Long Dollies Poems
Long Dollies Poems. Below are the most popular long Dollies by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dollies poems by poem length and keyword.
In my grandpa’s field I stand midst rows of grain
whose gray-green blades stir softly in the moaning wind.
A night chill permeates my skin.
I look down at my arms and legs and realize
I’m a little girl again!
How did I get here? Why am I now standing here in the dark of night?
Far ahead of me, I see the old worn farmhouse.
Moon, big and golden, seems to have left the sky.
It’s reappeared at the window of my grandparent’s old house,
where it glows with a mesmerizing light eerily beckoning me.
I stand transfixed, not knowing what to do.
Is this a dream? It has to be!
Grandma sold that house when grandpa died.
I’d seen it one more time remodeled and repainted
and with another owner’s name.
The house I’m seeing now is the old one from my childhood.
Many things from long ago are coming to my mind:
The fields where my sisters and I frolicked in the summers;
the long dirt lane we skipped happily along;
the berry bushes along many pathways we discovered;
the hollyhocks we learned how to make cute dollies from.
It was daylight when I knew the farm back then. Sun was high in the sky.
Now I’m only seeing the eerie glow emanating from grandpa’s house. . .
I awaken to the darkness of a winter morning’s gloom,
vaguely remembering a vanished moon
which turned up on the face of my grandparents’ old farmhouse
as if to beckon me back to my childhood.
But somehow I knew (even while asleep)
that to near that house and then to go inside it
would not be the stuff of happy dreams.
There was a reason for the coldness of the night, the moaning of the wind.
The summer days have fled. Between the nightmare and the dream,
subconsciously I knew
you simply cannot go home again.
My dream is taking me back- back to my old home,
the room that was mine is now faded in time;
torn curtains are blowing in the wind while I roam.
In the open window- I hesitate then climb,
I stand silent in the stillness with reflection;
the room that was mine is now faded in time.
Such sweet memories I hold to my heart with affection,
I can hear the laughter of grandma and mother;
I stand silent in the stillness with reflection.
Once that floor was shiny where I played with brother,
all my dollies used to wait on my bed for me;
I can hear the laughter of grandma and mother.
Beyond those tattered curtains flowers I would see,
I think those days in this home were my very best;
all my dollies used to wait on my bed for me.
I feel sleepy- so lay down in my old nest,
my dream is taking me back- back to my old home;
I think my days in this home were my very best,
torn curtains are blowing in the wind while I roam.
___________________
August 25, 2017
Poetry/Terzanelle/Torn Curtains Blowing
Copyright Protected, ID 17-933-613-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Blowing in the Wind
sponsor, Nicola Byrne
First Place
He slips the noose around her slender neck
Cloaked and masked with heavy breath
He can't help but be obsessed
All the dolls hangin' around - pretty little lies that make not a sound
The poison of passion imagined as they are undressed.
The dead in their eyes is magnificent
Ivory skin - chill to win
Realm of the dark, lips apart, he just has to do it - again and again
The equinox of evil with the essence of sin
Is it vanity or insanity - his dressing up to lure them in
Disquiet Devilry and a sip of gin and the perplexity of the evil twin.
The morbid beauty of death and dying
The lovelies I have twirling in the twilight
Death has changed my life - the quiet peace holds the ladies and - I tight
The divinity of debauchery - death is not treachery
It's like an estuary of decadent innocence.
Dainty damsels dangling Breathless but fabulous
Envisioning slitting their throats as if they were flowers
Heinous and horrific the macabre abounds
A carousel of corpses, a ballet of cadavers, a symphony of death
Dazzling
The eloquence of the end-of-life - exquisite and eternal
His masterpiece just hang'in around.....
Since July the elves and reindeer, even Mrs. Claus have been on Santa's back!
(Al Gore's prediction of meltin' snow nearly caused him to have a panic attack!)
It seems that try as he might, Santa encountered problems at every turn.
He's becomin' somewhat burned out and reachin' that point of no return!
Mrs. Claus berated him day and night for workin' just one day a year,
Insistin' that he get a decent job, get off welfare and off his fleshy rear!
She'd like to spend winters in Bermuda, the Bahamas or Kiribati,
But noooo, he goes gallivantin' all over from Argentina to Zimbabwe!
Don't know what's got into the reindeer but they're feelin' mighty morose;
Perhaps because of all the fame showered on the one with the shiny nose!
They've moped about, eatin' like army mules gettin' fat and slouchy.
The cantankerous beasts have made Santa terribly tense and grouchy!
Those good for nothin' elves went on strike causin' a slow down in work.
They're tryin' to form a toy makers union causin' Santa to go berserk!
Such sloppy work! Talkin' dollies counted cadence, "Hup, two, three, four!"
The toy soldiers cried, "I want my mama!" as they marched off to war!
Despite problems at The Pole he'll trim his beard and don his crimson suit.
He'll "Ho, Ho", eat dozens of stale cookies and be dusted with tons of soot,
As once again he'll mysteriously soar through space with the reindeer towin',
Delightin' boys and girls around the world with the toys he'll be bestowin'!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
I close my eyes and dream of winters so pretty that even angels sigh at the scene
cascading snowflakes softly falling, in shapes of doilies and paper ruffle dollies
Winter hats and muffle mitts of red, snowman whispers as red sled rides go by
carnival rides and children full of chide, what a wonderful world of white...
A winter scent of magic, white deer and shadowed antlers of incandescent wood
log cabins with fireplaces and verandas with copper foot welcome matts, come in
make yourself comfortable while the kettle roars to life, tea toddler or coffee lover?
Enter into my little jovial cottage glory and stay a while.
When as a wee gal so small
there was a friend and we play dolls
She was a little Christian girl
who opened her heart to a heathen’s world.
Christmas had come and she got cash
into her piggy she did stash
for one day in summer we’d shop
for troll dollies with carrot tops!
Not quite enough pennies or dimes
were in my purse my doll to find
so she used all the cents in hers
to get twin dollies with skirts!
Home that day, she was put to bed
Dad was mad at the money spent.
To her room went she, no tear cried
my best friend with the soft blue eyes.
*dedicated to my best childhood friend Christine Walsh
My dream is taking me back- back to my old home,
the room that was mine is now faded in time;
torn curtains are blowing in the wind while I roam.
In the open window- I hesitate then climb,
I stand silent in the stillness with reflection;
the room that was mine is now faded in time.
Such sweet memories I hold to my heart with affection,
I can hear the laughter of grandma and mother;
I stand silent in the stillness with reflection.
Once that floor was shiny where I played with brother,
all my dollies used to wait on my bed for me;
I can hear the laughter of grandma and mother.
Beyond those tattered curtains flowers I would see,
I think those days in this home were my very best;
all my dollies used to wait on my bed for me.
I feel sleepy- so lay down in my old nest,
my dream is taking me back- back to my old home;
I think my days in this home were my very best,
torn curtains are blowing in the wind while I roam.
___________________________
August 25, 2017 (Edit 09/26/18)
Poetry/Terzanelle/Torn Curtains
Copyright Protected, ID 17-1065-001-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
William walks the Thameside path
to skirt the Whitecross public house
beside the bankside boats
some covered by their winter canvas coats
and strewn with planks and dollies
some sitting on their two-wheel trolleys
waiting for the spring to feel
Thames warmer water on their keel.
Facing winter's waining sun,
eyes shielded to the glory of this scene:
the river's mirror-flow
reflecting all this stream of light
from noon's fast fading glow
soon yielding to the cold-moon night,
William's eyes cast low.
He stoops beside a rowing shell
within an upright skiff
both scattered with a jumbled mess
of river planks and sundry bits of winch
and empty cans, discarded bits of litter
from a passer's office lunch,
all thrown and messed within the hull.
Reaching down to rummage litter in this boat
all damp and drowned within its rain-filled sump,
William spies a bottle, which, lifted to the sun
before his squinting eyes, reveals a drop or two
of amber dregs, like gold from silty river beds
made sun-bright treasure to his eyes
soon tucked beneath his coat.
In shame he takes his find
and makes the lesser path behind
the arch where shadows grant his hope
of drawing this to thirsty throat
and drowning out his troubled mind.
With bottle held in trembling grip
Will tilts this nectar to his lips,
with care to spill none to the ground
til no more drops are found
and then he slings this empty vessel
to make an echoed river splash
beneath the bridge's shadowed arch
to sink and meet more river trash.
And never more was glory marred
than by man's hopeless misery,
Nor all God's good so greatly barred
as by Will's shamed iniquity.
State of Grace
An Army nurse hoses blood off the floor.
while the doughnut dollies smile and flirt
with the wounded boys
down the hall.
Back home they scream baby killers, Spit in our
faces with sadistic joy.
White sheets cover the dead soldiers, just boys, being wheeled
out one after another, out the door, too late.
Body bags await, and body parts stacked up by the door.
She held his cold hand, as he lay dying, in fear… calling
calling for his momma,
Nurses in tears can’t take any more, but they wheel in
another dying boy through the door.
Screams of pain, dulled by heavy monsoon rain
pounding on too thin canvas walls.
Unforgiven... in a State of Grace one boy after another dies
time and time again, she must hose their blood off the floor.
Padre telegram in trembling hand, knocks on the… it’s
The door is open?
Memories of rows flag draped lead lined coffins
as he steps through the door.
And sees the boy’s young wife, naked, with a stranger.
on the… looks away, can’t watch this anymore...
who the are you?
Your husbands been wounded,
but he is doing well, he lies...... Well…. Wel..l
Well, he has lost both of his arms and legs,
she said, So, he’s not dead? , , ,
no NO GOD DAMNED insurance payout,
no no no?
He turns and leaves the boys wife
still naked wife in a State of Grace, with a
stranger on the…..
Padre in tears walks out the door ….
Shaking hands, he, recounts
the telegrams, undelivered, yet again, quickly,
there’s still six more.
Fate, like Charlottes topaz eyed… tiger still lurking in shadows
As an Army nurse in a State of Grace,
hoses the blood off the floor, and stacks
the body bags by the door...
(c) London F. BuSS
11,000 nurses served in Vietnam, were volunteers. Many still suffer from PTSD.. GrocPedia (Elon Musks) wikipedia did an interesting review of this poem. I should say that im not a
pacifycist, i was a soldier, and i would rather die a patriot than a coward...
No! Amanda - don’t do that
You put clothes on dollies, not on the cat
Yes, I know that you’re playing, but Simba does not
And he really doesn’t belong in that cot
No! Amanda - I’ve told you before
Put your food in your mouth, not on the floor
Yes, I know it’s spaghetti, but look at the mess
There’s less on the plate than there is down your dress
No! Amanda - don’t you dare
Climb up in those wellies, onto the chair
Yes, I know that it’s bouncy, and that it feels good
But I don’t need the furniture covered in mud
No! Amanda – don’t take him out
A goldfish likes to keep swimming about
Yes, I know that you’re looking, but just please use your eyes
If you hold him much longer, he’s going to die
No! Amanda – don’t get out of bed
Pull up your covers, and cuddle in Ted
Yes I know that you’re tired, but you’ll soon be asleep
Then I can finally sit down and find some relief!
© Janette Fisher – May 1988
I wrote this poem when Amanda was 3 years old, she's now 24