Long Cloth Poems
Long Cloth Poems. Below are the most popular long Cloth by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cloth poems by poem length and keyword.
A fire blazes behind the veil
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This veil I wear
is not made of cloth
for no fabric could withstand
the incendiary passion
I command
It's self-imposed
not forced
no man's hand
would dare cover me
yet here I am
swathed in these layers...
folds of security
you see
it's easier
much easier
just to be like the rest
not a subject of discussion
or the brunt of derision
with meanings misconstrued
by the crass and the rude...
thus,
anonymity allures
I finger the veil
its threads: religious doctrine
its dye: denial
its paisley patterns: protocol
culturally appropriate
I stand:
~chaste~
silence simmering
with actions inactive
I stand: quiet, demure, serene
but my thoughts burning, unseen
and behind the veil
I smolder
passion flares through my eyes
the only indication
that I'm alive
I pass you by
another woman
unseen
unknown
unacknowledged
I pass you by
you...frivolous in your freedom
you...unappreciative of accpetance
I pass you by
and yet, inwardly I smile
warmed by inner flames
emanating from my core
I know…so much more
There's potential...
potential this woman has in store
for this I know
when the time has come
when I'm ready
it will fall away
by my own hand
unobtrusively grand
and you will see the sight
the walking, breathing delight
of the unveiled woman
confident
sublime
a woman
calmly, gracefully, purposefully
passing you by....
Eileen Manassian
This is not meant to be offense to anyone from the Islamic faith. The veil has symbolic meaning.
Granddad’s Selectric waited like a relic of belief,
its keys dulled to pewter under years of dust,
yet still holding the shine of his callused hands~
hands that moved with a pianist’s grace
whenever he typed truth into letters
meant for men who rarely listened.
I was small enough to sit beneath his desk,
cross-legged in the hush of click-clack hymns,
learning that words could be armor,
could be lanterns,
could be the way a man keeps faith
with the world he hopes to mend.
Mother’s sigh in the doorway
was the first lesson in surrender~
how dreams can thin themselves
into chores and folded laundry.
I didn’t understand it then,
but her voice carried the weight
of stories she never wrote.
Years later, the attic breathed its dust at me
as I lifted the drop cloth from the Selectric,
its silhouette unchanged,
its silence louder than memory.
The receipt lay inside like a ghost~
$550 printed in vanished ink,
but the sacrifice still legible
in the shape of the paper.
My hands trembled harder
than they ever had grading essays.
The first keystroke jammed,
the second bloomed a perfect A,
and by the third paragraph
I remembered the rhythm
I’d once trusted more than breath.
Somewhere between rafters and revelation,
I understood the truth Granddad left me:
a dream doesn’t disappear
when deferred~
it waits, patient as an attic typewriter,
for the moment you finally dare
to press the next key.
poem written based upon this memoir vignette posted at Poetry Soup:
poetrysoup.com/short_stories/a_dream_deferred_13827
our first time together
introducing you to a simple diner
nothing special but the pleasure
of you in an unadorned ambiance
where we would spend many moments
coming to know the depth we shared
conversations shrouded in quietude
an intimacy captivating
your remark on your attire
is this acceptable where we're going
mine, what pleases you
is my pleasure
so began the understanding
what pleases you
is my pleasure
whether it is the labor of some worm
the magic of man's chemistry
a plethora of known flowers
running rampant across cloth
an admixture of the rainbow
let the colors meld upon you
some exotic print
an empress captivating my gaze
whatever pleases you
is my pleasure
those magical times you return
from some buying spree
wanting to model for me
i know the depth of this request
its source, an innocence
i see in an aura doting on you
if the phone should ring
it's Oslo on the phone
wanting to award some poem of mine
let the answering machine
take down the message
for i am about to be honored
with the undivided pleasure
of what pleases her
it is when i see within her
the little girl in rapture dressing up
the little girl on the edge of enchantment
entitled to a world of pleasing attire
the world holds no greater reward for me
than what pleases her
it is but one of her many pleasures
poems Oslo will never have
when heaven's lips envelop my quill
Oregon 9/23/26
July burns bright in a sky of hot gold,
While the story of summer begins to unfold.
The sun climbs the heavens in blinding white fire,
And hearts beat in time with a joyous desire.
We gather outside on the emerald lawn,
With buckets of water brought out at the dawn,
And pure white cotton, like clouds in the blue,
Awaiting the magic of color and hue.
The folding begins with a reverent grace,
A spiral spun tight in a sacred embrace.
We pinch the soft cloth at the very sweet core,
And twist it around on the sun-baked floor,
Like galaxies spinning in deep starry night,
Secured by the grip of the rubber bands tight.
Or lines made in zigzags, a mountain and stream,
A canvas prepared for a psychedelic dream.
Then come the bright bottles, like jewels in the sun,
Where pigments of magic are ready and run.
The Fuchsia leaps out like a tropical flower,
A burst of hot passion, a midsummer power.
And Turquoise pours down like a Caribbean sea,
As deep and as wild as a soul running free.
Bright Lemon crashes in like a ray from the height,
To drench all the dark in a glorious light.
With Violet shadows and Tangerine blaze,
We paint the fierce pulse of these long summer days.
The liquid sinks deep through the fibers and threads,
As vibrant as poppies in garden-row beds.
It stains our own fingers with colors of joy,
A playful design that no time can destroy.
We wrap them in plastic and leave them to rest,
To dream in the heat while the noon is at best,
While cicadas hum loud in the sycamore trees,
And sweet heavy scents ride the slow-moving breeze.
At last comes the rinsing, the glorious birth,
As water runs clear from the salts of the earth.
The white cloth is gone, and the miracle stays—
A rainbow uncurled from the summer’s hot haze.
We hang them to dry on a line by the shed,
Where banners of ruby and sapphire are spread.
They flutter and snap in the soft afternoon,
Beneath the pale ghost of the midsummer moon.
And wearing these shirts when the twilight is cool,
By edges of woods or a clear gravel pool,
We carry the fire of July on our chest,
The vivid expression of what we love best.
A riot of joy in a world overcast,
A moment of magic we wish would last fast.
For tie-dye in July is more than a hue—
It’s wearing the soul when the world is made new.
Long blue-black, straight hair.
The color of a raven so rare.
Cheek bones chiseled with grace.
A tan Native American face.
Hair, braided with a ritual feather.
Clothed in a loin cloth made of leather.
Tribal war paint decorated his cheeks,
Seeing a Native God made my knees weak.
They honor and worship our Earth,
Paying tribute to all that is birthed.
Never taking, without giving something back.
This is what most cultures, but them seem to lack.
If I ever had the chance to pick a perfect mate,
A Native American Indian would be my fate.
I would treasure him forever, body and soul.
With his perfect face and eyes the color of coal.
The afternoon sunlight filtered through her window drapes
revealing each age line molded to her face
alone in the dusky shadows working in her measured way
a basket of clothes at her feet
one by one she pulled each wrinkled cloth out
and began to iron their folded lines
the sound of steam broke the silence
a can of starch was on the table
its contents sprayed from time to time
her eyes never left her ironing board
she never noticed day had turned to twilight
though the sun was setting outside her window
she hadn't eaten all day
focused on her chosen chore
to do for her children...no matter the length of time
or the pain that burned inside her swollen legs
of varicose veins
she stood sturdy undaunted by her task
quiet, solemn, motion upon motion
so was her gift to those she loved
it was her way
thinking of others before herself
she was my mom
and her gift was unconditional
What sad provocation
with rain divination
what poverty bursts
this dity this verse
he held his hand high
did he not touch the sky
black middle night
these lines I did write
What purpose you ask
My mind is like cloth
Into this dispair
these thoughts do appear
Each star in the heavens
including the sun
atomic explosions
yes each every one
each star in the night sky
is really a sun
the distance makes little
yes each everyone
Solar mists of hidden time
the planets a roving
the meteors climb
black night space
surrounds this space
and still we have the hidden face
black matter still unknown
when will we learn of your hidden thrown
From the infinity of the hidden windows the cuckoo cooing ushering the morning through the darkness
Feroz has just set fire to the oven, and his brief body cloth he stretches to cover his ears and face
There is still a chill in the wind. Baby leaves are yet to deck up the bare skin of Neem trees
The oven is lending heat to the two street children
The birds' chorus seems never-ending
Flames glisten in the elliptical eyes of the children
In the cotton trees, the flowers have just begun reddening
The glow of the flame tinges the sharp face of Feroz
In the two eyes sits the expanse of struggle
From a distance, wafts a smell of rose
Sounds of sips from the teacups in a circle
Suddenly there was a commotion a few houses away
Ambulance
The quiet of the morning has gone haywire
Profuse tears and loud screaming, a flea in the tea
Nadir or zenith, you are beside me
___________________________________________
24 February 2023
One woman
Distanced in a row of marked-off stools
Sat sideways
At a bar in the afternoon
Dressed like passing summer sky
Viewed through a window
From a cooled inside
Blue skirt hem
Napkined to her lap
Legs crossed like wind-swept dunes
A smile of salt
Tossed over her shoulder
She fiddles with her diamond ring
Her fingertip a sigh
Tuning
The half empty
Rim of a Margarita
Warbling
To the tall bartender
Who’s drying with a cloth and fingers
The lips to his goblets
A crystal choir whistling back
He’s bored for more of a crowd
Both wishing for tips
Just like old times.
Before through comes right,
the waiting is an art-form—
sitting easily behind a veil,
not lifting up, or seeing right through it,
before learning if the through is right.
A seed takes root in darkness.
Bread rises under its cloth.
A photograph appears by disappearing.
Dawn rehearses under the horizon.
Stars arrive carrying their old news.
There are seasons within reasons.
Blues borrow from clouds.
Blinks clutter sight.
Rests delay them notes.
Silence counts in drips.
Shadow puppets wait for fire to remember the candle.
They all refuse to see through.
Lest they become yesterday's shoes.
Leaving part of the journey,
beyond the destination,
leaves a question....
still in need of asking....
Who will happenstance tap next,
for the next dance with chance?
Not every veil hides.
Some are gestating.
Some are weaving.
Only the loom remembers,
what the threads have forgotten.
Every veil has two sides.
Every horizon keeps one view
well aside for later on.
The journey arrives first.
The destination catches up later,
Leaving just enough time
for the ending to become itself,
when through, comes on right through,
when through, comes on right through!