Long Cardigan Poems
Long Cardigan Poems. Below are the most popular long Cardigan by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cardigan poems by poem length and keyword.
My hot ice, my sprinter-Turtle, purple rose and my wife,
your creation puzzles nature as every cell in you gives comfort.
So cheerful you are, that your shadow has a dimple
you shed a tear and oxygen pulls down its jean
from your singing, the morning flower finds a cardigan
and that effortless smile of yours makes the moon find cover in a blanket.
So sophisticated, modern and divinely engineered,
your virtues have curbed our challenges to be temporary migrants
and have rendered the sparks of the city daughters wireless.
Your flesh at sight, makes an intending foreign kiss crash,
your beauty wins all contests,
far above the surrounding maidens hands down,
even without judges.
So industrious and intelligent,
you take a break and time is given a handkerchief
if you were the president,
Orphans will own grocery stores, rodents will build their own castles.
You danced in dust, yet the weather develops a good handwriting
you are happiness’ algorithm, Fortune’s ultimate charm
evident by a life on a non-stop green traffic light.
Your breath sustains a botanical garden
and your whispers come in a lovely accent.
The sun only illuminates, when it borrows your eyelashes
and on your sexiness, the Greek gods form a formidable cabinet.
You have been more than a helper and a partner to me
from the connection of our hearts, came the discovery of the internet.
Street lights have developed ears on account of our lovely gossips
all these make loving you, the best decision I’ve made in my life.
I’m blessed to have you grow with me to be the world’s most powerful couple.
Happy birthday to you my love, my life, my heartbeat and my wife.
and the arm around her shoulder hanging
that once felt like a teenage promise of a love affair
a sign of romance of flirtation of lingering looks to come
now feels more like a clasp a tie a noose a chain
to the rules she must today everyday follow
I’ll go to the shop for milk and a paper in case you
see that bloke again you know I don’t like how
he looks at you and how you giggle back that grin
inside old dreams of weekends together and coffee in
bed there are now jolt upright sweaty nightmares of
having to ask for a few quid or to use the phone to call
mum her mum who’s not allowed round anymore who
knows something’s wrong but doesn’t want to ask
his hand that held hers whilst softly grazing under a
cardigan gold whispering sweet nothings holds her
wrist now whilst shouting angry somethings she tries to
fade out dull out black out and just lay down to sleep
All preparation had been completed
The big night was finally here
At three in the afternoon I went to dress rehearsal
Stood on the Gaiety stage for the first time - I didn’t have any fear!
Three lovely ladies
We were standing behind our microphones
Reciting our poems .. to an audience of ONE
Rows and rows of empty seats – tonight they would soon fill
Would nerves finally hit me, would I start to feel ill …
We had a few hours to kill before the show would start
Hubby and I went for a meal before I played my part
I dressed in my lovely frock – our act would all wear black and white
The theatre was a sell out, much to our delight
The performance kicked off at eight o’clock
Our slot was in the second half so we sat and watched the show
Joined in with the audience from spare seats on the back row
Time passed by so quickly once the show had begun
We rolled about with laughter the acts were such great fun
The interval came and we had to go
Soon the time would come for us to perform
It was freezing cold backstage I wore my cardigan to keep warm!
Our names were announced and we walked onto the stage
Lights shone down on the three of us
But the audience was a sea of faces in the dark
I was first to recite my poem
‘Seven men you definitely wouldn’t want to date’
Not a sign of stage fright at all
Di recited ‘The Fine’ and Irene ‘1958’
Then it was back to me with ‘Just Desserts’
It was the very first funny poem I’d written
Di’s ‘Night Nuisance’ and Irene’s ‘A Transcript’ poems followed
With poetry we are all smitten
With massive smiles on our faces we walked off the stage
Came back later to take a bow
The audience applause was rapturous – I can still hear it in my head now!
Last night I performed on stage at a charity event in front of 600 people … it was my first time on a ‘proper’ stage at the Victorian Gaiety Theatre and was the most incredible night of my life! The night raised awareness of Parkinson's Disease and Alzheimer's and raised over £6000 ($7410) from ticket sale alone - there were bucket collections too.
11~19~16
3/20/22
Going at an alarming speed
Taxes and parking fees
Across uncharted seas
I'm in the presence of sharks and trees
Keeping any B.S. far from me
Among constant conflict and chaos, I've only partially
Found harmony
It all use to dishearten me
Experienced much first hand rather harshly
Around me was constant paraphernalia like a pharmacy
In years past, I partook in some carpentry
Sometimes I make chimichurri with ingredients like parsley
Remarkably
What I do will not matter or it shall far exceed
All expectations, meanwhile most continue harming each
It's typical no longer startling
People charm and tease
Cause harm and cheat
A lot of them are a creep
Mama told me, boy get your s*** straight
Otherwise you're ending up in fifth place
Won't exceed if your content with that and think it's great
Someday I'mma drop a mixtape
On B.S. they often fixate
Far too many commit hate
Worldwide instead of just across this state
I'm not jaded
Even though I constantly got cross faded
Often living in space
For a long time I was a bit late
So the ship sank
But after a quick break
It all became innate
Still they treat others worse than inmates
People far too often piss-take
And they love to dictate
At this rate
That'll be their last mistake
Because it all gives shape
To being dim and fake
Leading toward a grim fate
Damn girl you got a thick waist
If I don't shape up, I could end up being fish bait
Can't get by with a higher loss than win rate
Specific crowds targeted
Harmful products continually marketed
Won't catch me in a cardigan
I finished it and now I've started it
Got back to drinking hard again
Risking an arm and leg
In daylight I'm charging in
Or in the dark I hid
Hmm girl, you're so very far from a gem
Often broke the hearts of men
For a long time of love they were hunger-starven
Got to keep a smart head
And a firearm instead
Of just a blade with a sharp edge
Concern for human life is often disregarded
Doesn't matter what you do, like if you bartend
Or became a jarhead
Can't do anything if you are dead
I worry that my coat will murder me.
Hanging on Banister’s Edge it’s a man lurking, dark.
I’ve seen rows of killers shadowed and waiting,
hidden in the ridges of the living room radiator,
ready to pounce during a moonlit trip to the toilet.
From my position in bed, a stool could be a gremlin hunched,
the door frame a monstrous arm arching and looming, holding a hollow void.
The sheets around my feet are vines, all patterns the jaws of a Venus flytrap.
Snap.
Black cabs are hearses, flowerbeds fresh graves;
babbling brook rope swings form a noose, gravel paths stone me to death.
My cardigan knows it should be a straitjacket,
socks and watches nod knowingly towards shackles and manacles imaginary.
Cushions on a sofa? Nothing but false sense of security quicksand.
(Competition title: No 1299)
The lighthouse shivered in relentless gales on its rocky foundation
Stood the test of time but now it seemed that the clock had gone back
The keeper was sidelined to retire in the Sea Mission’s Nursing Abode
Had paid his fare and was reduced to cups of tea and mushy pea’s gruel
Once a pacemaker of modernity he quietly waited for dementia to settle
His heart was broken like the tower’s shattered beacon and Oliver sobbed
Tears flooded his kerchief with salty reminders of his ultimate companion
Waves of infinite tides swallowed his reason for being in cascades of pain
Cataracts pointed him inside with hearing aids hinged on precarious sight
The fragile walking stick had been bestowed by the Queen God knows when
At least that was his yarn which would not repair his threadbare cardigan
The callus on his weather worn hand had meta-morphed in soft baby skin
Be a good boy now and take your sedative pills they will rock you to sleep
Slowly fog horns of destiny sounded a creaky lullaby of reticent surrender
Once a trendsetter in dashing uniform and seafarer’s wind shaken attire
He could not even turn a famous blind eye to his room mate’s flatulence
But like clamshell lenses on a leap water catwalk he stood firm in defeat
Oliver’s lantern seemed vacant but a passionate fire kept raging his mind
Had they no respect for history had he not been the guardian of passage
Was he a spiral staircase with only one way to stumble on rusty descent
The counterweight well powered by gravity sunk like an anchor cut loose
Lightening rods flashed through his thoughts and he still could not sleep
But the night nurse had more important matters than ancient emotions
Pillows scratched his receding hair as the moon kept count of lost slumber
Once a bell whether of transit the old man felt the graveyard shift nigh
He wished he was a pirate and would sink his hook into pitiless crests
11th February 2020
the train wheels stopped at a station
and the roads leads to lake harmony
my homestead, the town my memories roots run deep
the air feels fresh while the sun is overhead
walking down the road, it brings me to a house
where a friend of mine once resided
i faded away from her life when i was eight
i try to summon her face but
her haunting childhood flash before my eyes
seven but her abusive father left her traumatized
stranded in an ocean from which she can't swim out
she would sit alone in her room
playing with the dolls wearing her mother's cardigan
and whenever i saw her, she would just smile
all she could wish was to fly high in the sky
too young to know the right steps
i wonder about her whereabouts
and is she fine?
i should've ran away with her
to a place far away from her father's reach
to a place in the mountains
where the cold winter feels like summer
where she would've spent time singing like crazy in valleys
where no one would've dare to hurt her again
I look back to the halcyon days
When Mrs Johnson,
A comely widow, ran fruitful
Errands for the new railway, and for
Our undeveloped district.
A frail, little maid in green cardigan
And sable wool hat for new mourners,
She read the New Testament
With zest, from Matthew to Revelation.
And she battled with the stress of inheritance
At the foot of her husband’s death in a
Civil war.
Her only son had died in civil stress. . .
Before then,
She was a merry image of festal seasons,
Full of godly gap-toothed mirth.
Her inheritance, from the ceremony of death,
Were mere effigies
With hearts of calumny —like cruel
Neighbours who gossip from dawn
To dusk, speaking no iota of truth in
January, nor bearing good witness in
December.
Among them?
Divorcees, viragoes, astute harlots, and
Celebrated proprietors of bordellos.
Mrs Johnson laments the presence
Of a blinding yellow equatorial sun.
Says she, ”Misery in equator courses
Across the waist of here;
Stress and agony have built adobes
Among us,
And the Harmattan has departed with her
Cold . . .”
In the pall of this agony,
Snakes!
Now, shadows of floods rise high,
Like the tsunamis of restless Asia,
The height of disconsolate mountains.
Grey elephants trumpet in trepidation
Sallow, ululating leopards break the skins of
Their drums while summoning their kinsmen
For a hurried parley before the sun sinks . . .
Poor Mrs Johnson is in the midst of it all —
Like an eye in its own storm!
Our friends invited us to their farm,
And were introduced to Tony
Their pony, who had delectable charm,
On his forehead was a star,
Which I noticed from afar,
He had already spotted spotted me,
From way beyond the cedar tree.
He stole my heart,
Right from the start,
He seemed incredibly tame,
Wanting to play a game,
I was advised not to touch
Him too much,
Lest he bite
And give me a fright,
But sure, it was furthest from his mind,
For he looked adorable and so kind.
He gently nuzzled into my hand,
As his hooves kicked
And sprayed up sand,
He was such a soothing sight,
Was sure I'd dream of him tonight.
Was also advised not to give him food,
But could see he was eying my apple,
And in the mood,
For a tasty munch,
I gave it to him, and he finished
It with a loud crunch.
Sunday arrived, it was time to leave,
Tony ever so slightly, tugged
At my cardigan sleeve,
We fondly looked at one another,
Though we had never known each other.
Tony, I said, whilst stroking his nose,
He stood beside me ever so close,
I hear you are soon to be a dad,
You must feel very proud and glad,
I'm sure you and your lady
Will adore your baby foal
Who will steal your heart,
As you did mine from the start.
SARTORIAL SELF-PORTRAIT
Even as a young man,
I dressed just like my dad.
‘Clothes are what defines you,’
Was a saying my mother had.
But now I’ve retired from the city,
Perhaps it’s time to break free.
So I’m looking through my wardrobe
To find out what defines me.
Here’s a row of pin-striped suits,
Three-piece, in the main.
With waistcoats with a pocket,
For a watch on the end of a chain.
And now the shirts, all white of course,
With collars that detach.
Long sleeves with fancy cuff links
And a smart tie pin to match.
There’s a lingering smell of moth balls
As I move along the rails.
Especially in the section
Where I keep my top hat and tails.
Even at home I wear a tie,
Though, to help me to relax,
I have a long-sleeved cardigan
And a pair of well-cut slacks.
But, right at the end, in a cover,
To make sure it doesn’t fade,
A memory of a brief interlude,
When I wasn’t quite so staid.
A reminder of my salad days,
When I lived life with a passion.
I’ve kept those flares for fifty years,
In case they come back in fashion.