Long Cottons Poems
Long Cottons Poems. Below are the most popular long Cottons by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cottons poems by poem length and keyword.
Drive at any season gives me immense fun,
I cannot afford many cars; yet, I've good one;
Drive during Fall, indeed, is very enchanting,
Especially, if through village roads, it's joy-granting...
From black-mud surface, dust, like fog arises,
Road seem unclear; yet, adventure provides surprises;
Muddy hillocks both the sides stand in welcome poses,
Bend tree-branches with twigs show-off their stiff noses;
Leaves, in multi-colors, are spread like fancy-carpets,
Grasses, peeping between leaves, seem to scatter in tit-bits;
Silk-cottons, bottle-brushes and fountain-trees exhibit red,
The Indian laburnum and golden bells seem gold-yellow-spread;
Magnolia, crape myrtle and crab-apples shine in pink,
While Rhododendrons and Wisteria stand dipped in blue-ink...
My car Air Conditioner is jobless as cool breeze all round blow,
End of colorful meadows, I could see clear streams flow;
With variety signatures of sun, the sky is magnificent,
I wish my drive could go on for years and eras without end...!
09 September 2022
.CORLEO the robot inspired our venture
the robot with navigation control
seeking cactus fruit and rare stones
the brittlebush and desert lilies patterns
embordered in to silks and cottons
from the looms of yarners the warmth of a poncho
a tent and rv for staying
CORLEO for exploration
"the area known as desert Tulips."
The vibrant blooms of the Adenium Obesum
they sought to find the treasures in
a complicated environment.
peyote, a cactus with a button-like crowns
she spoke again in a much noticeable tone
her voice a soothing distinctive tone
a songlike chant a melonic flow
Banda the brasses and woodwinds
could her melonic tone as she spoke
nearly singing, she soothed me into her words
we came upon an outcrop of assorted rocks
one to include agate, amethyst, beryl, fluorite,
garnet, opal, barite, calcite, chalcedony,
jasper, quartz, lapis lazuli, and malachite.
walking barefoot on the concrete slab of the trailer
makes her feet as black as tar
Yeshu"a bin Yusef she spoke
of her troubles and in trouble
I will speak this name she said
then I shall seek remedy
and seek solution to our needs
all while not telling what
the crown of the desert
really meant
I felt used and foolish.
My company to her nothing special
as her next friend shall be the same.
Nothing specail, just a mere person
A polarizing perception of a weak man.
The Myth of belonging
just woman exploiting men.
A Brothel in 1800's is belived to be a myth
until a truck of gold is found
and a book with the names of many
people discovered
"Mujer tribal puta" was the cover-up
and now we know why.
they hasd discovered how to use
wires to communicate
and wished to keep
it a secret.
the Joshua Trees rattle from
Quakes.
I looked past the priest and saw auntie and grandma.
They were cuddled, holding each other up.
Grandma being Catholic was wearing her purple scarf.
Even though Daddy’s funeral was outside, a priest was here.
Auntie Maria was holding her red umbrella.
It was sprinkling, of course.
It always sprinkles during a D’agosto funeral.
Ask any D’agosto and they will admit this.
Behind my relatives I saw a younger lady bent over flowers.
She was touching them in a delicate, respectful, lovely way.
Marigolds and carnations. I thought I might see her face, but didn’t.
The priest droned on. He was trying to save us.
Everyone seemed to wear flowers today, lots of calicos and cottons.
I was wearing a plain black dowdy dress chosen by my mother.
I saw Daddy behind the flower lady. He waved before he disappeared.
I was only six but I have always remembered that last moment with him.
What lesser mortals?
What lesser mortals
than Rimbaud
claim themselves
a poet within
another self,
for there is more
than just one self
depending on the
time and day
and nothing
is as it seems
at first,
we are born
from abstract
firmament to the
Infirmament
arriving
planned and unplanned
in the in-between
swaddled in skin,
a nude shade of blue
turning pink
and revolutionary
the most sincere
we've ever been
we are slapped to
make loud noises
to prove we are alive;
we are small noises
for the most part
of our continuum
as we evolve
we reveal our
true colours
our different dimensions
bleed like water pastels
we are shades
and shadow of each,
easily morphing into
the will of others
less than
and more than likely
just to keep the peace
or challenge
subterranean night crawlers
from their obligatory big sleep
silent scarabs
black hats wearing
white hats
guarding gates
of ruined castles
like red caps
pacing the watchtowers
like laughing hyenas
for their better
bleached masters
who are small noises
for the most part
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
“As I was going down impassive Rivers,
I no longer felt myself guided by haulers:
Yelping redskins had taken them as targets
And had nailed them naked to colored stakes.
I was indifferent to all crews,
The bearer of Flemish wheat or English cottons
When with my haulers this uproar stopped
The Rivers let me go where I wanted.”
“And from then on I bathed in the Poem
Of the Sea, infused with stars and lactescent,
Devouring the azure verses; where, like a pale elated
Piece of flotsam, a pensive drowned figure sometimes sinks”
Twirling in cottons of pinks yellows and blue
Prom red satin slides in, so shiny and new
Followed by linen, stark, stiff and tannish white
Black holds her essence back, saving herself for the night
Whirling in wonder the materials swirl
Laughing at the closets of frayed fabrics that curl
Yellows in a stack down the hall ready to be quilted
Some of the shabbier cottons are practically wilted
The fabrics are laughing at each other’s flaws
Bullies on fire, so glad none have jaws
Instead of supporting, they tear polyester apart.
Not realizing even she is a lost pantsuit art.
I dare not peek in the sewing room,
For they are nasty and mean.
They make fun of each other.
Each one thinks she is queen.
The fabrics are nasty, back-biting and bad.
Maybe the worst textures I have ever had.
I enter cautiously, hoping to fix them, to make them play right.
Black holds her essence back, saving herself for the night
Carolyn is a fabric artist, she has a rare gift
I watched her work, her fingers are swift
She was making a wild flower the other day
Colorful and pretty, it blew me away!
The patterns were beautiful, her machine was a buzz’n.
I am glad to let you know that she is my first cousin.
She has a blog with followers from all over the world too.
Her gorgeous art will lift you right out of the blue.
The wildflower is finished now, she is working on a dog.
She has made a raven, two cats, a pelican and a hog.
Her ideas are plentiful, her gift is amazing for sure.
I watch her working in cottons, linens and fur.
You are the river running through
unfathomable greens
glassy yellows
down in the core of the river
flicker lightness on top
You increase me…swell me…impregnate without word or deed
push me to the fore till my sail fills with your carbon
a deep blue undertow …rip tidian
only moderate and full…like a plate of food...of vegetables …of fruit…of corn
You are the dark brown peat from which I absorb minerals
vitamins … steel ...magnesium…sulfate
the pillow of my essence’s rest in your name …hurricane
You fall on me
Wash off delusion
And I am a small green thing …a fine rooted thing
Small leaves of me stretch for your chloroformian shadows
My roots dig deep
hear your drum beat in the equatorial regions of the flaming core
I bend around the rocks …look under ever beetle’s shimmering skin
in all things you can be found
Amorous and craving …a magma surface of tension and sun
in tree tops …dark places
in the dark alleys
You are the blue jay…the cardinal but also the raven
the oak knows you too well…the west wind too and swells up in my skirts…my cottons
my downy …my linen …my lead
you stand … your hands on your hips
look out over the possibilities
hungry for returns
I echo
Light housing across ….a sound burst
a wave in a vast universe of waves ..so many
too many waves
but you will hear me
Master of my heart
lover of my flesh and bone…my fat ..my thinness…my crispness…my luxury
You will hear …what no one else will ever know
and call it home
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---------you were always on my mind
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o repel bees naturally, use strong scents they dislike, like peppermint, citronella, clove, or eucalyptus oils, in sprays or candles, or plant herbs like basil, mint, and lavender nearby; household items like vinegar, cinnamon, or cucumber peels also work by placing them in problem areas to mask attractants or create unpleasant odors.
he got on his hands and knee's and said his name was Fido...He began using the belt sander to strip the floor. Agressive matrail removal, he said Fido can do-it! Fido does jobs that Orbitail sanders can't do! Fido can do! My name is Fido! Sje wore a mini skirt and sat at the table while I was Belt sanding under it! What to say? Huh, whats to say? I barked cause my name is Fido. Fido the belt sander man. She passed me a note with her number on it!
I barked again because I am Fido, Fido the belt sander man. what beautiful colors the cottons with lace, barked Fido the belt sanding man. Beautiful, so beautiful: what's else to say but: I am Fido the belt sanding man.
He was Captain on the Pantoon under the bridge when the guy proposed to his lover. The woman was there to fit the poteinal bride and groom. A beautiful day.
Written by:
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Fido the Belt Sanding Man
** I went outside and watched the summer sky....
Cotton in the clouds –
If I cling on these softness,
Will the wind find you?
Slabs in the clouds –
If I hop from cloud to cloud,
Will it lead to you? .
Ladder in the clouds –
If I climb the swirling stairs,
Will you be up there?
Bus in the clouds –
If I ride on it, will it
Drop me off your path?
Pillows in the clouds –
If I lay my head on it,
Will you lie down with me?
** Hmm...
Floating in the clouds -
Meryl Streep dancing with Clint*
in the kitchen floor.
**I went inside...Oops...
Cottons in the clouds –
Children having pillow fights
I need you at home.
*(You & I)
7/27/14
Have you not looked upon horizons pink,
Outstretched from dreary skies of yesternight,
That vanquish tearful blue as cottons blink
And gray reflects the glow of lunar light?
Are stargazed lilies grown for one alone -
A selfish king who chains the royal moon?
Defiant highness knows, despite his throne,
That petals plucked tomorrow wilt too soon.
Don’t claim your wretched sonnets poetry
Because all lines adhere to rules defined;
No beauty breathes where vibrant imagery
Has fallen victim of the poet’s mind.
Your broken records spin in days gone by
While you refuse the right of time to die.