Long Doily Poems
Long Doily Poems. Below are the most popular long Doily by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Doily poems by poem length and keyword.
Life is all white butterflies and yellow flowers
For the rich and blue eyed you
You want for nothing except perhaps
Teal tribulations
What do you know of amethyst angst
How it reels from your gut
And paralyzed purple souls
Vomiting violet verses of pansy poems
You lack liquid death felt by
The mother of a soft stillborn infant
How could you know peach pain
When your long lashes flash as magic wand
Instantly your wildest wishes are granted
You’ll never know hunger harm or hell
And I desperately despise you for it
Because you lack emerald empathy
You gloss over others loss as “God’s will”
Disenfranchising demise of dandelion dreams
As if death is a green gift to be opened
Your happiness is snorted in white lines up your
Nose leaving psychedelic rainbows in your spirit
An artificial light illuminates your mind
But you feel elaborately enlightened even elevated
Your life is rich your words your food even
Your grief seems scripted by gold and silver pen
The soft satin lavender lies you tell yourself
Are a jaded justification of lack of life’s joy
You dig a grave for the less fortunate in
Your poetic world full of magenta misery
Dressed up as colorful inspiration
You feed off others like a blood thirsty vampire
Never quoting never worrying at all
That AI stole your doily soul
No your rehabilitation is red white and blue
A flag burned by drug paraphernalia and
False imprisonment in cranial concentration camps
False because your mind doesn’t have to be there
You have all the tools you need to bleed
Feel reveal and write truth but
You chose not to
Your verses in ash smell of smoky hell’s dissent
Three-Legged Table
As I drove through an old neighborhood, I spotted a garage sale sign.
I pulled off to the side of the street. With impatience, I couldn't get out
of the car quick enough. Right in front of the drive sat a vintage,
small drop-leaf, three-legged, brass lion claw Duncan Phyfe red mahogany table.
The price was outrageously cheap. I could not resist in buying this magnificent well-kept antique table. I managed to put it in the trunk and securely tied
a rope to the trunk lash so, it would slightly close and the table wouldn't fall out while I drove home.
high expectation
valuable old treasures
arouse excitement
In my living room, well-polished table sits. An old fashion crochet doily is used as a coaster for a vintage Fenton Hobnail milk glass with ruffle edge vase, filled with fresh cut gardenias, and a pair of matching candleholders.
antique possessions
constructed with great prudence
ages have long passed
Sister Moon in afternoon slumber,
you await your moment of awakening;
I see you reeling in early evening sky and
I am awed by your transcendental splendor.
Time has marred your lovely face but,
you are still the most ravishing doily
on the table of our universe...
I love the stories that you tell.
Liquid beams replenish Gaia;
I place my teabags in water and you brew it;
lovely, tongue-tickling, moon tea enchants my palate.
Brightly glowing orb above me,
I feel your energies pouring
from the universe into my very soul and I am
grateful for the elixir of your intoxicating
essence.
Written 3-4-19
For "Liquid Luna Lace Poetry Contest”
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
scoops of mid - dawn sun greet my fresh skin
touching laces of buttered stems, infant leaves,
soft-boiled branches threaded doily thin
on herbs of morn's scented face with tender weaves
how intangible this soft fire in my belly’s bonnet
splattering like auburn harvest blown unto air
praised in all shades---the topaz, sapphire, garnet
of paradise graced by bouquets ever fair
good morning cuddles every dreamer and lover
some god feeds humming harps and blushed stones
receding beneath feet's waking slumber
as charms of solemn calm soak daylight tones.
..........
(c)
Your Pick Any Theme/ Max 14 Lines
Brian Strand's Contest
By: nette onclaud
You give me a smile that only comes from you
I smirk in my dreams, understanding it fully
and what it means to us, my body and me
upon awakening I realize it had been six years
since I have seen that look….
loneliness has become my companion
like a carving knife, it slices through my heart
when I look up and see a teacup with a flower
or a doily
you were prissy,
yet delightful
and I thought
mine….
you were more than a habit
you were my heart
I stare at joyful children
kicking leaves
and I see your eyes
I see you
in my dreams also
six years of you
tomorrow cannot fix the
loneliness of today
I pick up my pen
and begin to write
hoping I will not look up
to face another prissy teacup
for I do not know if I can bear one more…
I thought we were happy he said.
Because he was happy.
He had given up nothing.
He had his hunting, fishing, and trapping.
His wife had her cooking, cleaning, and housework.
Surely that was more than enough to make her happy.
In the evenings she could sew or tat a doily or something.
He kept all of his friends but resented hers.
When her friends came by he glared them down
They left quickly, and he acted like he did not know what he did.
It did not take long for them to quit coming.
He was happy about that.
I thought we were happy he said when he found her note.
She had left, unexpectedly, and without warning.
He was angry about this; who would cook his food?
Who would wash his clothes and clean around the toilet?
He had loved his marriage and had no complaints.
What was wrong with her?
We were happy he said.
No one was listening.
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
She is shadowed by fuzzy cobwebs of a morning without coffee,
while dust motes mingle with the mold of time.
Gazing out to the yard, through dingy glass, and fog,
into a dismal January, she hopes to catch a glimpse of the paper boy.
He travels through rain, sleet or snow, how could he understand,
(this teen-aged Paul Revere), that in this decrepit old house,
she is longing for a sign of youth? It has been a weary night, watching an old woman hang on by threads of life, that had worn thin years ago.
Watching and waiting, while cold winds blew and snow was falling,
and death was hoping to make a house call.
Any diversion, life being lived,... one brief eclipse of life in motion would be a relief.
To observe him toss the news into the sky like a Frisbee... not a care in the world
How would that feel...has she ever known? Has anyone ever been so young?
She thinks she may go mad with death and dying, with weariness, with waiting.
She suddenly shivers from a dreaded draft of frigid air, slithering in,
like a sneaky, uninvited ghost, slinking in around the rim.
nor'easter winds roll top shoe box...
splinter the silence.. -- debutante' caught in amber
a cataract view frozen sepia
Grabbing a handful of a thread-bare doily, she polishes the cold glass,
rubbing vigorously in circles against the grime,
making figure eights, in spite of frozen, stiff, fingers.
Satisfied, that she has a decent view of the blanketed yard,
and can see clearly where the muddy, gravel driveway,
bends gradually, curving to mate with the snow banked road,
at last, she spies the old Jeep coming, and watches with automated eyes,
yet, with some expectation, and strange excitement.
Then, as she might have guessed,
the teenager drives hurriedly by, barely slowing down, tossing the news,
and leaving her gaze and her thoughts, splattered by dark murky water,
while the slinging gravel that has been pitched into the sky, by his screeching tires,
falls like the pieces of the old woman's lonely life upon the pristine snow.
__________________________________________
For Deb's Contest: "Mix It Up"
The old lady down the street has passed
and left no one they could call around;
except her old cat she called Miss Sass
It will take looking before she's found.
Her friend decided on a yard sale.
Mostly junk will be all we will find:
a worn garden spade and battered pail
remnants of flower beds left behind.
A crocheted doily on arms of chair,
placed in front of an ancient TV.
With Bible on table, she took care
as she read, to have a cup of tea.
They found a small trunk just loosely bound
that contained a locket of fine gold.
and a photo that when it was found,
showed three little girls midst bits of mold.
She had three daughters, she had once said,
but they would not visit anymore.
They must not have cared; can't all be dead!
then they found the trunk's wee secret door.
There, a large diamond ring brightly shone
They decided, as they locked the trunk:
Sell, give money to those all alone.
If her girls call, say it was all junk!
March 5, 2023
for Writing Challenge--J Words
by Constance La France
If Tables Talked
By: Tom Wright
2/4/99
You say It's only a wooden table.
While in a sense , that's true,
yet it possesses character and warmth
much like unto It's previous owners.
I should think that as we dust and polish this table
our thoughts will return to Mr. & Mrs. Groninger
and the good times we've shared.
Maybe in our imaginations we'll contemplate conversations,
phone and otherwise, this table has been privy to hear.
Maybe with eyes closed we'll visualize once more
those Chocolates or Dinner Mints that occasionally sat atop,
and that certain visiting Gal who couldn't resist the temptation.....
often having one for the road.
It might tell of a family Bible that rested there,
or years of embracing the pictures of Great Grand Children,
or even the hand crocheted doily and It's crafter.
By chance would it boast of Christmas cards from friends and loved ones
it held during the Holiday Season before being hung?
So, how can you say that this is just a table?
Deeply embedded within It's grain lie memories.
Memories, of two endearing friends and of wonderful times.
It's only commonalty with other tables?
That in It's former state, all were God's trees.
Oh, if tables could talk, what stories it could tell.
But we all know tables can't talk -- so we imagine.
We feel so honored, in that, of all the places it could have gone
you sent it home with us.
Thank you "Mr. G." and Katrina
and God Bless.