’s own signing up with the
big boys, the freemasons, whilst trying to get some buddies
who had power.
while christians, buddhists, sikhs, muslims, jews, jains,
taoists, zoroastrians & for that matter, numerous other local
& tribal religions, all seem to put some stock in “peace malas”
---little 16 beaded bracelets representing a rainbow to
take on our “spiritual paths,” jews specifically have worn
the “roite bindele”---a red wool string that is worn around the
wrist of the left hand, thought by kabbalahbabblers to ward off evil, especially
that ever so evil “evil eye,” that so many in the 21st century
are still afraid of.
scientologists, always out to out-ridiculous the competition,
whose elite army known as the “sea organization,” marches
round Gold Base in cali, parading now on land in the poor rip-off
attire based on US navy uniforms, as they did when they were
peddling their own brand of bosh mumbo jumbo in La Boheme,
prior to its shut down in 2008 for asbestos (awe boo hoo, guess
we’ll have to nurture our “thetans” & try to get in better touch with
the “supreme being” elsewhere).
what asinine apparel exemplifies in the superstitious
is not only the need to escape the tribulations of everyday life
which weighs upon us all, but more so, to advertise a chosen
dogmatic & downright daffy way to live, which strengthens
those within the flock, but which is meant to reel new fish in,
so as to perpetuate this idiocy in an age when the species needs
LESS, not more of it.
In a royal antibacterial waste machine one must wait for the willing vibrancy of the whistling seal. Dressed neatly in a three piece suit he sits on a rock and calls to the breezes on which there are so few. In the era of expunging elitist effigies there exists far less than in a previous era so dimensions have developed a more triangular appearance. Seal looks on. Temperate falling skies bring all weathers and still not too many feathers on a beaded wind. A cloth can move around to bring alterations but altercations are caused by many plastic helmeted men who proudly hold the spray. And spraying is often located even in a bread. Or a small currant. Or sultana. Managed mainly manufactured. Measly mass monstrous movements. No moccasins here then. And thus the page is turned until the avenue is in sight. Roll roll roll. Here comes the square car. Beep beep. Out of which comes a giraffe, a penguin, a sea turtle with bright lips, and a monstrous fig tree complete with a very tall hat that reaches to Jupiter. When that is wiped the flight paths of emus sail to even the most far flung regions of the globe. And travesty is not travelling it is trapping and taming. Should one really place ham in a sandwich when pork should be free to roam? All aboard then. Is everyone ready? Comfortable? Enchanted? Good. For time is short. And a boom boom boom is arriving to stunt even the most strongest of plants into an oblivion of a scale. But not a scale of C. A scale of 0. No charging buffalo could ever stand true if the prefered angle is in a skirt or a bosum. And a bohemian's car is a secret castle. Watch out there is a lady who spews curd. Mongoose style of neck. So a mongoose and a buffalo do go to dinner to entertain for great plans are being made and a global economy has an appointment at the gym. So hahaha to all that. And place the 900 nappies in the bin. For the 890 children will surely mean that the £ will pay the way. House heating. And a heavy wide load giggling with a small town. Xxxxx high heels mooo looping. Xxxxx kittens kitty xxxxx belligerent buffer bluffing xxxxx done. And that was the p y q who was reporting live from a dinner hall in 1528. Z.
Form:
As a young woman Lucy had dressed up for work every day putting on her business suit, high heel shoes, and a strand of pearls. But as the
years went by, now all of that had changed, and she lived in a small room in an assisted living facility which is now her home. She has a caregiver who wheels her down for her meals, and other activities, as she can no longer stand.
She had always loved jewelry because it made her feel pretty, like a bright ribbon on the package. It was a token of her womanhood, but now she was forced to leave all of that behind.
Then one day a lady came to her facility with handmade beaded jewelry, and Lucy was wheeled down so she could see all the pretty things. As she noticed the bracelets, she looked longingly at one that reminded her of a similar bracelet she had in her earlier days. Lucy asked the lady “How much is this one please?”, and the lady told her it was only six dollars. Lucy thought for a moment, should she spend the money, but decided that she must have it. She asked the lady if she would stay for just a little longer while she returned to her room to get her money? Lucy said it would not take too long.
The lady was tired and was ready to leave, but seeing how much Lucy had admired the bracelet, she packed up her displays and waited, and waited, and waited. Eventually, Lucy was rolled down by her caregiver with a large jar full of coins, and two worn out one dollar bills sitting on her lap. Lucy’s eyes were bright with anticipation.
The lady knew that Lucy, like most older folks forced to leave their homes behind still had their pride, and just giving it to her would not be the right thing to do. So she took off the tag and told Lucy “You’re in luck! This was just marked down and is now only two dollars.” Lucy proudly gave her the two one dollar bills and put on the bracelet. Her eyes filled with tears of joy as she thanked the jewelry lady and returned to her room. When the jewelry lady was turning to leave her eyes were filled with tears as well.
You see there is not much left when you reach the end of the road, but something as simple as a bracelet can bring joy to two souls.
Night of the full moon
Whale fish are most adept at swimming around in a shot glass but glass goblets are preferred by dolphins whose long dorsal fin opts for wide open rimmed spaces. Stingrays desire to be seen in the most finest crystal glasses but the flat fish is only ever seen in a tumbler. Often tumbling. And giggling with pure delight. But what of ambition from all these creatures. Would they not want to swap? Are they ever content with their locations? Omnipresent octopi often offer octagonal orifices. The vertical verb of a naughty little variegated platy can vary a variant victoriously. How rather marvellous that is isn't it?
Instinct ink can inform. But ink that is mislaid, misinformed and generally mundane is confused and confusion can offer creations canopies of catastrophic chasms. Mingle in a mangle then. Up and down the threads. Obviously a straight ironed trousers. Hemmed. Could see straight through 27 pairs of skirts in rows and point out the pin marks.
Awkward antelope answering apostle ants?How quite amazing! Well it is isn't it? And the gathering of the buds upon the washing line can hang out in all weathers. Thus ensuring an even radius of elements to dry, wet then dry again. Broad shoulders of a bean. Big bloated buffalo's beating banging bongo's. Baboon laughs and laughs and laughs and lingers on leaves no more for the beat is too amazing to place himself in such a confined positional place but heated propositions from a piglet often sway the breezes. And the backwards running tap always laughs at the dandelion in flight. Because it is very very very funny indeed!
WOW
Running ruining radii ravish radishes ridiculing realities. Such reduction in a nylon beaded glove. And gloves of a geranium are often glowing and glowering at the same time. Such a simultaneous display of floral fragrant feats.
WOW
Fiddle fathoms fish fetching forks finely.
Z at the X lauwiliwilinukunuku?oi?oi Z to X
At 46 mealworms chatting over a nice cup of tea at a garden fete to 19 cackling teapots dressed in wintry jumpers smoking.
X
Form:
In 1934,
The Big Drum of goodwill
Reeled out pleasant rhythms
To the people of the City of Aluu.
Unto us, a child is given;
Unto us, a warrior is born.
Not to interlock hands and arms
With girating feet holding grounds
In the Ikwerre Wrestling Matches
But born to spill the African ink
On the creeks of Rivers State
Down to the Mediterranean Sea
Of the Colonial Masters
To retell our beautiful stories,
Not as monkeys jumping from tree to tree
But as humans blessed with crude melanin,
Rich in cultured culture of morality.
Indeed! He retold our stories,
Painted great masterpieces
On the canvas of their karfa.
He sold and retailed our tales in the Stock Market
At an expensive price that their pockets respected.
Even though his anticidence
Was a coincidence of incidence
That made him a fish on the beach
But glory be to Chokike
Who molded his paths with wisdom
To discover the pipes of inks
Flowing stories so legendary in him.
As I play pun of his pen product,
Just come to the know that
There is no penny of penitence
When the Concubine fight over the Great Pond.
But when the Sun sets in Biafra,
Isiburu will gladly sip some PepperSoup
Escorted with fresh palm wine
At the Roadside as he watches
The Dancer of Johannesburg
Dance the dance of the Slave
Taught by the Woman of Calabar
To express the Ethics of Nigerian Culture
On the vibrating waist of an African woman
Beaded with rainbow beads of beauty
Singing and Speaking the spoken word poetry
Of her raw, crude, uncut tale of her beauty.
But When God Came,
Isiburu was not ready.
He existed not, he lived.
His words lives on in our hearts, he lived.
He cannot be late coz he lived.
His memories living in our minds, coz he lived.
This is just my splash of colours of words
On the canvas of your minds
To a man who refused to exist but lived.
He is no other than the legendary
Captain of the Pen,
Capt. Dr., Elechi Amadi,
I'm just your poetic son, 2'WYTH.
a song for lady sovereignty
this is the first thing i remember
i was a husky, curled, and waking moon
when i first dreamed this dream
when my blue and yellow inside sea
first saw lady sovereignty
she was a twisty movement of ease and grace
a healthy, strong
brown-red hourglass
slippery, windless
aching to resurface
to wrap her damp knot of answers
around my confused and dependent blues
to revive my glum and gloomy attitude
toward reason
he was floating golden bright
when he first felt her sound
a hidden figure
dressed in rocky
warm, and rolling ivy gowns
his frame was shaken as she starting singing
a song that had no words
she held his face and surged him forward
toward rebirth by beaded turns
instead of absorbing, he pushed her
ignored her
and cried out loud in lonely fear
'pesky lady, get away from me
just five more minutes at my mother's breast
a little more time in her prickly
long dead, rotten arms
that i half believe are comforting
i like the stink, the selfish, disillusioned power
that my new great father taught me
i do not need you! i do want you, lady sovereignty'
so now forever he remains underneath
darkness
pretending all the while
but to me, her mystery smelled sweet
the waters calmed, she drifted ever upward
and asked to strike a deal
'use your words for good
to cure
to remind the people
to heal
to revitalize and resurrect, to inhale united
to sit in silence, to listen, to be still
to regain control from the shadow maker
and walk down roads where winds are soft and patient'
lady sovereignty, she promised me
and i took her at her word
fear will leave me if i let it
if i have the nerve to rise and steer
with her through truth's fluent, fluctuating ravine
so i stamped my stamp onto dried bark
sealed with sap and folded clean
sang songs out loud for courage
allowed myself a fighting chance
and joined the band of lady sovereignty
i
I dream a cross is dressed in diamonds rich.
It rears too high with spans that glisten gold
that stretch along the sky's chromatic edge
yet crimson rubies shine magenta tones.
Its light is beauteous and brightly burns
against the altar, dressed with diadems rare.
Towards the heavens, twisted bark and branch
as pilgrims richly perfumed air in scent
With candles chanting loud a choral hymn,
the cross had studded jewels so finely wrought.
Yet blood still stains the beams with reddened gouts
and angels fled as heaven called them home
The cross then vanished, blessed in vapours light.
ii
Remember roots that ripped at clay and rock
as I was dragged from woods, dark hewn and cut
Then hauled and halved by criminals with toil
from tortured oaks and beech they hacked and cleaved.
Then soldiers' weary shoulders carried me
and ordered me to bear this criminal,
who groaned and gasped in pain on hardened trees
My branches swirled in shadows, lashing flesh.
The lord now leapt with joy in thorny crowns
and trembling arms did clasp, but steadfast stayed.
I watched the lord as earth did frounce and leer,
then soldiers mocked and I was soaked in blood.
My flesh was pierced with nails of malice hard,
his holy spirit passed as I stood still.
iii
In shade, I hold a simple beaded cross
between my fingers holding firm its frame.
As prayer then fills my silent painful cry
could I now live without its burning light?
Throughout the day, I gently touch its wood
and ask for help to heal a broken life.
The past with endless shame and sins that swell
like turmoil bred from war and needless grief.
But here amid the flux of daily chores,
recall the sacrifice that gilds the years,
eternal hopes replenishing our loss.
This spirit fills the cup at your repast.
As doors now open wide in silent sway,
a shadow walks beside me, holding firm.
Some would call me homeless. I call myself a traveler. In this city I traverse the wonder of human art and nature's beauty as if the two have melded together as one. The ornate iron railings seem to grow into the sweet smelling vines and flowers that live upon them. Hanging baskets with pink and purple impatiens and verdant ferns chuckle gently in the moist morning breeze as they adorn each balustrade. Hidden gardens beckon me as I walk past their gates painted with worn layers of lover's hands as they steal away behind secluded walls. They say I'm confused, yet I search to understand. Here, the past calls to me and I listen. Walking the streets and alley ways there is a sense of history, of lives that have loved and lost, of souls that linger in the heart of the buildings. Always searching, the walls can not contain their bewildered wandering. Inflicting confusion and sometimes pain on those they touch, they bath in the fountains and babble longing desires into each mind that seeks the peace of their soothing, gently bubbling water.
petals blush gently
the patient garden awaits
sweet stolen kisses
"For Sale," reads the sign on the window of the house before me. Delicate filigree rails frame the porch as I approach the old glass pane and peer through it. Inside I see a small room with peeling paint. Worn wooden floors trace the lives that have lived here. The ghost of Christmases past linger in the broken toys strewn across the floor. Brightly colored beaded memories of ages of Mardi Gras dangle from hooks on the wall. Upon the small corner desk I can see papers written in a fine pen like that of a poet's notes waiting an eternity for the completion of a long forgotten refrain. I feel the joy that once lived here and the pain of loss that remains.
stains of memories
the children's laughter lingers
a tear on my cheek
01/15/16
I am wearing heavy feathers
with the gaze of the day lit to my backside.
A rotisserie routine,
hot with punishment and prayer.
Prayer for punishment,
punishment for prayer.
Answers from a sky beaded in blue birds,
upon gods’ supposed pretty blue fabric.
Crowned crows and drowned geese
barking their bird songs—
like god’s dog, a dog’s god.
Feedback fed back to my waterproof back.
Backed by waterproofed ears.
No water, no proof.
Not even of the air.
Myself, essential as an appendix,
wise as a wisdom tooth.
A modern sticky taste of evolutionary distaste.
An undriven itch paraded down a forked road.
Forked, ed;
I ask silver why,
silver when?
All it knows is where,
the non-knowing of a mouth.
Only a stabbed, spoonfed reflection,
down a downed throat.
Only, gagged.
Only, only, only.
One and only,
twice and only,
third and only.
Words like a broken car,
braking on my tired back.
Treaded wrong,
treaded right in the in-between spot.
Stubborn and beige as the day.
Shining with the sheen of a hydrophobe,
a homophone,
a synonym.
Silver seal skin,
sealed in,
sealed out.
Worn—all worn—over unmatched elbows
dripping dropped drops.
Pointed pens drawing the ink
down from my cupped jaw.
Southern drawn tears
written on a northern face.
Tearing torn words on the papered table,
cornered into torn corners,
soiling the bread on the table.
The bacon,
this belly fat.
Migrations rations.
A seasoning.
Sprinting, flying flavors
chased to the next season.
Only less of a lesson when school’s out,
only school’s never leave school.
Schools make students,
and fish,
and pheasants,
and flies,
and men.
Always an agent,
always a pharaoh.
Concealing the pyramids,
stealing cerulean.
Never claimed,
never claimed to claim.
But claimed clams
and bitten birds,
spun on a spit and spat on;
We all are—
all we are.