Long Earring Poems
Long Earring Poems. Below are the most popular long Earring by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Earring poems by poem length and keyword.
i narrate me own story in a fake english accent. the bloody typewriter is
broken, it can't capitalize. i'm out of coins for the heater. i can see me own
breath. it must be really bad . it's summer here in london. i'm a tough guy who
carries a gun. don't mean i don't want to look good. i freshen up my lipstick,
light up a cigarette and offer one to my secretary. she is hot really hot.
like i said it's summer. she don't wear lipstick it wouldn't help. in the
encyclopedia under the word butch is her picture.
i put out my cig in an ashtray overflowin. i'd tell her to empty it but she scares me.
she only wears one gold earring. who does that? i'm workin on a case, already
drank half the beers. by the way i'm a dick a private dick. the name is rock,
rock hard. there's a knock at the door. this could be bad she has two fourty fives,
she's also got a gun.
she's holding an airline ticket. no reason. she says she just likes it.
whatever! maybe it has to do with some kind of contest.
she says we're going for a ride. we are driving when she gets a flat.
i pump she pumps then we get out of the car and fix the flat. never liked
cars, horses are more convenient. less breakdowns. she takes us to a
party everyone is jumpin for joy, so joy gets up and leaves. bet you wish
this was going somewhere. it's not. like i said i'm a dick.
11~28~2014
Contest: Chopped III
Sponsor: craig cornish
On my sixty-first birthday...
I was in for a surprise
Family and friends joined me...
All the gals and guys
As they slowly came over...
One-by-one
I knew my night would be filled...
With lots of fun
My dear friend Roy...
He had showed up late
Alone he came...
For he had ditched his date
I had to laugh'''
When I saw what Roy was wearing
Fuzzy socks and croc's...
And a pink pearl earring
Although, I'm not gay...
My dear friend Roy is
He can live how he chooses...
It's none of my biz
My party went on...
Till late in the eve
So I opened my gifts...
'Fore my friends had to leave
Roy gave me his gift...
With a bow on the box
When I opened it up...
It was a fuzzy pair of socks...and croc's
Fuzzy Socks And Croc's Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Francine Roberts
6/18/2021
The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, Bread
Billy Joel and The Grateful Dead
Suzi Quatro, Styx, Kate Bush
Elton John, Yes, Kiss and Rush
Freda Payne, The Brothers Four
Dolly Parton, Sandie Shaw
The Jackson Five and Bruce Springsteen
Elvis Presley, Slade and Queen
David Bowie, The Beach Boys, Sweet
Rose Royce, Madness and The Beat
Dusty Springfield, Fox, Nick Drake
Neil Sedaka, Sparks, Greg Lake
Three Dog Night and The Ramones
Pink Floyd and The Undertones
Blue Öyster Cult, The Dave Clark Five
Bachman-Turner Overdrive
Golden Earring, Argent and
The Sensational Alex Harvey Band
Mott The Hoople, E.L.O
Dr. Hook and Status Quo
Skeeter Davis, Iggy Pop
Alice Cooper, ZZ Top
The Rev. Al Green and Steeley Dan
The Who, The Jam and Steeleye Span
The Monkees, Abba, Cream and Free
Lynyrd Skynrd, 10CC
Renaissance, Blondie and The Clash
The Faces, Love and Wishbone Ash
The Moody Blues, Deep Purple, Mud
Frankie Goes To Hollywood
Bob Dylan and The Shangri Las
The Kinks. The Birds. The Doors. The Cars
The Seekers and Roberta Flack
The Drifters, T. Rex, Fleetwood Mac
Tina Turner, Prince, James Brown
..And all the music from Motown.
New York is not the skyline.
It is the man on 116th
watering the sidewalk
like concrete can get thirsty too.
It is the cracked yellow fingernail
of the lady at the deli
who knows your sandwich
before your mouth opens.
It is the little girl asleep on two train seats
in a princess coat
while her mother, still in scrubs,
leans against the window
with tired in her bones
and tomorrow already waiting.
It is not Times Square.
It is the faded mural
half covered by scaffolding,
the one everybody passes
but somebody paid for in grief.
It is the fruit man
stacking bruised bananas in a pyramid
like even the almost-gone things
deserve to look beautiful.
It is pigeons bullying a bagel.
A church hat on a windy corner.
A laugh too loud for the block
and nobody mad at it.
It is the barber
turning a boy toward the mirror
so slowly
you’d think he was revealing
the future.
It is the woman on the bus
holding a birthday cake flat in both hands
like trust is still possible.
It is how summer smells
when the hydrant is open,
when children turn screaming
into a kind of music,
when even the heat
seems to come up from the people
instead of the sun.
It is old men playing dominoes
with the force of history.
Teenagers walking in packs,
all bravado and baby faces.
Sneakers tied to wires.
A plastic bag dancing
like it has somewhere urgent to be.
New York is a city
forever fixing its wig in a broken mirror.
A city with chipped teeth
and gold in the smile.
A city that curses you out,
holds the door,
and keeps walking
like kindness was an accident
nobody needs to talk about.
It is not made of landmarks.
It is made of almosts.
Almost home.
Almost rich.
Almost gone.
Almost summer.
Almost caught the train.
Almost made it.
And still
every morning
it ties its boots,
opens its gates,
lifts its shutters,
sells its coffee,
sweeps its stoops,
and begins again
like beginning again
is the most ordinary miracle
in the world.
This is New York,
not the version printed on T-shirts,
but the one with grocery carts,
school uniforms,
side-eye, steam, sirens, saints,
and one good hoop earring
left on the sidewalk
like evidence
somebody magnificent
was here.
In a room bubbling exuberance
and a gaiety crowd dancing to beats
we sit across each other ten feet apart,
his whispering pulses become audacious
every second approaching my heart
and I shiver as they unravel my layers,
intimate desires beneath naive smiles.
Flickering lights on his velvet skin,
topaz brown eyes decipher my love,
unveiling pearls behind chandeliers
as I make nervous moves to blanket them
in timid blinks of my lush orchard,
but he knows for I see him smile,
his blazing patience till we escape
this cacophony to face each other in euphoria.
Beads of sultry lemonade on his lips
kiss my fingers as I touch my glass,
he seems jealous of my crystal earring
embracing my cheek, entwined with my hair
and I envy his cotton white shirt
draping his ocean of passionate dreams.
He folds his sleeves, I tie my locks,
we've taken our first steps,
now ten steps apart drenched in mists
of our heated breaths we float at night,
our glances intermingled in frequencies,
that only our fingers can decode in smoke,
weaving patterns in the air between us,
my anklets kiss my fragile feet,
embellished in raging storms we drown,
in waves of hushed union escaping through vents
of a moment standing still known just to us,
pouring through crevices that moisten parched lands.
He has read my fantasies in folded memories,
electric touch flaming my passionate side
as his fingers hold mine in our recluse.
We've made love without physical touch,
and now we dance on pearls of octaves,
intertwined with beats on the surface,
curling in laced rhythms of ancient *ragas.
*Ragas are musical melodies for improvisation akin to a melodic mode in Indian classical music, considered a traditional means in music to evoke certain feelings in an audience.
June 28, 2020
Sensuality Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Silent One
~Winner: 2nd Place
You do not value me around, you’re alone
For all your life, alone-in-company
You call it family, but you are on your own
Love is a game you sometimes play, or played for me
Why did you choose me a few years ago?
If you can’t keep a word you voluntary give
No good deed goes unpunished kind of show
I get, cause all my love you can’t forgive
You’d be offended at my place, I’m sure
You wouldn’t expect from me what you can do
So your experience to bring pain looks poor
It is one-sided, and I bet you know its true
Return to me! I know you never meant
To lose me, like an earring that fell
Into the slot of time you never spent
But when you find it, nothing it can tell.
Marquees are bright with neon lights, where crowds line up for movie night
Holding hands, we're in 'The Strand'. The velvet carpet guides us in
Popcorn smokes, .. we're drinking cokes,... and cracking jokes with Bing and Hope
Lamour's along with more sarongs,... , her luscious lips, and cigarettes,
She fills ashtrays with smoking tips, and tosses guys like poker chips
'Movietone' intrudes with news, and soon we're in somber mood
Third-Reich goosesteps march again, ... an evil presence in the wind...
Cary Grant , (a news reporter), loves his girl, and his typewriter
"His Girl Friday", plot is witty, sometimes crazy. But Cary loves this ditzy lady....
William Powell and Mryna Loy..., Asta barks, and finds a toy, ...a ploy? a clue?,....
...an earring gold. The mystery is clearly solved.-- A crimson sun, is rising cold!
Movietone in black and white,... graphic scenes, where soldiers die
Another night, suspense on chart. 'Correspondent' , Joel McCrea.
Saves Lorraine, and claims the Day. BUY WAR BONDs !! They'll pave the way
Bogart, Bergman bring to light, a valiant flght , within their grasp
Airline ticket, in her hand, they must part, and do what's right, no questions asked
----
It's movie night, but you aren't here, a troopship took you far from here
Allied troops are moving tanks. I wait for you..God give me strength
I'm in the Strand, within the dark, there's no one here to hold my hand
I'm all alone...........I heard the news....................You left it all in Anzio
_____________________________________
For Contest Chopped III Sponsored by Craig Cornish
11/23/14
A QUIET EARRING POETIC FLOW
Quite sun
shining,
Quite green leaves
waving;
Quiet ears
ringing:-
In the silent
night,
Ears ring
quietly
to themselves:
Echoing
to me:-
The ears
continue
To ring
in profound
silence,
Echoing life:
When will
these echoes
reveal
Wisdom
and understanding?
Ringing
silent ears;
Let us give
thanksgiving praise
For echoing life:
Without quiet
ringing,
Would we be
in this loud world?!
Let us
be happy;
Wisdom and
understanding,
Quietly
ringing out:
God speaking
all languages;
Streaming all
our ringing ears:-
Wow, what
an amazing brain:
Quietly ringing
opened ears:-
Ears not only
hear all music,
They also quietly
play theirs:-
Somehow, through the haze that our lives have become,
we ended up next to each other,
under the covers,
with darkness and silence all around.
The soft sound of her rhythmic breathing;
the faint scent of perfume worn off by the long, hectic day;
the tickle of her hair in my face,
reminds me that I still have a pulse.
Lightly, I stroke the length of her soft, bare back;
Gently, I press my lips where an earring was recently removed.
In a half sleep, she purrs and subtly moves her body closer to mine.
With eyes closed our bodies begin to melt into each other
and a stirring of passion, long subdued,
begins to awaken from beneath the slumber.
Silent is the darkness.
Slowly we adjust,
turning towards each other,
with anticipation keeping our worn bodies in motion
against the want of sleep for which we lack.
A muffled creak escapes
from a tired coil in the box spring beneath the weathered mattress,
stifling the movement of our entangling limbs.
An unheard awareness of motion
from the corner of the room.
A sigh.
A peep.
A moan.
A cry
and a wail.
The pain of the colic
has awakened the reminder of a love we once shared
without fear of making a noise.
The bodies untangle, unfulfilled.
She slips out from under the covers,
dons her cotton robe
and tends to the miracle struggling with life anew
not knowing if or when the missed moment
might occur again.
Noise in her Mind
I know her so well she came long ago to visit my being
we share beauty and bedlam boudoir and kindest of spirits
She walks like a cat woman hears like a bat feeds birds
quietly she soothes thunder’s volcano howls with the wolves
Klimt’s Kiss Vermeer’s Girl With Pearl Earring Botticelli’s Venus Degas’s
Dancer In Repose Fedro’s Much Better With Age she
absorbs pastel and paint strokes symphonies on canvas
so many facets big bangs and roaring giggling convulsions
Sometimes Woman Laughing from Goya’s dark paintings
a Broken Column like Kahlo’s when some Munch’s Scream
invades and infests silence deep inside her beautiful scull
Voices shout from profuse directions focus condense and
refract confront tease torment disagree and interfere with
calm serene serenades when a few notes tender chords
and accord vanish into cacophonies misleading the song
I know her so well admire her resilience and how she copes
with the noise the disruption and the ballet of so many
different views pandemonious clangour onslaught of turmoil
as she appears calm on the surface orchestrates quiet composure
How she holds it all together I cannot really fathom with all that
jumbling distance so close and yet so far from my innocent mind
My Venus Of Milo has taught me so much most of it all and over
above that imperfection is a wonderful gift and very complete