Long Buttons Poems
Long Buttons Poems. Below are the most popular long Buttons by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Buttons poems by poem length and keyword.
BEING FITTED FOR MY MURDER WAS LIKE ANY OTHER DRESS FITTING WHEN I WAS LITTLE THE TAILOR SHOP WAS ALWAYS EMPTY AWAITING MY PERSONAL FITTING MY POP WENT FIRST WATCHED THE SEAMTRESS CAREFULLY MEASURE HIS ARMS AND COLLARS I WOULD GET THE LOLLIPOPS ON THE STRING CROSS MY LEGS AND WAIT FOR MY TURN MY IRISH AUNT WOULD PLACE THE PINS IN THE LACE FABRIC PEARLY WHITE BUTTONS I OFTEN ASK WHY IS SHE DRESSING ME IN CURTAINS DOILIES MY NONNA WOULD CHUCKLE HARDILY SHE LOVED THIS PLACE SHE AND MY AUNT WERE SISTER ITALIAN IRISH BELLAS THERE WAS ME SPOILED ROTTEN SIMPLY BECAUSE I LISTENED TO EVERY ELDER SPEAKING OUT OF SHEER REPECT FOR MY ELDERS THAT'S HIW IT WAS THAT'S HOW IT IS THAT'S WHY MY MURDER FITTING HAD TO BE PERFECT THE VERY SHORT ANGRY OLD GUY STANDING BY THE SEABURG I DROP MY QUARTERS IN MY SONG BEGANS TO PLAY AIN'T NOBODY BY CHAKA KHAN I DANCED IN A VERY LOVELY MAUVE DRESS HE WATCHED WITH HIS HANDS I KNEW HE DESIRED ME BUT WHY IT WAS BECAUSE I'D WITNESSED THE ULTIMATE MURDER PLOT BEING COVERED UP BY CITY OFFICIALS I WATCHED THE LITTLE GUY PAY OFF OFFICERS STILL IN PATROL CARS I WORE WIRES PREGNANT FOR THE FBI BUYING WEAPONS AND DRUGS FROM JUNK SICK COPS SELLING DRUGS FOR THE LITTLE GUY SIMPLY BECAUSE THE FBI WARNED HE MURDERED ELDERLY PEOPLE IN A BLAZE CHRISTMAS DAY NOW HERE I STAND EXPOSED BEING FITTED FOR MURDER COMMOTION HORRIR TERROR AWAITS I PLAY MY FAVORITE SONG AND DANCE TO THE RYTHMN OF MURDER NOT ANY MURDER MY MURDER THE GRUELSOME COVER UP ASK FOR THIS DANCE I HESITATE BUT THINKS WHAT DO I HAVE TO LOSE THIS IS MY MURDER FITTING SO I DANCED WITH THE COMMISIONER SHOCKING THE LITTLE GUY EXPLODES HE IS ACTUALLY JEALOUS HIS EYE SQUINT HE FLICKS THE ASHES FROM HIS CIGARETTE THE ASH MAKING A LOUD CRASH TO THE FLOOR SILENCE ABODE THE GUNMAN AIMS SNIPER ON THE ROOF HE PULLS THE TRIGGER I FALL THE LITTLE GUY YELLS I DIDN'T WANT YOU TO ACTUALLY KILL HER WHAT HAVE YOU DONE SHE'S THE LOVE OF MY LIFE THE CROWD STANDS APPLAUDING HIS GRAND PERFORMANCE THE GUNMAN SAYS BUT BOSS YOU SAID SHOOT THE LITTLE GUYS DROPS HIS HEAD SOBBING I MEANT WITH A CAMERA YOU IDIOT NOW SHE'S GONE I LOVED HER TO DEATH THAT DRESS IS SO BEAUTIFUL ON HER
In the vault of sorrows, the lights are dim,
Memories dangle stiff, stark, cold and grim.
In glass-fronted vaults of remains half-dead,
Haunting to avenge losses, regrets and dread.
Bitterness is grit, dust and rust—
Metal relics wrapped in tempered crust.
Too sharp to hold, too old to appeal,
Scars embalmed, behind bars of steel.
Fur skins and feathered bones, long dead.
Eyes once bright, are now glass instead.
Stuffed with pride, stitched in despair,
They rage within riles, gasping for air.
Old garments show arguments, long of old,
With threadbare cuffs, and buttons of gold.
They're sour of fit, and hung too tight,
To ever again leave shadows in bright sunlight.
Such bitterness belongs in museum displays.
Where you can visit it on sad, rainy rue days.
To see such hateful feeling-disheveled, dismembered.
Covered in dust, to be forgotten, not remembered.
Lock it up, behind the glass, don’t let it breathe,
Bitterness will bloom, when we fail to believe.
It should be kept under lock and key.
Where all such sour sorrows, are meant to be.
Meant to be, Meant to be-!
That's the key, That's the key!
LIKE FLOWERS BLOOM
Each time she tried
They fell to their death
From the ledge of her lip
To lie by her heart
Where they endlessly stared
Helpless, she knew
They would never draw breath
A sacrifice to
The will of her pride
The gardens she walked
The gates rusted locked
Like hair grown unkempted
The Ivy wound wild
Behind her she knew
The grasses tall grew
A serpent kept watch
She cried as he smiled
She lay back and bared
Her throat, slim and fair
Her buttons, she loosed
Her breasts to the skies
Violet and blue
Like flowers bloom
Bruised
A testement to
Those secrets, survived
A shadow, the sun
Down the rains come
But pain was something
She learned as a child
I heard the rumor. The couple is splitting up. They are not a young couple; those middle-aged faces witnessed many winters; those eyes witnessed many tragedies through all these years. I heard the rumor from one of my friends. I was getting worried, agitated inside.
“How did you hear about this?” I asked.
“ About what?”
“About the separation?”
“ Never mind, I just came to know about this”, She seemed cold, reluctant to answer.
Smokey clouds; clouded thoughts. Big clouds, little clouds. Clouded elephants, clouded zebras, clouded archers. They form, diffuse and form again in another kind. Childhood revisited. Is it not so?
I was touching her hand. She was unconscious. This is her first attempt; alarming, tragic.
Why on earth sleeping pills are there? Intoxicating, numbing those pills!
“How are you feeling now?”, I was holding her hand, still.
She told something, something softly, unclear. Something said yet unsaid.
I was walking to the library. Nothing urgent, need to return a book. Walking slowly, without any rush. Walking on the sidewalk, pressing push buttons, crossing roads. An ordinary life in a clutter of numerous lives. One out of many.
It was drizzling. I was walking in the drizzling rain. I loved the rain.
Those teardrops of the sky mingling with our teardrops of ordinary lives! Mingling with the divine mercy, for a new hope, for yet another day!
My finger hovers
Shall I turn you on today
You lie there tempting me
I need to know what buttons to press
But when I press those buttons
You respond immediately and burst into life
Every Wednesday you leave me little messages
I try to ignore them but you are so persistent
You want to update
I want to write
I press any key to continue
And you ignore me and update anyway
My husband is fed up with the distress you cause me
He has a cunning plan to fix you forever ...
No more automatic updates
From now on you and I can live together in perfect harmony
I can press the right keys to update you when it suits ME
Now I am in complete control!
Computer Poem Contest – Carol Eastman
29th March 2015
Wee ditty about the loudly, proudly beating heart of our oh so pretty city.
No hustling..strolling along...to the rolling soundtrack..bustling throng
A musky busker hums, strums and sings their husky song...
Familiar faces..fayre made with care..displayed with flair to share..
Tip top one stop shop..rare.. hallowed not fallowed places.
Grab a seat...have a natter..nab a moreish treat..baffled by the seasonal snaffle raffle..
Becalming as disarming stallholders flatter with charming chatter..
No need to scatter whatever the weather..for once it doesn't matter.
Feast your eyes...on the fruit, veggies, flowers and pies...a treasure trove..
We loyally royally rove..Dunedin’s own homegrown orchard grove.
Hordes..maraud..applaud the smorgasbord hoard..
Toasts to our harbingers & hosts bucolic boasts...
Our locavore lair...after dawn duty on a Saturday morn..
There to share..our adored victual ritual..
Rootling & pootling...epicurean sights..sybaritic delights…
Pushing greedy needy…gourmands & gluttons’ buttons..
Fossicking..their weekly home from home outing..
Gastronomes roam.. pouting swag bags sprouting..
Never snooty....just rollicking & frolicking..
Touting this tutti fruity booty of beauty..
THE SOLID TRUTH
On the day I was born.
Everyone put me on a petal stool.
The Angel's played a trumpet horn.
While everyone called me a ~precious jewel.
Harps played!
Doves flew!
That's how my birth was displayed.
As I got older ~ As I grew!
My heart of gold started to fade.
Sinking down in to the blues.
I hide my thoughts under the shade.
Wondering how one screw got lose.
I removed the pin from my own grenade.
Like TNT~ I lit my own fuse.
Blowing myself away from your masquerade.
My life has no buttons to defused..
My heart is twisted with barbwire as a barricade.
I live this rotten life, no reason to hit the snooze.
Sweating and letting the thoughts of revenge cascade.
A level of rage and hate is my only muse.
You camouflaged into a blonde beast with the eyes of jade.
The truth has come out, with an unacceptable excuse.
The solid truth, is like solid waste.
A force of mean, turning a heart cold.
Here's the truth do you want my new sour taste.
Forget when I was sweet, when I was bold.
I enjoy this new feeling of being out of place.
The truth was told..
In your face.
I laughed at the way it was all unfold.
Walking with a smile~ one day you will die,
and pay for what is owed.
While I sleep at night with Glory..
You'll wake up everyday to my untold story.
With the solid truth that lies have no end.
Guilt will have everyone crying at my funeral.
Wondering what happened to their "precious jewel.
by;p.d.
Under the Lampshades
You are hurriedly racing your crazy Cadillac,
looking to squeeze in more time at the yoga salon,
and have a relaxing conversation under a set of palm trees out back,
with sandwiches of desire mixed with sardines and mustard;
this person you are racing to is the one
who knows the right buttons to push.
Is it time for another epoch of stranded conveniences,
required by society as solemnly as a funeral with no body?
We know there is a hidden pain not felt,
not until a rain of shredding years find their progressions captured,
inside old rooms down hallways of musty time,
with apparitions of giggling girls walking back and forth,
looking for aroused embraces in the burning night,
Come with me now, is there no time for lazy hours under lampshades,
after we gather up red nectarines at the Uptown faire?
We can gaze at the old faces and wonder if they knew anything.
But inside this 1956 Cadillac we all knew where the flashlights were hidden,
And we all knew where the silver keys to the pink hearse were located.
Shh, don’t make a sound! Try not to make a clamor within these green tiles.
There are witch hazel bottles half full in the medicine cabinets, and
There are asbestos catchings in the dry rot, and ancient cobwebs made of beard,
Collapsing here with us in this dead basement of cement and lost whispers.
Shhh, she is tiptoeing down the creaky steps now wearing brown skin;
My breath is taken away as with all spirits ascending upward face-first.
On vacations you tend to gain weight,
Finding luscious, rich foods on your plate.
Add to that, extra drinks,
Plus desserts and methinks
Many people with this can relate.
And, though meals were a source of delight,
Coming home, all your clothing feels tight.
Buttons pop, seams may rip,
Zippers struggle to zip
Since you couldn’t resist one more bite.
Yet if somehow you’ve given a ride
To a sickness like Covid inside,
You’ll feel woozy and spent
And, though not your intent,
You’ll discover your appetite’s died.
So the upside to being infirm,
Which, experience lets me confirm,
Is that nothing remains
Of the pounds someone gains
On vacation, all thanks to a germ!
Once upon a time there was a little boy who lived for Christmas.
Each year he would place cookies under the tree for Santa Claus.
One special year he woke up to find an empty plate and a bright
gold shiny button from Santas red suit. His mom said, " Son,
you better put that in a safe place. Next year you can place it
on the plate again, hopefully he will take it back."
Each Christmas Eve the boy shined up the button and place it
on a plate aside the cookies. Years went by and the button stayed
on the plate but the cookies were eaten every time. Puzzled, the boy
couldn't figure out why Santa would not retrieve it. The boy grew up
and became an old man. Before he died, he had a lucid dream of Santa.
He asked Santa why he never took back his shiny gold button.
Santa replied with a smile, "I gave you the button to keep the dream alive inside of you " I don't need to worry about the button, Mrs. Santa, always keeps extra buttons in her sewing box. " Then he laughed so hard he popped another button. In the morning a Rubious light shone from his night light and there on his night table lo and behold, right before his eyes lay another shiny gold button, just like the one before.
Dec 3, 2022