Long Beads Poems
Long Beads Poems. Below are the most popular long Beads by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Beads poems by poem length and keyword.
The days I live all counted they must be
And so I move my beads along the lines
What makes this time have meaning so to me
Is YOU, my abacus that life defines
Your smile of love is captured in a bead
Which adds such joy as fingers make it glide
A touch, a kiss, a look fulfills each need
And multiplied are days in numbered guide
I know that soon all beads will reach that place
Where end to life is seen in empty beams
And so will end for me this time of grace
Your love no more to move my days and dreams
An abacus of life you’ve been to me
You’ve marked each moment and eternity
Jade
It’s approaching, coming near, my heart is racing,
Sweat beads all over my brow,
Got to think of which ones I want to enter,
Which are the ones to allow
To be seen in public, to be seen by peers,
To be seen, offered and sold to the throng,
Which ones do I choose to offer for sale,
Which ones will make me belong
To this crowd of painters, this crowd of artists,
Who shroud, paint, colour and cloak,
This crowd of peers who create from a blank,
A beautiful with every small stroke,
It’s approaching, coming near, my heart is racing,
For the town’s artistic lotto,
I hope I choose paintings that are good enough for,
The annual local art show.
Do you believe in me when I’m running this race?
Do you think I am a disgrace?
Baby, I’m not sorry for the words I utter
Your words were as suave and appealing as butter,
But it stabbed me like a jagged knife
I know you made my day, despite the negativity
I want to let go of worry and let my mind wrap around positivity
You left me without a trace
Beads of sweat rolls off my face
Don’t you dare say you’re not beautiful
Because you are everything to me…you’re pitiful
You were running to fast as I stood in this place
You didn't stop for a second to look at my face
You buttered me up, smothered me good
I responded, in kind, how anyone would
You said I was sugar and spice
But I was naughty not nice
You left me no choice
I muffled your voice
I teased and I played, tugged at your strings
I had you soaring in air, then cut off you wings
I don't sweat a man of your kind
Good looks, fake smile...... I'll leave you behind
-a collaboration with Tim Smith, a wonderful poet. Look him up. He's awesome.
On a blistering branch of July,
a squirrel lay flat as a pancake,
tail limp, paws splayed,
melting into the bark like warm butter.
He squinted at the sun in the sky,
that smug, blazing tyrant,
and muttered to no one in particular,
“Honestly… this is excessive.”
Beads of sweat rolled down his nose.
Others dripped off his whiskers.
He fanned himself with a wilted leaf
that gave up halfway through the job.
Finally, he stood, wobbly and dramatic,
and shouted toward the sunlit void:
Has anyone tried turning the weather off and on again?
The oak trees rustled considering the suggestion
But the heat stayed.
The squirrel sighed,
flopped back down,
and added,
“Well… it worked for my router.”
Broken beads and faded dreams
That’s all I have, now that you left me
I’m staying here with just the memory
Of my last night with you
We fell apart it seems
That day you saw him on Bourbon street
And he was kissing on someone sweet
Like he was over you
Maybe you just didn’t know that you still loved him
Maybe you thought somehow that I could be him
And I fell for you
You let me love you all the while that you were grieving
Maybe you always knew that you’d be leaving
Now I’m alone and blue
Broken beads and faded dreams
That’s all I have now that you left me
Now all I’ve got is just a memory
Of my last night with you
Summer:
Sunshine-blonde with sapphire eyes,
Cheeks tinged pink by bold sunrise.
She smiles at noon to light the sky,
Nudging clouds with gentle sighs.
She wears a gown of mossy lace
With blooming buttons, neatly spaced.
With ocean heart and river veins,
She seldom cries - she dislikes rain.
Autumn:
Fire-red locks with rose gold eyes
Bright with flecks of fireflies.
She pulls a veil of thunder clouds
Across the sky - a purple shroud.
She wears a robe of flaming beads,
A golden crown of rainbow leaves.
With full moon heart and molten veins,
She weeps at will - she enjoys rain.
Winter:
Raven mane with silver eyes,
Soft skin pale as milky skies.
She exhales gusts of icy wind;
Her breath leaves frost on everything.
She wears a cloak of northern lights
With sunburst jewels carved from ice.
With clouded heart and frozen veins,
She cannot cry - she freezes rain.
Spring:
Amber curls with emerald eyes -
A fickle pair that floods and dries.
She melts away the ice and snow
And resurrects the sun's warm glow.
She wears a cape of tangled stems,
Of gauzy vines and rosebud gems.
With honey heart and nectar veins,
She loves to cry - she lives for rain.
She stammers, losing some words that her years cheat
while her sunken eyes gleam, beads in velvet sheet.
She stops gaping blankly as her brain tries journeying back,
to pick out bits from the remnants of history, in flashback.
Struggling against odds and evens she has sustained
visibly made stranger in her own land, looted and drained.
Strangers, she counts, came once to her doorstep
when full of zeal she was to live life to her own step.
They asked for her warmth and hospitality,
playing cunningly, a ploy to abuse her generosity.
A child of nature she grew among mountains;
queen of its abundance and its cool fountains.
For once she did not guess, those visitors from afar
held intentions vile to leave on her land, a deep scar.
Well fed and well entertained, they rose to conquer
lives of the lush green which could stand no longer.
Devoid of identity and glory, she danced to their tune;
To save her own, from Queen, she became buffoon.
Her people struggled but succumb to those strangers
who knew nothing but the rule of traitors!
Another walking among seasons and holy beads
As our thoughts moves clouds in a grey sky,
And paint the leaves above our heads;
With a priori color of serenity, your eyes try
To open the white gates of transparent joyous morning;
The air got the scent of hot apple pies, the smile -a meaning
Of what the fingers are touching and what they are dreaming;
Are those our guardian-angels who silently walk by?
The rain of the morning tea falling from heights;
A new painted bench seemed to be almost dry;
White statues sit on the grass near the brave knights;
Two angels with glass wings have just learnt to fly.
But, leaves` procession under the kiss of the wind;
Buds of faith and hope live in philosophical mind.
An email written to eldest daughter
December 28th, 2019,
which unwittingly, magically, accidentally...
resurfaced while scrolling
thru outdated emails
and OpenOffice documents of mine
thee evening of February 20th, 2022.
The remaining lines
comprising reasonable poetic rhyme
sent to said offspring
more than two plus years ago
and dada feels grief no more, cuz time
heals all wounds.
Papa unexpectedly overtaken with woe
flashback shook me complex edifice
head, shoulder, knees in to toe
quietly processing silent film status quo
shant upended jollity
between when a little girl no
matter mine nonconformist
mien unconditionally accepted,
ye dear daughter(s) don't know
sudden onset of anguish ho... ho... ho
holiday cavorting accentuated as
charade, facade, masquerade fueling ego
particularly Santa with the Misses,
and her sharp faux claws
keeping warm while
temperature five below.
No matter most every detail
I accurately gauge to attest
your life bustling
chock full o' zest
withheld, no doubt emotions
smolder within your chest
and kudos to thee lovely offspring
(both) packed bags
and headed out west
twas honorable duty, though now...
papa feels like
an unwanted guest
thee survived, albeit psyche bruised,
undergoing the electric
kool aid acid test
laughter when playing
Mancala, Uno, Sorry, et cetera,
how dada predictably did jest
when table turned,
I (spoiler Craigslist curb alert)
willingly, lovingly, and blithely
lost desire to win quest
to dispose cards, game
pieces, and/or glass beads
invariably other occasions
ye long since left (as thee must)
me and mother with an empty nest.
Nothing more doth
Matthew Scott ask or desire
then to delight and bask
as well educated hire
swimmingly how thee
learned to acquire
confidence and multitasking,
while I trod thru much
psychological muck mire
oft times (like now)
experiencing financial straits dire,
linkedin to when only youngster fire
within me belly to joie de vivre
peter out and prematurely expire
and yours truly reckons nothing
can change the past aghast being
deprived a marshmallow
at long ago time sharing campfire
with shortcomings scalding,
killing, crimping relationship,
courtesy lack of income
rendered paternal bond disastrously dire
doth now conclude another poetic wire.
A battle with myself
I am still on the shelf
What do I do to be seen
Is it my none red lips
Is it I have no hips
Why are they always so mean
Sitting here patiently
None seem to notice me
I want to feel like a queen
Stand tall I admonish
You really are a dish
You could be on the big screen
My turn will come I know
To be dressed and on show
In my best dress of dark green
With all the trimmings round
I look good and astound
Topped with red beads I preen
Just hold me gentle please
You must never me squeeze
My holly leaves prick quite keen.
GG 12/11/2013
Contest entry. Contest sponsored by Dr Ram