Long Crinkles Poems
Long Crinkles Poems. Below are the most popular long Crinkles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Crinkles poems by poem length and keyword.
Pink sixties floral design on the back of this snail so gay,
I look and ponder, wondering who owned it once upon a….
Was it an older woman, with snow white hair and wrinkles
Or a young girl wearing a pinafore whose ribbons were in crinkles
Stories parade into my head, making me smile like a mime.
This lovely snail is darling, a fashion statement of the time.
I pick it up and think about taking it home with me.
She could sit on the edge of a doily while I drink my tea.
Before I can pick it up, an older gentleman comes by.
He picks up that floral snail and gives a long earned sigh.
My granddaughter used to have one, he said, speaking to me.
I wonder if she would like this one while she drinks her tea?
I can close my eyes, and see
Her gentle, weathered face,
Hair pulled back into a wispy bun
Grey around the temples, crinkles around the eyes
A bibbed apron, fastened with two safety pins
To the top of her dress
That apron, which throughout the day
Served as a place to dry her hands
To hold a hot pan of oatmeal cookies straight out of the oven
A hammock to carry tomatoes and cucumbers from the garden
A cloth to wipe my tears after I had skinned my knees
For Grandma, dressing up meant taking off the apron
Putting a black felt hat on the top of her head
And wearing her worn grey tweed coat
Yes then...she would be ready for church,
Knowing the lyrics to all the hymns
Without cracking open the hymnal
Poking me gently with her elbow
If I failed to bow my head in reverence
While the preacher said the prayer
Sometimes, even today,....
I still feel a gentle twinge between my ribs
Or the soft worn cloth of her apron wipe away my tears
You captured my heart
Right from the first instant
Strong broad shoulders
Toned firm body
Lean and so tall
To me you seemed a giant
In stature and standing
But it was the details that got me
The small pulsing vein on your temple
Your mischievous knowing eyes
Paved with tiny crinkles as you smiled
They stirred and warmed my soul
Your huge leathered hands
Capable of so much
But mine to hold
Your deep gentle voice
Every utterance precious
You made me believe I was special
You made me believe I was beautiful
You made me believe I was invincible
You protected me
You adored me
You shaped me
I loved you
I worshipped you
I trusted you
I believed you
Now you are gone
You are far from forgotten
I see your legacy in the mirror
I hear myself saying your words
Doing things you would
The apple falls never far from the tree
My first love, my daddy
I went to the page with a dry eye?
nary a whimper
certainly no sigh.
What was this odd mysterious state;
this slight chest tickle,
this bouncy gait?
Tigeer the Tiger would know, I’m sure;
what are these eye crinkles
this snorty-like snore?
And, where in the hell
did I hide this guffaw?
I went to the page with twinkling eye,
a wee small chortle
certainly, No sigh?
Why it’s happiness, bubbling up from inside,
happiness damn! I can’t even hide.
Giggles causing tickles inside my chest
har-de-har-arrrrrr’s and all of the rest.
Like Tigeer the Tiger letting go of a roar;
it’s simply, most simply so extraordinoir.
You’ve uncapped me, undone me,
pulled loose the cork;
Next thing I know
You run for a fork?
As for Mornings
The skin on my feet crinkles and looks like an old newspaper left out in the sun, I have five pairs of shorts and can use none
I have bought a cream for dry skin, but first, I need a shower that
makes the skin drier still, and I think, it all!
At a building site. nearby, they are boring a big square hole in the
ground presumable a garage for electric cars and stick a big building
on top, I hope it floods!
The building site used to have a nice house, set in a beautiful garden, but Sharks with cement, bricks, and money came and a story ended
There is talk of banning petrol cars, that means we, pensioners and
low low-paidkers learn to walk or take the bus, getting wet and soggy when it rains, the bus is late.
it all!
NATURE’S DECAY AND REBIRTH
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Flowers fade and decay through wintry hours-waiting for rebirth." Constance La France
in October's harsh, brittle light
the once emerald leaf crinkles,
curls, and crumbles like burnt paper edges
descending to cold soil.
the creek forgets its silver song,
its throat choked thick with mud and reeds.
heron stands watching minnows turn to ghosts.
fungi blooms on damp logs.
then frost arrives with teeth of glass.
snow muffles doe's fallen carcass—
her ribcage a cathedral for ice and wind.
silence stays ‘til the thaw.
deep beneath steely, stubborn ground,
a seed split open by the cold
unfurls and drinks the melt of winter's tears
pushing through death's veneer.
soon, sap ascends the maple's spine.
new ferns explode in fractal line.
wet-nosed, wobbly fawn stumbles, blinking wide.
life wakes from the decay.
My contract with wrinkles is a history carved.
I acknowledge how swiftly I’ve outwardly aged.
Best and the worst, suddenly a future now halved
Strokes in a map book, each travelled page after page.
Unlike lines on the palm, where the future is told
My wrinkles chronicle laughter, sorrow and pain.
Many serious thoughts and decisions so bold
A canvas of wear, signs of a life of campaigns.
Studying further I see the stories expressed
Summoning moments of anger and portions of joy.
I see marks cut by tears and memories suppressed.
Albums of pride and fabulous times I've enjoyed.
There are lines for surprise and a couple for frowns
Twinkles of contours that match up with my eyes.
An artisans sculpture for life’s ups and its downs
Shapes created by prayer, and a glance at the skies.
Furrows fashioned from worry, passed on by the brood
Countless ruts that droop low, from those times I’ve been sad.
Amazement and stress, all combinations of moods
Little dents for the wonder and scars for the mad.
I look deep at my face and I’m wholly beguiled
Complete types of emotions their pointers and signs.
But the crinkles and creases my face has compiled,
part’s of my story, and I’ll embrace all of my lines.
VIDEO/AUDIO on YouTube above. NOTE: On the video; double-click to enlarge, and/or, right-click for the drop-down menu and click on 'Loop' for auto-repeat.
Autumn's Wink at Winter
Stares at the glit of a harvested moon,
felicitous sways northernly o'er ripen earth,
divorcing neath horizon's haulage.
Rises the yam sun that courses a forenoon cast,
towering mist espoused crusted loam and verdurous life,
progresses towards insignificance.
Abandon lofty leafy legions,
descension in crumpled layers,
... of impaled saffron petals,
... of lain chartreuse fronds.
Strewn against a capricious path,
the weight of feet crinkles crispy snaps to arouse the quietude,
echoes summons a dusty field in white,
ebbing the tides of a wintry breath.
Afar strewed a few sunflowers to escort its mentored sun,
ere setting to their eastward repose position.
Brisk breeze encounters a trial,
a crafted shawl snuggly wraps,
homeward bound via hot cider,
a lit fireplace as a book is read.
A forested cabin well-engaged boast outwardly entertained,
prominence forestalls in burgundy, copper, and blonde,
snowflakes tenderly smooch the befallen perianths,
forgivingly melts to the usual taste of Autumn.
*1st Place*
ALL YOURS (Apr 15)
~~Brian Strand
*1st Place*
Still-Life Autumn
~~Eve Roper
*My submitted Free Verse has been a prior winner that I had written on 2020 October 22
Utterances
Grunts
Tech references aligned with the toetapping movements
Ya
Ya
Ya
Who is the secret gabber she pines to hear more from
Who crinkles the toes
Pasty white except for the summer's flush of pink and wear
A city oblivious
And she as well
Making this hush cellular moment special in most regards
Ya
Ya
Houston and Chrystie has never heard of such nonsense
Girls obsessing
Obliterating
The unsuspecting boys
Maybe someone gets laid tonight
Maybe laid out
And the rest
Resting on these beaten, grimey steps of Sara Roosevelt Park
Just looking to cut a break in a midday Fri toil
All NYers
Glad to be here
Glad to be afforded the life they have
As the smiley orange blonde drones on
And on
And on
Ya
Ya
(8/13/10)
delicate lace linked by crochet
labyrinthine stitches a doily a day
counted by repetitious candlelight
motherly hands of preponderant foresight
twisting and surrender of silent threads
tucking each one into intricate spreads
lovingly lace reflects persistence of face
a warm cosseted Victorian embrace
from hands that stumbled with wrinkles
forlorn and gnarled knots, catastrophic crinkles
yet the warm, soft hand that comforts her ill
a kin that kindles the fire and spins with skill
she’s mastered the lessons rendered at the knee
of longsuffering love and mother’s humble marquee