Long Cartwheels Poems
Long Cartwheels Poems. Below are the most popular long Cartwheels by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cartwheels poems by poem length and keyword.
I have this urge to sway
on street corners in a derelict way,
disheveled, a little drunk,
an impulse to praise Mary,
not the Virgin, but her
less immaculate namesake.
'Hail Mary, full of grace,
Our Lord is with you.'
Perhaps the sound of my voice
will de-ice parked cars, straighten
shopping cartwheels, save a kid's
balloon from escaping?
'Blessed are you among women,
And blessed the fruit of your womb.'
The fruit of your womb goes downtown.
A truck narrowly misses a cat.
A door is held open for an expectant mother.
A smile from a mean looking youth.
It begins to rain. Snow turns to slush.
The winter evening slaps our cheeks.
'Pray for us sinners.'
A handcuffed Magdalene steps into a
police cruiser.
The cops are smiling. She is smiling.
They have done this before.
'Now and at the hour of our death.'
An old man in a thin jacket
huddles cold bones against a wolfish wind.
He will arrive, survive these killing teeth.
It is Happy Hour.
The Magdalene will be serving,
tending in her own way,
to good company and bad.
'Our Lord is with you'.
~~
The space between stars contains countless hidden gems
A locked tight treasure trove, opened up by our lens
Prisms split apart light spectra, and dopplers change shifts
We watch galaxies do cartwheels across great rifts
The space between stars, zooms us backwards in time
Before gods arrived, to claim the cosmos divine
In turn challenged by telescopes on trellised stilts
Optics probe heaven, to find it’s still being built
The space between stars is empty, No! not a chance
Black holes wolf down photons, spinning neutron stars dance
on nebulous clouds, stirring up pillars of dust
Remnants from a time, when supernovae went bust
The space between stars, is black magic synergy
Far-out matter thrives, tripping on dark energy
All goes unseen, beyond the human naked eye
Minds can sense its presence, but are stripped bare of why
Of course we share gravity, and are loosely bound
Tests our reason, so hermetically profound
The draw of the universe will never expire
Its paradox tears apart, yet keeps us entire
Last eve, alone, sometime between the moon and dawn;
that space between the real and what is just a dream,
a chilling breath of wind flew past the curtains drawn
shadows slid towards my bed; I tried, failed to scream.
A dark-masked hooded face closed in and pressed to mine;
from raven lips, I felt a hissing foul-stench breath
with words to dread; "tonight, you'll be my Columbine."
Then stroked my tear-stained cheek with fingers, cold as death.
I watched in fear; I could not, dare not, close my eyes;
cartwheels, somersaults, upon my body, bed;
grotesque antics by this beast in devil's own disguise.
Down, down to fiery Hades, I was being led.
Dry rawboned hands were pulling forceful at my feet;
And as he pulled, I slid, the monster once more spoke;
"Come with me, dear; there's someone that you need to meet."
What would suit my dream, that I sleep, or I awoke?
12-16 Lines of a Scary Halloween Rhyme Poetry Contest; placed 2nd
Sponsored by: Tania Kitchin
Date wrote: 24th October 2022
Rhymes: wikirhymer dot com
Writing poetic confessions is akin to visiting a Nudist state
Well, the concept sounds good, but all this exhibitionism --
The Naked performing unsteady cartwheels, their dangly bits --
Makes it seem like a bad idea.
Taking a break in the pleasant air
Look at how happy they are,
Dancing in a circle and jerking up and down, like children,
Praising one another for being authentic and emotional.
Allowing the clean aroma strike your nostrils
And you say to yourself, "damn, all this Nudity is attractive,"
While also recalling the how much fun you could have heard
If only you became a Nudist earlier.
In the middle of Ava’s soccer game…somehow it came to pass
that three members of my family were doing cartwheels in the grass.
As our family grows and extends…as in and out each other’s lives we drift
any time I get to spend with my family…I consider as a gift.
It doesn’t matter what day…in whatever time or place
nothing beats the feeling of being with family…face-to-face.
Even at a soccer game…amidst parental encouragement and screams
we can find the time to talk about their current hopes and dreams.
Because every moment spent with family…with any portion of my family tree
Is bound to bring a smile to my face…and add some memories.
So I take advantage of that moment with my family…every child, every woman, every man
in the time we have together to make as many memories as I can.
It could be cheering Ava on…one of her family of soccer fans…
It could be talking with Damien and Trista about their wedding plans.
It could be, on an afternoon when the clouds blocked out the sun
talking with Ali and Trista about mimosas…pitchers….two for one.
I try to make as many memories as I can in the moment…
because once that moment’s passed…
I never know which memories will fade…
and which memories will last.
It could be Taylor talking about his new job…
or about Aden’s statistic class
or it could be something as simple…
as doing cartwheels in the grass.
freezing cold, my angry eyes wake up reluctantly,
irritated it is morning already.
I throw off my warm blanket, rousing the dog, who growls, low, mad too.
Drag myself to the bathroom; she taps up the hallway, hoping for breakfast.
I hear my husband tiptoeing in the kitchen, trying to stir coffee without
annoying my monster morning self.
Twenty-five degrees out there, my electronic voice reports.
Ugh! Is it my turn for outside duty? Good. It’s only Monday. My duty
is Tuesday and Wednesday. I throw off my pajamas,
looking for socks and stuff.
It might be time to change my underwear.
Suddenly something weird hits me.
“What day is it, Alexa?”
“Sunday, December 9th,” Alexa reports.
Sunday! I have a whole other day to do whatever I want.
This is not a work day.
I am instantly rejuvenated, turning cartwheels, throwing myself
up and down on the bed, in gleeful jubilation. The dog hesitates.
She was coming up, hoping to nap, but now she can see it is
not going to work.
Twenty-five degrees – a great napping day!
I can change my underwear tomorrow.
Turning cartwheels under August’ dusk,
The gentle aroma from the blossoms musk,
The stillness lays the day to rest,
As the sun finishes it’s daily quest,
Time again we’ve bore witness to this,
This beauty of a summers kiss,
Right here under this very tree,
I’ve passionate memories of you and me,
You always said this was the place,
Your absolutely favourite space,
You’d say “Make sure that I’m beautifully dressed,”
“Then under my tree lay me to rest”
So here you are my gentle bird,
My throat is dry and my eyes are blurred,
But your sleeping where you longed to be,
No longer standing next to me.
Nothing will ever be the same,
Never again will you say my name,
As much as I’m glad your finally free,
I’ll never hold you under our tree.
There’s nothing left for me to see,
There’s nowhere else I need to be,
Tomorrow I’ll be there with you,
Because I’ve made sure that there’s room for two.
Running into a fixed object
Must send senses into conflict,
Yet girls hit that horse at full spree.
Watching female gymnasts thrills me.
Parallel bars seek perfect catch,
Sailing, holding forms few can match,
Then sticking the mat easily.
Watching female gymnasts thrills me.
Girls transfix on a four inch beam
Where flips, splits, and cartwheels are seen.
Bodies rip and zip moves freely.
Watching female gymnasts thrills me.
Floor routines spark my excitement.
They toss, fly, leap in amazement.
I become spellbound with pure glee.
Watching female gymnasts thrills me.
Spry bodies do things mine will not
With talent hot and grace on spot.
Gymnasts defy known gravity.
Such sights give goose bump thrills to me!
Buttered Fields
It is early when she is tickled awake
as light eases under the eaves
to trickle through a sigh of curtains,
to whisper across the bedroom floor,
to nudge and nestle beside her…..and beam!
Outside the sun has buttered the fields,
mellowing, yellowing the crisp, morning dew.
The girl awakes wearing playful eyes, a zestful imagination,
wishing for a form of storm that might offer up jinks and winks
but the morning is in the process of writing its own story.
Capital letters of trees stand tight and tall
beside commas of bushes, question marks of shrubbery,
sprinkled with colourful, exclamation marks of flowers
and, dotted here and there, insected full stops and apostrophes.
Yes, her day is already penned and punctuated.
Soon, she is washed, dressed and toothpasted
and, with a hip and a hop, she springs outside her house.
All around the morning sings, “All things bright and beautiful!”
while Mother Nature has her skipping rope out
and is creating mischievous merrymaking.
The wind begins huffing and puffing all before it
and after juggling a few dustbins it decides to show off,
performing three cartwheels and a backward double-flip
into a one-handed handstand, finishing with a vault without fault
to win the gold medal in the morning’s gymnastics competition.
The girl now watches, waits and wonders what is what?
So with trees staggering and the wind waggling
the morning now dancing merrily in front of her,
and with a giggle of sunlight, an extra wiggle of wind,
she curtsies, partnering the morning in its frolicsome entertainment.
Suddenly and sharply the sun, like stage lighting,
flares through the clouds looking for something lost,
while the road’s yellow lines appear to hold hands
as they stroll side by side into the distance;
the girl follows, excitement shivering her sleeve.
We watched the them tiptoe around each other
On a sandy beach in Florida during a June moon
He was handsome, tall but not lanky, built right.
She was dainty, petite and she moved like a ballerina.
I am her friend, so I was not doing cartwheels.
There was something about him that felt sad.
I am always a bit shy of the injured puppy types.
She did not see it, he became “the one” in her mind.
His friends were not excited about her.
She is not from their preppy side of the world.
Was she a gold digger? Would she pull him down?
A spring break romance, none of us expected longevity.
We were all wrong. They have been married forty-eight years.
They have six children and seventeen grandchildren.
All because two teenagers began tiptoeing around each other
on a sandy beach in Florida during a June moon.