Long Discolored Poems
Long Discolored Poems. Below are the most popular long Discolored by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Discolored poems by poem length and keyword.
A lonely boy,barely seventeen,
writing sad and lovely words
from a small room with open shades
overlooking Everett's skyline:
a lovely and quite town
in the suburbs of Boston...
Mother,distance is counted in miles,
but to miss what inspires me
is quite unmmeasurable
and verbally indescribable
mother,days become nights...
and momorable moments
cheer me up when I should cry,
and be comforted by your tenderness!
Daddy,left from this very place of truce,
with a glance cold and undignified,
his plane flew over Long Island
where you courageously thrive on;
he betrayed both son and spouse!
Airplanes roar over the discolored roof
of this huge and abandoned house;
the yellow-chested parrot repeats
his funny and banal jokes,
unable to make me smile and laugh,
because inside a sorrowful heart
there's no place for joy and growth!
Mother, the heavy snow is covering the roof-tops,
and the firs and pines welcome it with zest;
but I feel the coldness and can't rest...
until I see the gladness back in those eyes!
My eyes grow weary with the days.
Ebbed of youthful looks, I dare not despair.
I live my life alone now, surrounded by the loneliness.
Time was all too quick to pass me by
I was sure so much more needed to be done.
My hands have long been discolored, mottled with spots.
Disfigured by the work and the cold, they feel so weak.
I still cook and do the wash, recall their lost softness.
Age has crept into all of me,
I no longer hold young ideas.
My feet bear their burdens awkwardly unsteady.
Crippled by arthritic pain, I walk with a store bought cane.
I very rarely leave the house, welcomed sleep lets me forget.
Days are much too long to endure my life
I see television as my only friend left.
My entourage of friends have preceded me in death.
Drained of lifes full growth, its promised dreams gone.
I depend upon myself, always been that way
now I fear burdening anyone.
Life treated me well in the past, so now, no real regrets.
My heart has become physically weak.
Loved well once by my lover and children, my own.
I watched each go their separate ways,
and suddenly here I am, alone.
Old yes, but not beyond my years, life had long been mine.
My soul became accustomed living one day at a time.
Promised by dreams come true, only bright tomorrows.
I was blind and full of fools hope
and forced to bow to the plans of fate.
Memory fades more easily now, so much is long forgotten.
My days seem numbered now.
Guided more by pain than fear
I accept and feel my age each day,
face the reality that I am no longer young
I look forward wishfully for His way.
My skies aren’t as blue as they used to be.
Clouded by industry and building growth
I doubt the progress they speak,
read and heard things that are, and I must let them be.
Generations seek their way, they will learn from mistakes.
My sun is just a little dimmer today.
Darkened by pain and age, let youth live their way.
I accept things as they are,
My life is fairly comfortable these days
no want or need remains, almost boring.
and at last I find,
I am old enough.
(Rewrite from 1971 for Mrs. B)
Marked in heaven by games we play,
Of rhyme we teach or sheep astray,
Before Glory’s horse can be mounted,
“Can we have recognition?”
Hey friend, attention!
Stand up and be counted!
One, little two, little three, little Indians …
Childhood is somehow lost in sleep,
Discolored by darkness with voids that creep,
Sacred may be our own fields of clover,
“Can old souls redeem?”
Hey, I have a dream!
Red Rover, Red Rover!
Let the black man overcome …
We teach our broods of Divinity,
To praise and raise stories of His Majesty,
Diverse we are and are all the same,
“Is this only a test?”
Hey, He wants the best!
Hallowed be thy name!
Thy will be done in earth ...
Moral - Children reflect what they learn about diversity
Contest: A Delightful Children's Fable
Sponsor: Carol Eastman
Results: 1st Place
The scars you see
The one on my ear
from that hurled can
Coca Cola was the real thing
The scar on my knee
From falling
On my rocky past
I couldn't run fast enough to fly
My one cracked discolored tooth
From my former perfect smile
That one time
Sense was knocked into my head
Yet the scars you cannot see
The deep ones
Cut into me
In the dark and hidden places
Occasionally you may see some traces
Revealed in words or a glance
Sometimes in a repeated dance
The patterns of me
Pushing and pulling to be free
Yet my scars
Help me
Clarify
Help me
Identify
Who I am
Where I'm from
How far I've come
My scars of the mind
Within them I find
My gentler spirit
A way to be kind
More human
Understanding
Less commanding
I do not wish to inflict
Any scars on you
Yet I know it's true
You
Yes you
Have your Scars too
Inspired by an exchange of
comments with Sandra Adams.
amidst my walls
a discolored rose
a wedding photo
a collection of memories
a discolored rose
a moment of mourning
as fragile as life
a wedding photo
of lovers once parted
united in the beyond
a collection of memories
coalesce together
a collage of juncture
i found this form online and wanted to experiment with it...
Trimeric
Trimeric \tri-(meh)-rik\ n: a four stanza poem in which the first stanza has four lines and
the last three stanzas have three lines each, with the first line of each repeating the
respective line of the first stanza. The sequence of lines, then, is abcd, b – -, c – -, d – -.
Sometime after midnight, it had rained
Putting out summer’s sultry heat
The sky had its face washed clean
And wiped the grime off Earth’s soiled feet
The dawn is quietly breaking
Night lights still glimmer here and there
The blue firmament remains cloudless
And cool is the mild blowing air
The sleeping town is slowly waking up
And at this transitional point
I look out into the street
To see a sight that shall never disappoint
Along the road moves one, ragged and withered
His discolored white hair left unkempt
With hunch back and drooping shoulders
The marks Time has left of the hard years spent
Though age has drained his life sap away
He has a firm resolve never to beg
His frail body supported on a stick
Serves as a veritable third leg
With his staff, he perseveringly stirs
Every heap of abandoned rubbish
Indiscriminately piled on either side of the road
Hunting for trinkets lying hidden in the trash
A rag picker with a sack on his back
Picking up today’s treasure
From yesterday’s discarded trash
Things, for him ‘priceless’ beyond measure
With complaints none
He faces life and its trials
Never losing the glitter in his eyes
Though a loner in life’s dark isles
I ask myself, why every day
I routinely look for this man who limps along
And I get a quick answer
‘He helps you turn your sobs into a song’
Icicles hung from the roof
like translucent fingers
Clawing towards the ground
While behind the eaves,
She brushed her plain brown hair
Tired gray eyes in the mirror,
Discolored around the fringe
And gravity pulled at the frown
Like it did everything else
She was one of many,
A soul, a body
With all the glitter rubbed away
Winter breathed out its discontent
A heaving sigh that scattered leaves
Over mailboxes, churches, graveyards
You can lose yourself in those fields out there
Mired in snow, as countless as crows
As tin men, as a brick in the wall
And when three young girls,
All smiles and apple cheeks and roses
Walked by her window, she cast those grey eyes down
From above— her jaw nutcracker clenched
New England January froze her eyes
A hand clenched and unclenched
at their sparkly laughter
The brush rattled to the floor
As the girls disappeared from her line of sight
She was already a thousand miles away
Up into the cirrus clouds,
Each inch colder than the last
long after a full moon
had thrown its arms around the sky
I stood with Al Stone
ignoring the futility in our lives
adolescence gave way to manhood
or so we like to believe
our ideology stifled
from a serious lack of dreams
with the care of a midwife
removing a child from the womb
a marijuana cigarette was born
then quickly consumed
our reality now disfigured
discolored and frayed
the sound of a revolver pop-pop-pop
felt like a siren calling our names
along the asphalt we strode
where graffiti had not taken over
the corner of lesson and life
pondering the tips of our noses
underneath that streetlight
the story we all must tell
misplaced direction
led to a portal of hell
our lack of caution
our upbringing tossed aside
opened the door for the siren
that revolver in our eyes
angels decided to sing
that melody an alarming sound
wheels of society turned and screeched
leaving tire tracks on the ground
the order was given to freeze
alternatives held tight in their hands
one placed directly at my temple
a transition from boy to man
Brain strain – A kitchen adventure
Broken ladles scattered about the new granite countertops
Veins of years gone by, prehistoric earth tremblings, spotted composites
in a vast array of colors, wickedly smooth and hard as rock (go figure)
Silverware sings like wind chimes on the tile floor,
cast aside in frantic search…long drawers, endlessly hiding that utensil,
somewhere behind the egg slicer, yellow plastic (what would I do without it?)
Meat thermometer (that sounds nasty) Tupperware tops for what?
Plastic reminders of meals past, no longer fitting their
spaghetti sauce discolored partners, in assorted sizes (used now as makeshift cat food bowls)
Pots and pans, why is it always pots and pans, never pans and pots,
hell in alphabetical order it would be, who thinks up this stuff?
And then those damn lids that never stack (handles, who needs them?)
A blender, a mixer, a dicer, a juicer, a toaster and an apple peeler. An apple peeler?
Brownie tins shaped like a labyrinth, but look at all of those corners…chewy
Not good for the diet but make the perfect Christmas gift. (much more than an apple peeler)
There it is, finally, behind a 5 lb. bag of potatoes and the old Mr. Coffee machine,
tarnished silver, at least a hundred star patterned holes, three little worthless feet…my colander
The one I use to strain my brain, removing all of the bad stuff (so the only thought left is you)
4/6/17
Written for the Go Ahead…I Dare Ya!!! poetry contest
Sponsored by John Lawless
The flaws,
The way that my shoulders are broader than they need to be,
So that the small, tight tops never fit right,
So that I look muscular,
“Like a man,” my mother says,
The way my nose is a little too big for my face,
And my thighs are bigger than they need to be,
Where my skin is darker in some places than others,
How the acne scars cover my back,
The way the discolored birthmark marked its place,
In the dead centre of my back,
Or how I have a small black mole on the bottom of my right foot,
And one on my right, ring finger to match it,
A mole so small,
That you could mistake it for the numerous pen smudges on my hands,
How my nails are uneven,
And have little white marks on them,
How the nails on my right hand are tinted yellow,
How my chin wrinkles when I smile,
And when I smile,
I display my misshapen teeth,
For the world to see,
These I call flaws,
The imperfections,
What makes me different from the rest of them,
No worries because,
No one can even see past that,
That’s what makes me different,
The flaws