Long Fingers Poems
Long Fingers Poems. Below are the most popular long Fingers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fingers poems by poem length and keyword.
My fingers grasp at the void, empty-handed...
My heart lingers at hollowness, emptied out...
reminiscent when time got wrinkled, worn
when night and day left,
and only nothing remained.
The embers of my burning words
wither into the palest of ashes,
it makes me think of dead skin cells—
they are nothing but dust
sloughed off, then piled up into dusty corners, forgotten.
Minuteness discarded, a lover’s crumbling skeleton.
A noise barrage invades my soul’s silence,
an onslaught of thought and reason—
A wailing, pounding, desert squall that drowns me,
shattering the dam of tranquility.
I plunge back into this abyss of loneliness.
Of course nobody’s there.
They have all been long gone.
And here I am, with only this vast void as my company.
It whispers, it screams
and echoes into my mind,
what they’ve all been saying all along,
that I brought this upon myself.
Maybe I did. Of course I did.
Of course I did. Maybe I did.
Back and forth, back forth it goes...
I seek sanctuary in dreams,
for it is only there that my sea of loneliness
becomes a sea of ecstatic happiness...
I seek sanctuary in dreams,
for it is only there that I am welcome.
Touch me Not! Noli me tangere.
Wake me not...
Silence has blocked your ears.
The shattering of my heart was unperceived,
so I am left alone to take extreme care of these countless shards.
I can’t afford to hurt anymore, as I have done to the others.
With my words. With my long-winding, droning and ever-boring words.
The death-inducing kind of boring.
And only nothing cared to remain.
I am left with no choice but to be one with this nothingness,
flow along its waves, imbibe it and become it. Nix.
Let me evaporate, let me join that cycle of seeming nothingness.
That nothing, that stark quiet before the storm.
Breathe deep into that void.
Inhale nothing.
Hear nothing. See nothing. Say nothing.
Then wait...
Can you feel me now?
As nothing touches you.
*** This was inspired from Catie’s “Nothing Remains”. In choosing this, in no
way am I saying that her poem needs improvement. It is brilliant as it is. I chose this poem of hers because it moved me and spoke to me. Thank you, Catie.
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Tattered like an old love letter
Grasped too often in withered fingers
Folded and unfolded in an effort to remember
A long ago romance and those secret trysts
Beneath bowers of summer flowers
And too soon ended by elders
Shocked and scandalized by a love
They could not fathom and could not endure
Existing in the shadows of unsanctioned socialties.
The words in the letter are faded
But what does that matter to the eyes
Of the aged whose life has been tattered
And torn and then reborn in the image
Of what was patently proper in the minds
Of the neighbors and then sent the carriage
That carried her far from the arms of her lover
And trysts beneath bowers of summer flowers
In the long gone days of her youth.
I knew I loved you when your colour lived behind your eyes, soft blue like morning skies,
not just a shade but where you hid on quiet nights and muffled cries,
I knew the way your fingers curled when shadows touched the edge of light,
how silence made you smaller, how you held me just a little tight.
I knew the reason for your smile that never quite reached where it should,
a careful mask you painted on so others thought you understood,
I knew the words you swallowed down, the truths you chose to leave unsaid,
how you would nod and let them win just to escape inside your head.
I knew your allergies before you named them, skin that told the tale,
the way you’d flinch at certain things, the subtle breath, the quiet pale,
I knew the reasons you would sleep, not rest but somewhere safe to go,
a place where nothing asked of you, where no one needed you to show.
You never had to speak a thing, I read you like a sacred text,
each pause, each glance, each hidden fear, each thought that lingered next,
I knew you deeper than the lines you ever dared to let me see,
like every answer lived inside and only ever spoke to me.
I knew your favourite shows by heart, the scenes that made your laughter stay,
the ones you’d watch when days were long and light had slowly slipped away,
I held each secret like a flame you placed within my open hands,
and listened close to every word, the ones no one else understands.
I knew you like the final test I studied for with quiet breath,
as if the cost of failing you would echo louder still than death,
I knew you always, every part, the present, past, the in between,
and loved you first, not last, because you were the truest thing I’ve seen.
Claudio, sit by me
and hear me speak
the same words that
Jesus spoke in the Temple;
every trembling child wants to be
near his dad, but yours
isn't here to hug you anytime,
and make sure you get well...
when you sick and feel weak!
Today you had me in tears...
as you took your first step,
how happy you made me:
all along I wished I were your dad...
to have such a beautiful child!
They made you feel a special one
when your birthday came around...
and everybody joined in the fun:
one candle to blow on a cake as big
as the smiling moon that usually is so sad!
How funny you looked with that face of a clowm:
cream on your fingers, nose and cheecks,
as your mom took lots of pictures!
O baby Claudio...so excited with laughs...
as you unwrapped many boxes full of toys,
but the most special gift came from
that fine and kind lady,Vicky,who lived a house away;
she really watched you grow day by day,
and hugged you as she walked in the door!
What a change a baby boy brought to someone so alone...
someone who loved to stare in those bright,innocent eyes!
Claudio, children light up the sky...
when there's no sun and only rain comes down!
Claudio, you'll learn to say the first, sweet word "mom"
and call her many times in the day;
and if the night thunder scares you sometime,
her hug will take away the fear and make you feel fine!
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
Still wishing
Along the lines of fantasy
with crystal glasses flowing the brim
Soft hands would meet on white linen,
as your eyes take me places I have never been
Silence tingles while our hearts speak
across candle flame and glittered dreams
Such is the beauty of this night
neither belong, yet here we are
Fears generate passion
on this perfect evening so young,
and our love forbidden, taboo
but breathing of temptation
Lips ignite a fire within,
looking over shoulders for whoever
only finding desires calling
in the mist of the crowded city
Scented bliss finds me,
arms reach for a touch, long hot touch
behind closed doors
holding back all but the guilt
Still a fever burns as skin blushes
beneath moon lit intoxication
Silhouettes merge, moist in cravings
lone of simpler moments
Fingers dance and sighs sing,
satin sheets spill to unsuspecting floors
when deep in the throws is found,
words have no meaning
Whispers lose their bearing
as oceans part and white foam pleasure
caresses the smooth shore
on this uncharted island called love
Startled by the waiter refilling my glass
I still see you across the room
lingering in his smile, lost in his hypnotic gaze
and here I sit, still . . . wishing it were me
Good night Soupers
Genesis 1:26-27
26 Then God said, “Let us make mankind in our image, in our likeness, so that they may rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky, over the livestock and all the wild animals,[a] and over all the creatures that move along the ground.” 27 So God created man in His own image.
-Holy Bible- 21st Century King James Version
Depicting God as an old, bearded man, as if the images created are carved.
Paint on wet plaster when light diffuses, chance of deterioration is halved.
God’s creation of Adam, the very first man, where separation of sexes began.
As if the images created are carved, depicting God as an old, bearded man.
God’s finger to give life to his spirit, an act depicting the start of mankind.
God having made man in his own image, a perfect human form defined.
Adam reclined but their fingers are not quite touching, but very near it.
An act depicting the start of mankind. God’s finger to give life to his spirit.
So adept in creating human form, the artist shows elegance with strength.
In his mural, he sculpts figures with paint, across its breadth and length.
The inspirational sense of power and yet love due to creation is so warm.
The artist shows elegance with strength, so adept in creating human form.
I - Barley Pettigrew
I'll tell you a story, outstandingly true,
of the young lad called Barley Pettigrew.
He was born with nine fingers on his hands.
For how high he could count, it met his demands.
You see, the townsfolk all say the doctor said
he was born without anything in his head.
It's not surprising that he dropped out of school.
The teachers who taught him said he was a fool.
I admit, the boy hadn't a lick of sense,
but he threw a good frisbee, in his defense.
He would always unscrew a jar for its lid.
He threw anything round. That's what he did.
II - Daisy Purvis
Not far away, grew a young lass named Daisy.
The townspeople said that she must be crazy.
She had eleven fingers, by cursory count,
The Lord thought for Daisy, 'twas a good amount.
She spoke to nobody, never came to town.
Her mysterious poetry was upside down.
Conversing, as she did, only with the breeze,
she would make exceptions for birds and bees.
III - The National Frisbee Championship
The frisbee championship in County Cork -
the suspense was palpable, edible with a fork.
There is a concept known as failure, it seems,
but Barley showed up, not knowing what it means.
He threw the platter in the air so high,
passing birds remarked, "oh, how that thing does fly".
The wind seemed to grab it. How it did float!
It drifted 'til it landed in a field, remote.
Then and only then, the townspeople knew,
no one can toss frisbee like Barley Pettigrew.
How they did it, nobody understands,
Barley and Daisy, in a field, holding hands.
If this tale ain't true, you could hear a squirrel sneeze.
a sound I once heard, floating on the breeze.
Play me
Charm me
Entice me
Invite me
Light the stars above
Hang the moon up high
Gentle fingers strumming
A melody divine
On thru and thru the night
Tingle the chords of my heart
Stir a melancholy forgotten
Wake it deep within
Move me
Console me
Tears too old to cry
Tremble as they dare
On tiptoe under dark canopy
Set free emotions soaring
Release into the moonlight
Raw unfiltered heart bubbles
Bygone unremembered
A wound that’s bitter sweet
But it’s mine and mine alone
I so choose to embrace it
Come near, my Love
Enchant me as only you can
Light the stars above
Gentle fingers strumming
A melody divine
~Inspired by Chip Davis’ SONATA
AP: 2nd place 2022
Submitted on December 21, 2019 for contest SONATA LYRICS sponsored by JAMES EDWARD LEE SR - RANKED 3RD
Don't Be Afraid To Love
I drew him into my twirling, swirling drowning world
Not conscious to a one sided love dream-world
How can it be love, in a place that it’s just one- sided love affair?
To fall into the hands of rape an entrapped snare
To lace each other’s fingers an embrace tenderly
A rage of madness sea of lust is free
Empty soul and numb from madness exorcisms
Flashbacks from the past autumns
~
He touched my soul with kindness and compassion
Years of secrets locked up in a vault now unlocked with passion
To feel warmth race of each other’s deepened passion
Encasing two loving hearts as one beacon
I have learned a whole new way of life in a new world leaving the past disappear
To see the beauty between darkness and light of the stars without fear
My beloved gave me courage to see
The future belongs to me, to allow my heart to heal and feel free
11/24/2015
This bowl of lobster shells
looks very pretty
and yet so sad.
The bright red carcasses
all cracked and emptied out
have served me well
with their luscious innards
of tender sweet flesh
unctuous with brine and butter
that sated me
and gratified
my deep-sea desires
for this ultimate
New England joyance
on this
muggy Summer day.
If I had
any ambition left,
I'd dump these
scarlet remnants
into a big ol' pot
and toss in
onions,
bay leaves
and peppercorns
for a savory
perfumed stock.
But for now
I'm glued
to my chair
happily lobster drunk
and in a buttery haze
and licking my
salty fingers
for any last residue
of that
resplendent crustacean
now reduced
to a heap of shells
in an old glazed bowl
on a lemon-yellow afternoon
somewhere on the coast
wondering how long
I can last
until the feeling
comes again
and I don my old stained bib
and haul out
the nutcracker and pick
and get the butter drawn
for another
Homarus americanus
adventure
and find myself
staring down
a new warm mound
of cracked and emptied
lobster shells.