Long Crinkled Poems
Long Crinkled Poems. Below are the most popular long Crinkled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Crinkled poems by poem length and keyword.
There is nothing better than seeing that smile!
Her crinkled nose and effortless style
Chiclet perfect and care free
The best way to be
Angelic
She
With her clique
They just walk by me
It appears I'm hard to see
Still I choose to stick around a while
There is nothing better than seeing that smile!
A school boy's nightmare, occupying the space outside the friend zone.
For Andrea's new form contest.
A name for the form: Double Triangulation.
a sparkling expanse, lapping the horizon,
crinkled by the weight of torrential bright
the airborne eye, squinting,
catches sight of a flotilla,
parallel, bloodless gashes on liquid lapis,
pointy beaks gently pecking docile waves,
their wakes lengthening, then fanning,
a formation of miniature peacocks with
oversized white trains mopping the water,
all their iridescent colors washed into the
Mediterranean blue
the sails lean over lazily, a unison of
puffed-up scimitars slicing around a buoy,
slow-tattooing pristine curlicues on the sea skin,
returning to harbour and ice buckets
sprouting beaded bottles of gold
I want this cold Winter to be over-
longing to hear all the little birds sing;
just love beautiful Spring with skies azure,
I wish to be in forests green ambling;
and dipping my toes in a stream babbling,
and picking the wild flowers unfolding.
Over the meadows wild the north winds fly-
making all the small white daisies tremble,
Summer is knocking- Spring I say goodbye;
I do enjoy hot steamy days blissful,
and bright red roses hanging so graceful;
and butterflies in my garden jungle.
All the trees lay down their emerald gowns-
there is a great whirling of gold and red,
all the Fall leaves are now crinkled browns;
migrating birds fly high with their wings spread,
and rain is falling on my garden dead;
and Winter is coming soon- that I dread.
How pretty the first filigree snowflakes,
soon, I will be making Christmas fruitcakes!
____________________________
January 20, 2018
Poetry/Urban Sonnet/Come, Come Sweet Seasons
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1112-561-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
A garden of love, awake as the rain, peaceful as the gray skies, abiding inside the soul who can see… there is a love that grows strong despite the fears that linger on, despite the tears who seem to water the heart with a hope that sings on and on… by poet
Whistling in the wind, a song
Blowing hope through hearts who long,
Stirring joy in those who’ve been wrong,
Inviting the summer sun, the autumn rain,
The gift of a love that will forever silence pain…
Rushing through the thoughts, a light
Glowing, restless as the stars of night
Darkness buried beneath shadow’s fright,
As the bursts of color from the moon’s glow,
Softly echoes all the melodies my heart might know…
Rustling in the leaves, autumn’s smile
Lavender, rust and mahogany – joy to beguile,
Melodies rich with twisted sweetness, in a crinkled pile,
Remembering that love comes through the lushest flavors,
Of peace, hope and grace that won’t melt away, always favors….
Dancing on the prayers of a blessing,
Trembling in silence, not worrying or stressing,
The trees, the sun, the seas can’t be guessing,
Life is a struggle sometimes, but it is still a miracle,
In rhythms of light and dark, happy and sad, nearly lyrical….
She flows, like the rivers and seas, making waters harmonize,
Healing the spirit who struggles with grief, tears in her eyes,
While the rugged mountains surround souls with belief, not lies,
Promising the music that heals and relieves will always bring peace,
Peace comes to souls who hear and believe, Love will never cease!
Embedded and dormant,
they neither wake nor sleep
but defer and endure
until a sun-seeded air
percolates in countless
humming sepulchral lungs.
There is a foretelling,
an imminent rustle of shoveling wings -
the soil erupts,
whirlwinds swarm tree and leaf.
Now begins the cacophony,
the drumbeat of innate necessity.
Wing plates thrum
against chitinous abdomens,
a fretsaw orchestra hollows out
cavities for creation.
Grasping obsessions
become strangleholds of insemination,
then unto death do they pour.
We who sweep away or step upon
their stiffly crinkled corpses,
to our numbed ears comes a solace
as the raucous interlude abruptly ends,
nor do most keep account of the years,
until the next pronouncement
of yet another reincarnation blares forth.
I have a butterfly in my pocket,
that will never fly again.
When I think back to yesterday,
it’s a pretty reminder of my pain.
Butterflies aren’t meant for pockets,
you my dear were not meant for me.
I have my pretty reminder,
that without me you are free.
We kissed in the sunlight,
a butterfly landed on your toes.
It elicited smiles and laughter,
I loved how you crinkled your nose.
Bright skies filled with clouds,
in just a matter of days.
A butterfly stays just a season,
how I miss your delicate ways.
You left me without warning,
I saw our butterfly on the ground.
Like you no words were spoken,
my heart made a breaking sound.
So I put our butterfly in my pocket,
imagined you flying again.
I’m left to ponder my sorrow,
with a pretty reminder of my pain.
Chill confines a diary of absence
as September keyholes a papered wall.
A smirk tears a face--escapee silence
--styles wall with nothingness, dead ends AWOL.
A bottle of spent wealth parlays about ...
tangled weaves justify the performance.
Pebble leather worships darkly, blacks-out
a ghosted pundit building blocks, mischance.
Cold fashions the well, tilt pour sands reserves.
Alas, pitched secrets facades of falsehood,
its prisoner scopes round a war of words,
sheathed arrogance knells myPhone, knock on wood.
Crinkled gone days lay ... flattery goes on.
Scrawled lines drown, looming voice curts; "My Dear John".
I am lost in my thoughts
musing and pondering feelings
and in my contemplation thoughts crumple
reveries crumbling with age- frail and weak
falling into fragments
just threads of my decaying memories
from the many corridors of my mind
and I write words . . .
that crash together- fold and curl
I crumple the paper
casting it to the floor to wither and die
papers gather wrinkled, crinkled
I, daydream in deep thoughts . . .
of time, places, faces
silent thoughts -jumbled knots
brooding thoughts . . . crumbled pieces broken
I pick up my pen to write of shadows
twisting, twirling, and whirling inside me
but words disintegrate
and I tear the page into tiny fragments
I am struggling to find a dream, I dreamt
or memory . . . .
thoughts are gathering again
(quick, quick pick up the pen)
write- write before the thought is lost again
this fragile seed growing wild now
oh, thoughts are kisses . . . .
that come drifting
______________________
January 9, 2021
Poetry/Free Verse/fragmented thoughts
Copyright Protected, ID 01-1319-783-09
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Crumpled Thoughts
sponsor, John Lawless, Judged 01/16/2021
First Place
Once, there was a father
Who loved his children completely
Nothing fractured or missing
Withholding nothing for the greedy
Everything flowed to and from
Without interruption or wrinkle
Til a child pulled back
Creating a hold that crinkled
....into time
For the first time, a new word appeared
MINE, it is alllllll MINE
Ownership grew quickly
Separating LOVE from mankind
Oh, how the father wailed and mourned
But he always had a plan
He took out his heart from self
And spoke it into WOman
...as a seed
The gift met up with faith
And created a child, Love without fear
Death chasing all involved
Trying to make LOVE disappear
He fought all the fears that swirled,
Around the lies, whispered by the snake
That "father" will always give
But he will also take, take, take
....whatever HE wants, whenever HE wants
As the LOVE heart walked the road
That brought him to the giving tree
The crowd gathered 'round, yelling,
"LOVE will NEVER have a home....here!"
He kept nothing for self
As water and blood poured from His side
Speaking, to the children, truth...
The snake lied
...to enthrone your fears
................silence.............darkness
.................................deep shaking
That took humanity to the end of days
Where we heard the message loud and clear
We must engage the LOVE inside
To fight and conquer all our fears
That Daddy God is selfish and unkind
Taking and making as He pleases
Our Daddy God moves heaven and earth
To pour our gifts that releases
....chains, shackles, and all binding devices
We are free to LOVE all who lack
Holding nothing for self, yielding back
The liquid LOVE flowing upwards to Daddy God
Never alone or forsaken on any road we choose to trod
Shall we miscarry our baby
With the belief that LOVE has spent its best
And He has no original LOVE
Only what is left
....over
There is no such thing as leftover love
With perfect love that casts out fear
He is always pouring out on us
Trying to draw near
...for a hug
......this father, is not a thug
............He is the God, whose name is LOVE
Written by Trudy Schrader on 06-26-2019
note: I don't like this poem, just like I don't like the feeling of leftover love.
It wasn't just the warm breeze that captured
my senses it was that way the warmth caressed
the nape of my back the sudden way your eye
crinkled when you smiled at only me the way
your eye brow lifted to get a closer look at my
eyes my smile why eye ball to eye ball the warm
breeze rushed right on in blowing my beach hat
upward why was I wearing a beach het at four am
watching the tides roll in splashing salt water and
soft sand between my toes diamond seashores
as I heard only the breeze dazzling my soft blonde
hairs that covered my arms and legs the way my
skinned glowed under the red moon light what a
beautiful sight I kelp my eyes planted on this
brilliant rising sun behind the moon that quickly
changed from red to calm bright flamingo pink the
warm breeze tickled my cheek I chuckled something
about the way the warm breeze moved across
my body a soft embrace a calming hug from nature
teal rocks sand dollars moved slowly across the shore
that breeze again and there it was the thunder of my
heart the roaring of nearly fifty stallions dancing between
that brilliant breeze once in a few lifetimes brown sable
horse's ponies galloping awakened in the midst of me