Long Concertina Poems
Long Concertina Poems. Below are the most popular long Concertina by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Concertina poems by poem length and keyword.
Ranks of glossy printed editions
squeezed into a concertina of space.
The acrylic smell of new books
is cordite to my nose.
Then in softer contrast,
the musky ambiance of the old and well-thumbed,
a well used dust on dust-covers.
A tactile nosegay of leather-bound
classics.
Fact or fiction,
all are revelations revealed.
The appeal of the alphabetically ordered,
arrayed in an athenium
of only passing inquiry.
Movies have usurped many of these stories,
as well as Wikipedia factoids, reviews, e-books,
and word of mouth accounts.
I crouch and stretch
in a confined alcove for a few volumes
that have kept their obscure tales
under cryptic wraps.
I could take them home, maybe fill a single shelf;
speed-read my way through,
read the blurbs and the last chapters,
just in case I am ever asked.
FINGERDANCE
I remember finger dancing as a young ballerina.
Why I could, leap, twirl, fly in the air to the sound of
an orchestra or even a concertina!
As many decades have quickly whirled away, with the
beauty of the seasons.
I am trying it yet again, and find, I am still that little girl,
with glistening brown hair, and pink ballet dress, once
and forevever, an accomplished ballerina, who needs no
reason!
The young days of pink tulle and net have never, from ny
soul, drifted very far away.
And, if only you were here, you would see me now,
fingerdancing, across the walnut, shining table in
every which conceivable, patterned way!
9/13/2021
I did not plan to be a single cell amoeba
or this me, a conglomerate jigsaw of a being
a million times removed from primordial goo.
I was peacefully inanimate at times
endowed only with a little foggy awareness and contentment.
At one time I was George Washington’s commode,
Shortly before that, King Georges Whoopi cushion,
yet there was never any great blueprint
for my random appearances on this fat round globe.
No design, only once in a while,
an accidental hominine arrival
panting from a million journeys, a similitude
of what a human could be - given very much more time.
Reincarnation is a flawed theoretical conundrum.
No one ever claims to have been something made
by a bored passing tinkerer, yet creation is creation
after all.
Hundreds of times has Cleopatra
been lived-in like an old recliner in a nursing home,
is it any wonder that her image now
sags like a broken concertina?
I once (maybe several times) was a dog,
once a dogs dinner dish.
animation is often overrated; being stoically stiff
has its own rewards.
Dogs on the other hand,
are pretty good prototypes of a model human being.
Many ladies have been inhabited
by my wolfish lechery,
alas only I do not recall those pleasantries.
It’s not easy being a multicellular organism
I long for simpler times,
however I can do this, I may even devise a plan
to jump a generation or two of aspiring exemplars,
but I must wait for my brain to stop swelling
then shrinking like a bullfrogs throat
which recalls to mind a time
spent wallowing in Mississippi mud -
passionate nights I remember all too well.
The aroma of mellow gardenias, the dance of a ballerina,
the sound of an Italian concertina
Purple, shaded, toe shoes that glide across a stage with
footlights and an applause of praise.
Tender thoughts to remember, in winter, Spring or even
a blustery, Midwest September.
Birthdays that my parents bought me corsages for, and
many relatives with presents at the door.
Birthday dinners on ivory and gold linen with candle lights,
such elegance.leaves, my soul, sparkling bright.
Decades later, I recall, my little daughter, Maria born three
days prior to my birthday, was the most blessed gift from
God~overall!
I may be eight-five today, but I still am full of life and to plan
to play, full-out, till God calls me home on my final day.
3/13/2023
dark horses, flashing wild eyes & lolling tongues
minions of masters blind secrets, colliding on
judgement day
the watchmen, pencils poised, stream data weighing
heavily on balance sheets, despite muffled screams
invisible ants regurgitate from force fed robo-calls
somewhere, below the border between heaven & hell
Jesse Ventura, head bobbing in disbelief, watches
concertina wire, growing quicker than phases of the moon
as freedom ebbs endlessly, no flow in sight
radio waves, linked directly to the message
flash headlines mocking our escape
in time, herds of cattle, single-file, cling, head-to-tail
a slow shuffle, over the abyss
.......on election day
© All Rights Reserved
"Thomas, because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed." (John 20:29)
THE BLIND GIRL
(painting by JOHN EVERETT MILLAIS)
Let me lean into the light
feel the fulgent sun on my face
I came here to rest
for some time
before I go asking for alms again
They say we sing well
we sync well too
my sister and I
She's hiding inside my shawl
safe from all sorrows and stress
She says the sun is 'blinding'
To her maybe
As for me, it caresses and nuzzles
in a way nothing else can
The Spring breeze brushes me
as I fondle that sweet grass
Sometimes I grow 'green'
because I can't admire God's beauty
like you
but here, in the silence
I find peace
She says she can see
a double rainbow
I can feel its brilliant glow
The rain is past
and so is the darkness
It's time for the Sol
time for my soul to rise
Oh! Something stills me
A butterfly alights!
I am moved beyond words ~
A miraculous sign beyond sight
I clasp her hands closely
we're going to Winchelsea
with our concertina and chorus
"Pity the Blind"
But right now, right here
no one should pity me
I am sparkling with hope
the Light has found me
We're joyful together
We'll face any weather
As the cattle graze
and birds gather grains
'Forget-me-not'
Forget us not
We're here to leave an important imprint
an impactful impression
We ask and receive
daily divine blessings
Now, we can go on gospelling
dispelling fears through our hymns
The shimmer after the shower
refreshes and revives
Joy is found here
beneath the sun
beneath the rainbows
Love is where 'Light' is...
The soul as resident under the celestial tent,
where the pleasure spectator benches rent.
Flowered horses with petite ballerina,
cute monkeys with funny hats playing the concertina.
Jumping tides marvel with saltos in the air,
swinging in perfect timing above the trapeze so dare.
Clowns in silly gesture all about,
making all children laugh and shout.
Lions and Tigers jumping through loops of fire,
courage’s head in the mouth of the beast desire.
Bicycles and umbrella on the tide rope balance neat,
gigantic snakes handled by delicious delicate lady indeed.
Ramping applause for those performing young souls,
humble their quaint deeds and flaunt their pride while the whiplash rolls.
The undeniable perfect state of dream today,
remembering those moments to run with them away.
It feels like they are not afraid to be alive,
and shutting down the soul by silly security strive.
Living by the narrow sense of touch,
and forgotten lights from stars taken care so much.
The sense of adventure with tinkle spice,
eating the forbidden fruits of paradise.
Rolling with the beasts for the thrill of all,
riding bareback stallion with juggling ball.
The virtue of love to do is the ecstasy of mind,
the portal of tracing spectacular kind.
Memories beauty lives forever,
celebration of the senses altogether.
The ‘classics’ section is not small.
Ranks of tightly printed editions
squeeze a concertina of time.
The glossy acrylic smell of new books
is cordite to my nose,
I dodge a graphic array of explosive masterpieces.
Movies have usurped many of these books
Wikipedia factoids précis lengthy sagas,
Hearsay, and word of mouth
account for whole aisles of masterpieces.
There are just a few left,
books that keep their obscure tales
under cryptic wraps.
I could take them home, maybe fill a single shelf –
speed-read my way through,
or maybe just read the blurb and the last chapter
just in case I am ever asked.
I ponder whose hands concertina time.
Sometimes my brain wakes up 40 years younger
for a few moments I am vital,
perfectly formed and a smile for every eye.
Other times though, I arrive in the world
already clawing at my coffin lid.
I'm riding a double-decker London bus,
there's a girl beside me
and she is rubbing the inside of my thighs
while she talks of Kafka.
Now I'm in a train, liver-spotted hands
trembling, as I myopically read a book
about bloody Kafka;
I am gonna have to read some of his stuff one day.
It’s another morning,
and I am hill running with my 10 year old son.
Breathless we get to the top
he is laughing and I am winded.
Now I recall Kafka's book, 'The Metamorphosis',
still don't have to read it,
I understand perfectly well
that the hands of time
are always squeezing us into what we were
by what we became.