Long Eyelid Poems
Long Eyelid Poems. Below are the most popular long Eyelid by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Eyelid poems by poem length and keyword.
THE MANY:
I can see beneath your veil....
Pretend not that you love me
While you profess to kill a harmless fly
With a sledge hammer;
And wickedly weld koboko
without bathing an eyelid
LOVE:
Love is love;
I never said love is blind
If love is blind,
There won't be love burn or heartache
THE MANY:
We can see beneath your veil....
Pretend not that you love us
Our knuckles are grey from knocking,
Our heels bruised, brutalized from seeking
And our voices hoarse from asking
While you wickedly weld koboko
LOVE:
Love is love;
I never said love is blind
If love is blind,
There won't be love burn or heartache
THE MANY:
I can see beneath your veil....
Pretend not that you love me
Your eyes do not stimulate love;
Your eyes project hate, disdain
Your lips do not speak the language of love,
They are full of curses
Your heart has no milk of human kindness
It only knows how to weld the koboko
LOVE:
Love is love,
I never said love is blind
There won't be love burn or heartache
If love is blind...
THE MANY:
I can see beneath your veil....
Pretend not....
No larger than a grain of rice,
her face is forming; mouth, a slice.
Her heart, a tube, begins to beat;
at one month, things are imprecise.
An inch now from her head to feet.
Eyes, fingers, toes: not yet complete.
Her neural tube, well on its way.
At two months, things look pretty sweet.
Four inches long, an ounce to weigh;
miscarriage risk drops every day.
All parts are present, there to see;
at three months, fingers grasp and splay.
Her nails and hair seen easily;
eyelid, eyebrow, eyelash agree.
Four months now and six inches long,
the ultrasound clear: she’s a she.
Her muscles build; she’s getting strong.
You thought you felt her; you’re not wrong.
She’s covered with lanugo hair.
At late month five, she hears your song.
Her fingerprints? Whorls present there.
The eyelids part; eyes open, stare.
When she hiccups, you may observe.
Month six births: viable with care.
Refinements to sensory nerves,
reacts to light, from pain will swerve.
She rarely is reserved or still;
month seven, and this gal’s got verve!
At five pounds now, she kicks at will.
Lungs immature, but they can fill.
Eight months, all sharpens, gets refined;
You’re on alert, you know the drill.
It’s nine months now; she’s quite confined.
Delivered, breathes in, and unwinds.
Flesh of your flesh, though quite her own;
Distinctly her, you’re intertwined.
I'm Not Leaving
My empty hand hangs in the air like a tree with no roots and no fruit,
our love split apart with such ease like the smoke from an old burial route,
I'm not leaving — I stay planted in this doorway like a knife inside stone,
I refuse to lose a battle where neither one of us ever won or has grown.
We wipe away memories like drawings on a window fogged up from yesterday,
we go back to zero — but zero is a circle and the circle still pulls us its way,
broken promises grind beneath our feet like shattered glass in the dead of night,
and our vows don't mean a thing anymore — hollow words with no weight and no light.
I'm not leaving — even though we fight every day forgetting why we even began,
each one pulling the other one down like two rivers that don't know their own plan,
our families are getting dragged into this slow and dirty current we made,
and what was once a clean kind of love is now nothing but mud and a blade.
The lips that once spoke love — those lips as warm as fresh bread from the fire —
are telling me now that they hate me with a voice that is cold and entire,
the cruelest paradox of all is that hatred speaks with the very same mouth
that once poured out words as sweet as honey, warm as the deepest south.
The eyes that used to search for me in every crowd no longer want to see,
and I stand still like a candle burning in the middle of something too big for me,
I'm not leaving — because leaving would mean that all of it was real and true,
that love actually died and didn't just fall asleep somewhere between me and you.
I'm leaving — I won't stay in a place where my presence is a quiet sin,
where my name is spoken like a curse word by someone lost and paper-thin,
I take my empty hand with me as the only thing I ever truly knew —
and the door closes behind me like an eyelid over everything that was
and was never seen again by you.
“I’m reading your poems, Mama”
She wrote while we were chatting online today
I was thrilled
What could give me more joy
Than to have my 19 year old
My only child, the light of my life
Read my work?
Then she typed…….
“I read it, Mama
The poem you wrote about Daddy,
‘He comes looking for me’
It’s so pretty, Mama….I cried”
A warm feeling came over me
Joy…..
Yes, joy!!!
Joy that my words had moved Shereen
Or...or was it because she loved her daddy so much?
“He didn't blink an eyelid when I told him,” I grumbled.
“I know, Mama!
He isn't emotional
Be patient with him, be patient.”
I smiled
How she loved and defended him
He had just returned from Cyprus
Where he had spent several days with her
I could not go
My teaching schedule always clashing
With our plans to be together as a family
Not emotional?
If she could only understand
He had cried on his way to the airport
My husband...
The man who never cries
Who doesn't show his feelings…
He cried remembering their goodbye
After having given her a last hug
Right outside her small rented flat
He was surprised to find her on the street
She had rushed down after him
And there she was
Flagging down
The borrowed car he was driving
Waiting…wanting
One more hug from Daddy
The big college girl
Living away from home
In her own little studio apartment
There she was
Standing in the cold
Wanting yet one more hug....
From her daddy
He cried
She cried
How she loves him
This man whose genes
Seem to have dominated over mine
In creating this living beauty...
Her curly hair
Her complexion
Her height
Her beautiful shapely body
It seems that she got everything from him
But wait…..then again
She got my heart
My love of music
My depth of emotions
The luxuriant thickness of her hair
YES! I MUST and WILL take credit for that
She inherited my love for writing
She already has a poem published
My little girl
My 19 year old baby
Who reads my work
And sheds tears
She is my living breathing poem
The best of who I am
And what I have to offer
The best of my love
My greatest accomplishment
My daughter….
Shereen Natalie Ghali
My legacy to the world
Eileen Manassian Ghali
PS......if you want an idea of Shereen's writing ability, then look up the poem she wrote for me on my birthday...It's entitled...The Month of May- My Daughter's Tribute.
Perhaps I am used to being
posed, arranged, framed
in a certain way.
What if I told you
every move
every flicker of an eyelid
every shift in weight
is carefully orchestrated
and perfectly executed.
Always a performer
who is overworked
never receiving compensation.
And why,
why must I continue
to spin on my axis
at your command?
And why,
why do I enjoy the
performance more
than executing my
existence of free will?
Where
is my performer?
There is no
dinner & a show
for the acrobat
who climbs to the
tallest of heights for
your pleasure
and falls for
my own.
It's a cold dark objective fear.
His face loose folds of jowls,
a sagging half squinted eyelid
and a lopsided woeful expression,
that hides cunning manipulation and brutality.
It's a rancid stench of flies
and faecal matter and musty mothballs,
that clings to the throat and nasal passage.
Entering the box white cottage,
one up one down, dark steps into
an eternity of mundane atrocities
and mass genocide of blue bottles.
A frozen winter, but not bone cold,
the neighbours say he starved and froze,
ate soil with his hands,
stripped wood panels from the wall.
His bulky frame denied starvation,
insanity maybe, greed undoubtedly,
as his hands grasped screw driver, plant pot
and bread knife rapidly stabbing,
bludgeoning, punching with frenzied violence
the face of an old woman.
Force and trauma and a wad of cash.
Now three square meals a day,
a warm room and cigarettes.
His lopsided blood hound face stares blankly
from BBC news.
I think of him at night,
walking across the lawn from his house to mine.
I think of him in the barn,
dank, dirty, a lonely space in time.
The darkness of man gapes,
and sits comfortably outside the window.
In your eyes, the sapphire abyss calls me gently toward the depths,
I plunge into the living water that sings ancient incantations of stars,
in your iris with topaz flames I mirror myself and float,
beautiful as a forgotten fairy, beloved by the spirits of the full moon!
Your gaze with golden copper lashes opens unseen gates,
a world of crystal and liquid gold surrounds me like a ritual,
I see myself transfigured as if I were an altar of light,
as if I were looking at myself with the eyes of an ancient sorceress!
For your eyes, mysterious as lakes with treasures hidden at the water's bottom,
tempt me with silent charms, call me into labyrinths of dreams,
and time stretches like a golden thread through the seasons,
when I look at myself with the future woven from constellation threads!
Like a child's enchanted are your eyes amazed by secret runes,
when I whisper to them a story from books with forgotten magical seals,
they become gentle and deep like the seas from fairy tales with emerald dragons,
and place in my palm drops of dew with healing powers!
In your eyes I like to spend the night in temples of amethyst and jade,
to wrap myself with your eyelid of silk woven from starlight,
in the midst of perfumed night to tell you what dream the sibyls whispered to me,
you to silence my mouth with whispers that carry my spirit toward the heavens!
In your pupil with galaxies I weave the thread of destiny in the runes of time,
I am a priestess in the temple of your gaze, I am a flame that dances ritually,
and in your eyes with centuries of magic, with spells woven in glances,
I lose myself in sacred mystery, I find myself like a star in your sky!
Heaven's always weeping
Just to grace your lash
Cobalt iris' peeping
Midst your eyelid sash
Gem-like water shimmers
Rainbows on your face
Shiny dermal glimmers
Spark your sultry grace
Misty tresses dancing
Through a soaked ballet
Raindrops softly glancing
Scattered with your sway
Stormy weather magic
Conjured by your smile
Chances, waxing tragic
Should it not ... beguile.
* FIRST PLACE in the "88 Syllables" Poetry Contest, Joseph May, Sponsor. Syllables checked at HowManySyllables.com. *
* FIFTH PLACE in the "Early March 18 Premiere" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Sponsor. *
It’s one of life’s wonderful lessons…if you’re lucky enough to learn…how some of the most inspiring acts of kindness are done in secret…and ask for nothing in return.
It was a tiny heart painted on a tiny stone that barely caught my eye…left somewhat hidden on a park bench to be found by any passerby.
That passerby was me…out walking on my own…when I came across this tiny heart…painted on this tiny stone.
This tiny heart was multicolored…and it filled most of the tiny stone.
The artist did not sign it…preferring to remain unknown.
I imagine it was meant to bring a smile…in a small way to astound…after it was painted by the artist…hidden…and once it had been found.
I picked up that tiny stone, brought it close to my eyelid…and when I saw that tiny heart…that’s exactly what it did!
I enjoyed it for a few days then I hid it where it might catch the eye…on another day…in another place…of another passerby.
For that’s the wonder of an experience like the one I’d undergone…
Once you find a tiny bit of happiness…you want to pass it on.
Bella
by Odin Roark
The air is cold
I wash the udder with warm water
Milking begins
Bella
So giving
Her liquid life ever faithful
Even as she bears aloneness
Day and night
Straw
An icy water bucket
Her only friends
Until milking time
Is there warmth and tenderness here
Does she dream at times
Fleeting memories
Perhaps sun on her back
Green grass between her teeth
Fly and mosquito agitation
Seasonal parts of her life
What of the calf
Once hers
Pressed lovingly against her legs
Warmth and tenderness
Enjoying fragrances only mother and child can know
I look up
Her brown eyes blink
Our mute conversation pauses
Both knowing another winter day
Has passed
She sighs
Memories rising from
Her heavy body
Driven beneath the cold
Deep into her sluggish bloodstream
Preserved in summer's hideaway
I stand
Stroking her large head
Scratching the roots of her horns
Rendering huge moist eyes to linger
We reconnect
Even though
We'll never know much of each other
Lifting the bucket of warm milk
I lean in and whisper
You are loved dear Bella
Truly
I step outside
Darkness sets in
Like the eyelid of despair
Closing without desire to open
At my heels
The cat tilts her head
Her tongue anticipating
Bella settles
Holding faithfully to
Night's ever promising pledge
Tomorrow's dawn will come