Long Earrings Poems
Long Earrings Poems. Below are the most popular long Earrings by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Earrings poems by poem length and keyword.
Incognito
( by Joan Donnelly Ellis Oct.23, 2015)
Little girl in updo hairstyle and suspension earrings
Mommies shiny red pumps grace her feet
Nana's garden party bonnet is settled
Almost ready for a walk with baby doll in carriage
A Sunday morning stroll down Hickory Street
She seats herself in front of the vanity mirror
And paints her lips, cheeks and lashes once and then again
She smacks her lipstick in place, smiles at her just pretend face
Playing grown up is her favourite game
All the neighbours greet her as Mrs. Murphy
And they fuss over her new born baby, Jill
On some occasions she will be invited in for tea
Mrs. Murphy is delightful company
And she will engage you thoroughly
With stories of her poor family's indulgences and sin
Rows of assorted necklaces sparkle
As from her throat they dangle showoffishly
She raises the skirt of borrowed dress lest she trip
Grabs the handbag with the zip
A child of seven going on thirty-three
We are at the junction of the Little River and the Ottawa River,
journeying into the Canadian wilderness by canoe, the
paddles stroke slowly into the water, paddles heavily incised
with vines and flowers, and I am dipping my hair into the deep blue.
Spirit, is a native man in a crisp white shirt, his head shaved
but for one braid with feathers, his blue leggings enthrall
me, intricate beaded moccasins are sublime, his leather
pouch and glass jewelry lovely, I think I love him . . .
Falcon, a beautiful man with raven hair falling down his back,
his feathers are fluttering in the wind, he has dangling earrings,
a red cape edged with gold threads, his beads are exquisite,
and he is telling me stories and smiling at me . . .
I could love him, and I am dipping my hair into the deep blue.
O, how can this Ojibwe girl choose, I love them both . . .
I truly do, but luckily for me this is a dream and I can love both.
____________________
December 10, 2012
Poetry/Narrative/Dipping My Hair Into The Blue
Copyright Protected, ID 12-1086-821-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to Standard Contest 520
sponsor, Brian Strand
First Place
Watered Down
Tiny mirrors, iridescent light
aged salt on my skin
Mother of Pearl
inlaid earrings reflect the
seashell skull MASK
I wear below the surface.
No longer able to carry
life's miseries and mistakes
the inevitable misfortunes
the chaos above
the crushing sound of the surf
I sink, no anchor
WATERED DOWN
my pulse dissolves
into the water and
rhythmic movement
Released.
No one can hear
my muffled screams
the silent anguish of age
the dark underwater shadows
We all live with
blacked thoughts
I have kept only to myself.
Diving headfirst
into the vast silence
I place each piece of hidden shame inside
the colored clam shells
I collect
between green seaweed waves.
One White, One Grey, One Pink
So....This is how Pearls are made.................................
Life takes its own eternity to create beauty
Kicking upward
I push leaving the
sandy bottom
tiny bubbles of rainbows
fill my lungs with freedom
I carry my handmade
human heart
I rise toward the filtered sunlight
there is no other choice
leaving this poem
Buried under the seawater’s door.
It’s cotton sleeves and naked shoulders, since
the balmy southern evening’s close and warm.
“Aida” underneath the stars tonight!
Bassoons and oboes, eager to perform,
are practising brief runs. The moon is huge
against umbrella pines, and tiny bats
are flickering, silent in the smooth mauve sky.
Italian stewards, nature’s diplomats,
escort the pretty women to their seats.
Expensive perfume lingers in the air.
Coquettish earrings glitter fetchingly,
their wearers feigning sang froid (but aware!)
These Roman nights! Life is so gracious here.
To live like this – who’d ever want to die?
Ars longa, vita brevis. Raise a beer.
Tonight, Rome is eternal. So am I.
In twilight's hush, where shadows play,
A maiden sits, in white array,
Upon the steps of ancient stone,
A temple's grandeur, all her own.
Her dark tresses cascade, like night,
Down her back, a gentle, flowing light,
Adorned with jewels, shining bright,
A headband, earrings, and a necklace's delight.
Her arms, crossed over knees so fine,
A pose of contemplation, divine,
As if lost in thought, she sits and stays,
Amidst the spires, that touch the cloudy rays.
The temple's carvings, intricate and old,
Tell tales of myths, and stories untold,
The sky above, a cloudy sea,
Adds to the serenity, of this scene, so free.
In this serene and peaceful place,
The maiden's beauty, is a work of art, a flame,
That burns, a gentle, peaceful light,
A moment captured, in the still of night.
"You really shouldn't park your white horses next to my Subaru."
"Rain? Rain? Are you listening?"
She picked her sleepy head off the teller's desk,
Her hair cascading over her cheeks.
"I was somewhere far away," she spoke from the bardo.
"I don't know. I don't know. And yet I know all I need to know."
"Move your horses. Take a lunch break. Get a grip,"
Said the lady who smelled like cake and wore pineapple earrings.
"Why do you eat so much cake in the morning?"
Rain belted across the bank lobby.
"Can you even hear the rain outside, through all that icing inside?"
Her face flushed crimson between her dangling pineapples.
"Like I said," Rain continued, "I was far away, in a lost village,
Speaking to the descendants of my horses, Salient and Wonder.
"Can you hear me, pineapple lady? Can you hear this Rain?"
"Grab your horses and get out of here," the lady who adored cake shouted.
Rain lifted herself off her seat like a rising moon, and glided over the marble floor
Like the angel ghost of finance, mesmerized and mesmerizing.
Passing by she whispered to the tiny pineapple that clung the the fleshy ear,
"I was never in here. I am quite far from here."
With that Rain went outside
and walked her horses to the
meadow behind the parking lot
to reconvene with lost villages
Without interruption.
my closet defines my soul . . .
it is me
love anything vintage
in blouses, dresses, jackets
my own whimsical style . . .
in lovely soft materials
pretty floral patterns
oh, divine are vintage black shoes and boots
purses and accessories
like earrings, necklaces, and bracelets
and lets not forget lace
gosh, so sublime is the touch
inherited most of my collection
from great-grandma and grandma
treasures from the past
that suit where I am in life
but, I am always on the search for vintage
clothing in thrift shops
to find
soft, delicate, feminine, lovely
mysterious things
Old picture seldom
You can see them
I have the chance
To see one hid by time.
A photo album of my
Grandpa who still
About ten years old
Together with her mother
A pre-colonial spanish motiff
The mother wearing filipiniana
My granpa in spanish suit
Its tainted black and white
In the mid-40's to be exact.
The affluence appears in the dress
The jewelry are sparking
From necklace, earrings to rings
Speaks the rich colonial era.
My granpa is of Caucasian Spanish
Descent, demonstrate his long
Pointed nose and his white skins.
My grandpa is gone, we, his genes
Are continuing the goodness
And the good deeds of my granpa
He's a teacher but an a-class carpenter
By propession, he's character is strict
That he don't want others overseeing him
That traits we inherited until now.
The old picture hangs in the corner
Of the room and in our memory lanes.
she never threw anything out
the driveway is filled
clothes hang on racks
hers on the left,
a few of his on the right
tables of her shoes
kitchenware, pots, pans
knickknacks, tchachka’s
souvenirs from long ago trips
some of the furniture
will go..there’s no need
for all of it now
the most valuable,
jewelry, some paintings
are in the garage
the money isn’t important
at this point
it doesn’t matter….
how can he put a price
on what’s been taken
his memories aren’t of
a particular dress or
pair of earrings she wore
he won’t look at a painting
or photograph of a trip
and think of her
he misses her smile,
the touch of her hand on his face
the look in her eyes,
how she curled up inside him
in bed at night, stealing his warmth
… when she spoke his name
I am bound to admit that I had vizualized her with olive skin and warm brown eyes
Imagining eleven silver bracelets on her arm and eight finger rings- at least one lapis
I pictured her office a parked gypsy wagon, lit by the glow of a campfire.
The older lady with burgundy hair clipped short was a complete surprise.
Where were the twirling tiered ruffled gypsy skirts? The crystal ball to trap us?
The runes? The tarot deck? The crystal skulls? The ambiance to admire?
She was not a typical fortune teller, this darling with pretty sky blue eyes
We put our money down which this elderly anomaly did but naught snap up
Why have you come? She asked in a gentle way with a sweetness, all desire
We pointed to each other and laughed that neither knew the whys
She fed us thick bread with homemade marmalade, a treat for me and Capus.
Let me suggest what might have brought you to me to hire...
You want to know your mission, the reason you fell from the skies
Capus nodded but I held my chin, staring at her earrings which held lapis
She told us of a dangerous zone and we listened to her play her lyre
Her Roma cat sneaked in and gave me a sideways glance with his yellow eyes
She told us of wonderful times ahead and it sounded like pure happiness and bliss
We went back hundreds of times, to her up-lifting presence we never did tire.