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.
Earth
feel the earth run through your fingers
smell the freshness of a rainy morning
smell the tantalizing flowers
see the beauty that surrounds you.
Water
feel the coldness of water upon your skin
earth drinks in the freshness
water cleanses herself
sustains all of life
Wind
feel the north wind blow upon your face
see it whip the snow or ocean's waves
see birds flying in the currents
Or feel it blow through your hair
Fire
feel the fire in your veins as you look at beauty
see the ring of fire that surrounds the planet
feel her heat beneath your feet
she is the fire that burns inside
Lonely Weed in Spring
At the edge of a tended garden,
where tulips rehearse their rehearsed perfection,
a single weed lifts its uncertain green—
no invitation, no name on the plan.
Spring arrives anyway.
The wind, careless as a wandering thought,
braids sunlight through its thin fingers.
A shy dew clings to its spine at dawn,
like a secret it has no one to tell.
Around it, applause blooms in colors,
roses declare themselves in velvet tongues,
daffodils trumpet their small golden certainties,
and bees write busy scriptures in the air.
But the weed,
it listens.
It leans into the light not meant for it,
drinks from the same sky without permission,
roots itself in the overlooked grammar of soil
where no gardener bothers to read.
A child might pass and call it nothing.
A hand might pass and call it gone.
Yet for this brief, trembling season,
it holds a universe in its quiet stem.
The hum of earth rising,
the ache of becoming,
the stubborn miracle
of being alive
without being chosen.
Leukemia boys and
Leukemia girls wave
in hospital volunteers,
as the angels wave
them away.
What is
love?
Beyond
an overpriced
ambulance ride,
and an unnecessary
hospital stay?
The most beautiful things:
summer sweat,
and Rome after
rain.
Inside,
a child draws
a yellow sun
with trembling fingers.
The IV, taped
down like it’s trying
to hold him
there.
Forced positivity.
A heart full of
apathy.
I see that
same world you try
to see with substance sober,
and I’ll be the first to tell you—
it isn’t a
blessing.
God has a
hand-grenade
smile, and it’s
hard to find
the grace
in that.
There’s
6 dead, 4 wounded,
and one on the
way.
What an
unimpressive
collection.
Despite the cold and deadly winter
we stand beneath an old umbrella
outside the closed jeweler's shop
in a deserted ugly winding street.
I take off my gloves and hold your hand,
so cold, so loveless, so helpless.
Rub your elegant fingers,
blow so softly my hot breath
upon their frigid purple tips,
that they might catch the warmth
that I feel in my heart for you.
As sleet and rain devour the earth,
I look into your face
notice your quicksilver smile,
the twinkle in your greenish eye,
the misty flare from chiseled nostrils.
Slowly we retreat into the shop's recess
hug each other in tender bliss,
your cold slightly parted lips
meet mine in a lingering kiss,
we feel love's warmth
enfolding our souls and holding fast
we know we will not tempt fate
that up to now
had kept us cruelly apart.
It’s warm.
The pot on the stove.
Steaming a little bit.
Not burning hot like underneath the bed where the monster lives.
Just a little warmer and warmer.
Like a winter hat.
It’s warm.
A ghost lives in the pantry.
I think my house is 71 degrees right now.
Outside is spring and flowers.
Dying off someday.
We all could.
Spring grows everyday.
Warm in the rain.
I carry an umbrella.
And forget it’s in my hand.
It’s warm.
Somehow.
Like a photo with me having warm eyes.
Gradually, I have become like an unused bike in the garage.
Wheels that are rusty and haven't spun in a while.
Rust everywhere.
I repaired the bike chain.
Then the wheel fell off.
It’s warm.
Like the opposite of a vampire.
It’s warm.
Like my fingers inside gloves.
It’s warm.
72 degrees outside.
So I went outside.
I wore a winter hat.
That is warm.
Sometimes I don’t notice.
It’s 73 degrees.
It’s warm.
(In the 17th century, when thinkers
were first getting to grips with gravity,
they named it "kindly inclining".)
Seeds adrift on water
coalesce:
fueled by affinity,
they form a community.
Last pearls of wine
combine:
electing against space,
they cling to the curve of the glass.
Berries stain the fingers
that rupture them,
their plasma clasping the hand,
rather than leave unthanked.
We scraps of matter
are emboli,
swimming in Not-Being.
An impulse in the void
coagulates our Something.
Swathes of stellar gas contorting,
slab on slab of basalt pressing,
horses on the hill cavorting,
algae in the swell fluorescing,
ospreys on a rock face nestling,
children tumbling and wrestling,
matter moves to matter.
We are starstuff all,
and motion is our purpose.
We are aided on our journey
by the steady pull
of starlight.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
First, it was the way the light
refused to touch the hallway~
how the floorboards sighed
beneath something unseen.
Then came the whispers,
not from walls, but from the space
between them, syllables
chewed soft and wet.
You learned to ignore the fingers
brushing your neck in the dark,
the way your reflection
sometimes blinked too slowly.
But tonight, you wake
to the sound of your own voice
downstairs, laughing,
while you lie perfectly still.
And now you understand~
the house wasn’t haunted.
You were the thing
it was trying to keep out.
Oh, to fly underwater - to ply the deepest oceans!
To navigate sunbeams like temple pillars,
And moonbeams as fingers of soft, blue magic!
Squid lights dancing among their abyssal reach ...
To break the wake with a fin at night,
Making the phosphorescence trace easy curves ...
Artful squiggles to hail the Milky Way above!
To explore the colors and vibrancy of the reefs,
Throbbing with life and vitality ... excitement and danger!
Spinning and courting among the coral ...
To have the entire world's waters as my playground -
The keen bite of the cold, deep trench,
Teeming with food and plankton, rife,
Or the joyous warmth of the Caribbean and South Pacific!
My fellow swimmers, of endless fascination ...
The sonorous bellows of the whales trembling,
The sweet songs of the dolphins, at play,
The pulsing of the deep waters in storms,
And the peaceful, unshaken silence of a lagoon ...
To swim deep to the darkest, coldest depths,
And return to breach the surface - air-borne and majestic!
Oh, to be a manta ray!
The gentle, giant birds of the water ...
The master swimmers and fliers of the sea!
Sleek, beautiful ... and lone.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Your Favorite Animal In The Wild" Poetry Contest, Line Gauthier, Sponsor.
In the wood, two paths diverged, I could follow but one. It seemed absurd, to make
a choice that many had made, to believe in one, and the other proclaim, that the
one I follow leads to the light, because others believe it, it must be right, and there
on the trail of the path I follow, a penny I found beneath the hollow, of an oak that
has stood for thousands of years, and besides mine dropping … a million tears. It’s
been there witness to this and more, to the greatest of love and the hatred of
scorn, its seen man aplenty in grandeur and sorrow, and in every vein belief that we
choose to follow, it cannot move … it only bears witness, to the hope we spill out,
our blood of Sucre’s. Its seen people bleed for naught but the land, that its shadow
has fallen upon, for this grand, scheme of things that we believe is tomorrow, but
never our eyes will open to follow, that greatest of things … the lifting of sorrow.
To put forth the light of a “Penny” that’s borrowed, from the one who created that
thing he hallowed, beneath a tree where a penny was found, and a child picked up
and thought … “He Crowned”, for once before … owned he nothing, and now
afterward … owned he something, that was not his but something of store, of
another’s hands … a pennies succor, and where this thing so small and slight,
where it came from … who had the might, to change the fortunes of one so slight, to
bring a child out of this thing called blight, just from the simple task of seeing, this
thing beneath a tree was gleaming, of copper … not gold this thing he followed, and
like his hopes before he had swallowed, and noticed it there beneath its glimmer, a
grain of sand that brought its shimmer, to add to this, this Penny that shines. And
shows of a time, when life went without rhyme. When nothing made sense … not
even the penny, which small fingers picked up and thought it plenty, enough to give
birth to wine and bread and the water that we all wish we had
Form:
I feel my ears pop,
As the light above me increases ...
Columns of purple sunshine shimmer and dance.
I swim up out of the cool, inky blackness of the depths,
And finally reach the surface, head bobbing like a balloon,
Frilly slits on my neck closing up and sealing, as I switch to breathing air.
I suck the thick oxygen atmosphere deep into my lungs, then exhale.
The detritus from my gills comes up with the first breath, and I spit it away,
(Small creatures that follow me, gobble it up hungrily ... nothing wasted).
I need not struggle swimming on the surface here -
The water's high saline level helps me float without effort,
So I lay back and stretch, relaxing my length, as if in a chaise lounge.
The bright purple sky dances with clouds, (and a couple of bright stars),
Two blood-red suns now low, nearing the horizon.
Though they never set, they do crimp the reach for many hours,
Before climbing again to make the sky near-blue.
Clouds are rarely white, (only when the suns are high),
But vary in shades from crimson to pink,
Again, depending on the time of day and moisture content.
I live above AND below the water here ...
My genetic alterations, (very expensive, thus),
Allow me to extract oxygen from air and water, easily transitioning.
I have long webbed toes and fingers to swim speedily,
Eyes that can detect ultraviolet and infrared,
And something similar to sonar, that I can search the depths with,
And also use to tap into the communication satellites,
As well as send personal messages to others here such as I,
Who have chosen the amphibious life of this purple planet.
I have a house back on the island, with all amenities,
But I rarely go there, choosing instead to spend most of my time
On or near the water, searching the depths for the edibles,
Or sleeping on the beach under the stars,
Composing music and poetry during the day, or visiting friends.
I send my work out onto the inter-world web,
It earns me enough to remain comfortable ... and happy.
But what I love the most, are the other intelligent creatures here ...
Most are "sea" dwellers, but all are non-aggressive.
Learning the language of each will take a lifetime,
But it is a labor of love, with joyous reward ...
Friendship!