Long Drip dry Poems
Long Drip dry Poems. Below are the most popular long Drip dry by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Drip dry poems by poem length and keyword.
HAPPILY EVER AFTER
Shall glass behold your countenance, my prince?
Appears your smile whilst shining shoes on feet.
My honesty and faithfulness convince - - - - - -
Your heart to trust…our hearts concede to beat.
One day does not a week make, dear. Let’s tell!
A Friday makes a lifetime wife! Oh yes!
This lonely man, like diamonds in the well,
becomes a shooting star to shine, to bless.
Get well within a hospital ~ not bliss.
Each argument, we bleed, we cry and die.
After so many years – we bond, we kiss.
No closer pair on line - our eyes drip-dry.
My Prince and his gal Friday calm, at rest.
We wring out tears, renew our vows ~ we’re blest.
Kim Rodrigues © 2017
Now sits the redeye gravy in the pan
It certainly is not at all like jam
Mom made it years ago for her man
Fry some country ham, pour coffee bam
Never knew why it was called redeye
Then my grandson informed me just why
Men who had been out late had bleareye
Who looked like they had been drip-dry
I always thought that it was because
It had dark red color from drippings
In my home it got an applause
I thought that it was God's blessings
I learned my husband doesn't like it
My grandson doesn't like redeye gravy
When I make it only make a bit
Always redeye gravy left heavy
Today decided to place on grits
Feed to the cats see if they like it
Now cat is running around won't sit
I guess that caffeine gave them lift
feeling exposed as mud splatters,
the cotton clinging and drenched
chattering teeth, seething relief
as the sun warms the rancid smile
of bulbous peaches pressing,
depressing and like an eclipse,
a disturbing shadow of unwomanliness.
all at once passionate, lusting, learned,
yes educated by tongue-filled eyes
and lies of squeezing love. tears drip-dry
for the milkmaid and the sodden sisterhood.
the fun begins, a roundup, but who wins...
i stand at a safe distance, heart on full alert,
stirring cheers and deathly gaps of shadowplay,
snipped cutouts of the soul hung on hangman lines.
a story waiting to be told on bar stools. another man
leans in looking at her wretched chest rise and fall,
fully ready to expose the secrets, pinning them
to the ground. and the sun goes up and down.
9/19/2018
First Place Premiere Winner
Mid-September 2018 Contest (Brian Strand)
Your hands lingered as prints upon my mind.
I became a glove for your love.
I gave you time,
I gave you my tongue
so you could speak a moment of ecstasy.
You gave me Cauliflower cheese,
the only meal you could cook well.
Then when you were done
with my squishy love
you left on a bus, bound for West Ham,
left and did not wave back
from its people stuffed windows.
That was back then
when cakes were left out in the rain,
when poets wore bell-bottoms
when flower power flexed its stems
with blond muscle men.
No beaches in Tottenham,
the parks probably still are
municipal mud baths.
I recall it rained for days
in our love-stained apartment.
London often chooses
to live in small puddles of loneliness.
The mattress we had inherited,
survived to moan on and on.
A slow and painful crash
Where one sees one's face
Approach the dashboard in infinite detail
Where one has time
To check one's fear in the mirror
But instead takes a suck on a vape
And puts one's foot down
And, speeding through abandoned suburbs,
Is caught in a storm of fire.
Carry me from the burning vehicle?
No, better to wait inside
And watch thoughts fly from window to window
Like glowing ashes
Until the mind is quiet
And the roof withers with embers
Lilac in their demise
For only in silence
Can the sphere of the stars unfold
And the old clepsydra drip dry, again.