Long Brooches Poems
Long Brooches Poems. Below are the most popular long Brooches by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Brooches poems by poem length and keyword.
A damsel longed for a knight
a man to fight to fight for her causes
with whom she could love and unite
To be with for eternity
to kiss him under the arches
a damsel longed for a knight
A fine brave warrior to fight
protect her from evil witches
with whom she could love and unite
Dance a few reels with tonight
wearing a dress with fine brooches
a damsel longed for a knight
A knight to help her feel safer
a man who would spare her farces
with whom she could love and unite
At last she met her shining knight
together alone she blushes
a damsel longed for a knight
with whom she could love and unite
At the estate sale, among the widow - things --
mourning brooches, teeth in a saucer,
a fur stole shedding its cloak of moths --
the mirror lay wrapped in black silk.
The auctioneer would not touch it barehanded.
Even through gloves, he held it
the way priests carry difficult relics: at a distance from the heart.
I bought it because it was drawn to the way it ticked.
Not loudly -- a patient little sound, delicate as an insect worrying the lid of a coffin.
The frame exhaled the smell of rain-rotted cellars,
mold climbing the ribs of old houses,
wet roots, photographs glued together by floodwater.
It showed no reflection. Instead: the room emptied of me.
My lamp furred over with dust.
The fern beside the window sagged into threads.
The chair beneath my living body rotted into its patient skeleton of wood and springs.
I watched snow collect through a crack not yet born in the ceiling.
And behind the black glass—
not mirrored, but embedded impossibly within it—
the silver pendulum swung. Left. Right.
A small immaculate metronome
keeping faith with something terrible. Hours passed.
The future in the mirror altered by increments.
When my pulse quickened, mold flowered darker along the walls.
When panic seized me, another century seemed to enter the room.
Neighbors claimed she fled.
But I think she simply reached the end of herself.
Because the pendulum is not measuring hours - it is spending them.
Each swing subtracts something minute and irreplaceable—
not seconds, but permissions:
one more breath, one more swallow of sleep,
one more astonishment of blood.
The mirror does not show the world after your death.
It shows the world as death prepares to remember it without you.
Tonight the pendulum has grown almost still.
In the glass, the dust has settled completely.
Even the curtains hang with the composure of the deceased.
And there in the ruined chair
sits the mirror alone, awake in the dark,
waiting for whoever next mistakes its ticking for a clock.
Holiday season
Shopping spree;
Downtown bazaar
~~~~~~~~~
Easy atmosphere
All sorts of stuff;
Bargains galore
~~~~~~~~~
Table stalls cluster
Mini display items;
Souvenir trinkets
~~~~~~~~~
Crowded commotion
Zesty curiosity;
Sellers and buyers
~~~~~~~~~
Tucked in a corner
Custom-made brooches;
Artistic flair revealed
~~~~~~~~~
Flea market bazaar
Noisy excavations;
Happy discoveries
~~~~~~~~~
Vendors preside
Over special goods;
Come buy, come buy
~~~~~~~~~
Business pulse shows
Some transacting briskly;
Others just waiting
~~~~~~~~~
Weekend bazaar
Cash and carry ventures;
Curious smiles escalate
~~~~~~~~~
Buzz of discovery
Pretty and cute things;
Happy exchange
~~~~~~~~~
Voices float and fill
Seekers finding wares;
Easy breezy bargains
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
29 November 2014
Singapore
I have chosen You.
Sweet and handsome mortal, come to me…
Whisper to me your longings,
and I shall tickle your ear with my saccharine breath.
I shall take you to places
where only gods and goddesses roam.
Aware am I of how my radiant beauty entrances you...
Be thankful to the Fates that it is you I have chosen.
I have sprung forth from Ocean's foam,
but we shall churn that sea...
Flowers at my feet would pale
to the flowers that spring forth from my heart
How I know too well that my eyes mesmerize
A twinkle from the windows of my soul
and I know I have captured you.
I would gladly take off these necklaces ‘round my supple neck
if it means that your lips trail soft kisses instead…
I would happily unclasp these brooches in my hair,
and let my flowing tresses
tickle your gorgeous face and body,
as I take my turn to adorn you with my kisses.
I shall discard these golden robes made by the Kharites and the Horai
and reveal my nubile body for you to explore
with your eyes…
…with your hands
with your lips…
Let the Seasons be forgotten,
as we move to only know of Love.
I have chosen You.
Sweet and handsome mortal, Come to me…
August 5, 2010
9/14/17
Televisions getting muted
Signals getting lost or boosted
Meanwhile people hooted
Brooded and continually feuded
Was not one to make my drinks diluted
Made me snooze quick or feel rebooted
Having solutions
Handling problems without saying "Houston"
Already proven
Am only human
Not trying to jeopardize the world, because I don't want to see it ruined
Those that were undisputed
At one point or another, got uprooted
Who are you trying to kid
Hating is all that you did
Making sure, I soon win
And that I doom him(them)
Somewhat reclusive
Yet elusive
Not one to make excuses
Or rely on ruses
If you want to be intrusive
Then in the end, the evidence will be inconclusive
Went with and against the blueprints
How I meant to do it
Am one of the truest
With my music
Some folks scrooges
And others stooges
Grandma wore occasional brooches
Mom said boy stop being foolish
And so stupid
Took some cruises
Throwing up Deuces
She is not impressed by your borrowed brilliance,
By the overly polished theories that hang from your lips like cheap jewelry,
No—she feeds on rarer flesh, nourishment for the chosen soul,
She feasts on the marrow of irreversible philosophy, from tongues dead for centuries,
Her crown is forged from papyrus scrolls crumbled by time,
Engraved with equations that keep the stars in eternal, silent obedience,
She wears quasars as brooches, unravels black holes and braids them into her hair,
When bored by the mundane orbit of ignorance surrounding her.
Your pompous and superficial intellect will not buy entrance to her court,
Which you display like a trained dog performing cheap tricks,
She has read the plans of the cosmos backwards and memorized impossible enigmas,
Burned them for the sake of zeal, of knowledge burning with a living flame.
She doesn't blink at clever men reciting recently learned syllogisms,
She waits for the one who can trace the skeleton of history blindfolded,
For the one who can recite the forbidden footnotes, those the world forgets,
Written in the margins, dripped with blood and hidden by dying sages.
She wants the viscous vertebrae, the fetid rot, and the brutal bone of knowledge,
She wants the wisdom that cut out its own tongue to survive the ages,
And if you come to her with shallow quotes, with a shiny vocabulary, expecting a throne,
She won't even glance at you, for she is an empress of erudition,
The devourer of buried falsehoods, and you are merely noise in the corridor of time.
Morning ignites a murder of white crows.
Roosting in the loft of spruce, maple, and oak.
Preening moon and star from death's fertile dream.
Ribbons of sunlight wrapped tight, ancient scrolls.
Window ajar, enter angels donning brooches of mint.
Crows perched lightly upon honey-kissed bedposts.
In each platinum beak, they carry one corner of my ghost,
lifted toward an ember of pulsating eternity.
Garnished with pearly crown and secondhand wings.
Outside, the crows lined up along golden cobbled clouds.
Motionless, like a rosary of gleaming white stones.
Whispering, whirling secrets of galaxies and geodes.
Drifting about, chrysalis-brained, rose petal-hearted.
Leaving behind glittering pools of scented hieroglyphs.
Orange robes enchanting the horizon with lavender mist.
Butterflies released from blue granite chrysalis.
Riding a stream of cherry sunbeams and glitter.
The echoes of a rainbow are a grand place to live.
,
Shadowed in the silent room, the daylight's nearly gone
Dusk climbs in through window glass, with one last ray of sun
I start the task, climb on a chair, reach up to shelves so high
to mother's boxes neatly stacked, and dust gets in my eyes
I take one down, to look inside and sit upon a chair
I find some musty linens, laces needing some repair
Discovering old photographs, the year was '42
Her face was smooth as porcelain, unblemished, young and new
Old documents and letters, a history unveiled
Her letters, torn and yellowed, such stories they would tell
The next box held small china cups, so lovingly embellished
And then I found a book of verse, inscribed with poems she relished
Some dresses stained and wrinkled, their fabric thin and tattered
Were once a thing of beauty, as if they really mattered
Her jewelry, gold and silver, some lovely rings and brooches
A warm sensation circles me, her presence now approaches
I sense a change come over me, and fleeting leave of gloom
The darkness of the evening lifts, as sunlight fills the room
She wraps her warmth around me, her fragrance in the air
My loneliness is free to go, I know that she is there
Among these things, I find the last, the smallest box of all
Inside it are the baby clothes, I wore when I was small
A letter there to tell me that she knows the tears I've cried
Her words of love that never died, they fill me up inside
These treasures speak her words to me, and now that I am grown
She wants to tell her story, those parts I've never known
I've heard her voice, while sitting here, among her china flowers
I"ve found such peace, she's next to me, to spend these quiet hours
____________________________________________________________
Written 6/8/2008
Submitted to Contest: "Old Jewelry or Just Old Things or Old,
Old Poems/Poetry Contest "
Sponsor: Broken Wings
`
stuck between smoke stack volumes
in alphabetical order
woven metal bodies
straight lines leaving little to the imagination
some big, some small
from exhausted paint rollers
leaving their mark
just outside of the jewelry store
crushed cigarette butts on the ground
falling between the cracks
of walkways reflecting diamond brooches
you can’t afford
designer dreams offered at half the price
where the sign in the windows reads
“anything you want”
and you do
scents drift between stone columns
fast food lines move slower
as fries fall to the bottom
to be found later
when the traffic light finally turns green
and you run out of gas
stalling at the crosswalk
of where you never wanted to be
11/1/19
For the: Anything you want Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
I need to win the Powerball
For my house is getting small
It's not exactly what I prefer
It's just the size of my elephant herd
Ceramic, glass, plaster and wood
Plush, wax, cloth and plastic
The number of my herd is fantastic
My pachyderm collecting is understood
At first it wasn't about me
I enjoyed the symbol of the GOP
But slowly, but surely there became a need
So gathering elephants became a happy deed
Family and friends send them to me
And I delight in their generous deed
Birthdays, Holidays any occasion
I accept pachyderms of all persuasions
Pictures, carvings, pillows and dolls
Statues, figures, candles and canes
Brooches, clocks, elephants of anything
Can't stop at one so I get them all
My elephants are happy, some are sad
But I never met an elephant that was bad
Trunks up for good luck make me glad
Small elephants, large elephants more to add
My house was once room enough for me
But my pachyderm's population now exceeds
To say my space has been disturbed
No, I just need a larger house for my elephant herd