Long Glove Poems
Long Glove Poems. Below are the most popular long Glove by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Glove poems by poem length and keyword.
There's no room in my head
it's filled with thoughts of you.
And I'm alive, yet dead,
both are equally true.
Losing your fight with death
grief shrouds me like a glove.
You were my blood, my breath,
my hope, my dream, my love.
I’m as pale as a ghost
my heart is out of blood.
For missing you the most,
it is barely a thud.
How much more can I take,
without breath, I'll smother.
And must endure an ache,
unlike any other.
My future's dissolving,
how am I to cope?
My world is devolving,
I can't live without hope.
I'm far beyond dismayed,
on the verge of a scream.
And I feel so afraid,
for I no longer dream.
No one will replace you,
I swear to God above.
And yet, it's just as true,
I will die without love.
(Quatrain)
1/11/2015
Our thinking disease
cause of our unease,
gripping us in trance;
piquant circumstance.
To reclaim souls bliss,
the here, now and this
is all that matters
sans thought flow chatters.
When musings abate,
in a restful state,
we’re poised in the void,
no longer decoyed.
Standing thus erect,
bliss rises unchecked,
like a benign burn
in mind-body urn.
Resting thoughts nimble,
complex made simple,
simply being still,
surrendering will.
Head-heart hand in glove
invokes divine love,
transforming our soul,
making us feel whole.
Oh hermit, know this,
our essence is bliss,
felt as magnetism
in our body prism.
21-January-2023
Love is hardly ever spelt
the way it is written between the lips,
or how it shape its form upon a curling tongue as:
LUVE.
U see, you need the ‘you’ within it.
Luv sounds like ‘glove’,
for a hand must fit the glove,
and a glove fit the hand.
The R after the E must remain invisible
until the U becomes it.
‘UV’ is more than enough,
the V will fade away in time.
The 'L' must lick the roof of the mouth perfectly
or it is useless.
If you curse love
it will seep back into your being
riding a high tide:
a clean tide,
or a dirty tide – no matter,
both will make your lungs pound
in a dry craw.
All of this tidal ebb and flow
is luv pulling you back in,
for you cannot survive being
this fish out of water,
gulping for that very thing
you have yet to recognize.
It is quite correct to say ‘luv’
as if you were also saying ‘God’
both ‘luv’ and ‘god’ are not two words
but are, in truth, one meaning;
the words are only short-cuts,
a symbolic quick-hand,
for that One U to utter itself.
My Grandma has a garden
In which she will spend hours
Watering and weeding
And tending to her flowers
Many types and species
At least that’s what she said
Grow and sprout and climb about
Her backyard flower bed
Hens and chicks and cat mint
Spread thick across the ground
Adjacent to the Lambs Ear
With Fox Glove all around
The Elephant Ears
provide some shade
but look a little silly
Next to the soaring Zebra grass
And orange Tiger Lilly
Snap Dragons guard the border
While Lion Tales seek the sun
The Dog tooth Violet droops a bit
And the Spider plant start to run
I know it is her garden
And there’s no need for alarm
But Grandma’s lovely garden
Sounds much more like a farm!
What would it be like to be the elite,
To walk around on the top?
To be the one all the people look to,
To be the cream of the crop?
Would I feel important within my own self,
Would I feel like it and a bit?
Would I feel like I could never do wrong,
Would I feel like some hypocrite?
Because I’d know, deep down, in my little mind,
That my thinking is still a bit plain,
That the thing I am good at is only for show,
And my life is all a bit vain,
And even though I excel at running real fast,
Or catching a ball with a glove,
I think I would feel the need for real joy,
For emotionally belonging, for love.
STRANGER HOLDS UMBRELLA
Rhythmic ripples of an h2o body,
smooth saunter of disciplined legs,
shadow in the dark, headless apparition.
umbrella held steady, with a dustless glove.
Pounding heart of fear or curiosity.
clothing causes eyeball reaction, dizziness.
cerulean like the sky, then fireball orange
tartan plaid, then snowball white.
Wanting a rainstorm to pour a deluge,
to soak, this phantom stranger,
make him or her turn toward the lamppost
or the moonlight. Wanting for this clown to crash.
For such are our jealousies, our bullying, the threat
to our sensibilities. We want to take down what we
don’t understand. Snatch the cloud-umbrella, shine
a bright flashlight into his or her unwholesome eyes.
Perhaps we’d find ourselves staring back, saying,
“It’s your turn now. Take the umbrella, it’s yours.”
and would we forget, walking like a rhythmic hymn,
walking away from ourselves, with perfect cadence,
until the next midlife stranger, tapped on a cherry-red suit,
wanting to revisit the past, becoming the future. The
suit turns all black, likewise the face and umbrella.
lightning sees only a shadow, invisible, cloaked in death.
8/29/2017
~City Market~
The smell of popcorn, burned hot dogs, and sweat invaded his nostrils as Jason pushed his way down Fuller Street. Past vegetable carts, homemade pie stands, and the booth with carved wooden bears holding ‘Welcome signs’. He weaved around baby strollers and people who thought it a good idea to bring their dogs for a walk through the shoulder-to-shoulder traffic. He entered through the back of the jewelry stand and sat down at the table.
“How’d we do?” Sheila asked.
“Pretty good shopping day,” he told his girlfriend as he emptied the wallets and watches from his pockets.
The hand of a friend
Can wear the glove of kindness
Evil wears a mask
On one side
One person omitted from a dozen
On the other side
Five added to six persons
Making two over doubles scores
Scrabbling with the round leather with passion
All in the quest for action
But occasionally with a distinct fashion
Separated by a mad man
Running from pole to pillar
With a whistle in his mouth
Plagued alongside two other manias
Raising a piece of cloth
Coiled in a stick at each others half
Watched by frenzy fanatics at an open ground
The twenty-two persons are
Baptised with the name players
Desperate with zeal to hit the leather
Into a rather big fish net pillared by a pole
Behind the glove man
They seek to keep the round leather
Tossing it around with a rare
Aesthetic beauty that is only common
Across the Niger Area in the black continent
With a rhythmic samba beat in the Pele continent.
Nothing brings joy and unity like the round leather.
Alayande Stephen. Tolulope
21st ,October, 2005
1.11pm
Form:
So many times I visit sorrow.
I gave you my heart to borrow.
I've walked this path too much.
Evil as such.
Horrifying to grasp this love.
Blood covers the sin on my glove.
I feast a lot on pain,
Nothing but rejection to gain.
I love, but not love that should be.
I hide from that evil I so often see.
So innocent from the start.
Too stupid, too smart...
I cry for souls that are lost, mostly my own.
Love hurts, I should have known.
I fear the power of unity.
I crave sweet serenity.
The Heart of Lust, struggling to offer trust.
It conquers good,
Provokes evil,
creating a sensuous mood.
Why hide from power?
We are not the innocent flower.
Love is what I'm striving for.
Yet, the tunnel is dark towards that mystical door.
Sources of evil lusting for my soul.
Destruction their only goal.
Surrender to the unknown presence,
Feel it's dark essence.
Total destruction of body and mind.
Leave love behind.
Envision inner peace.
Embrace lust and ignore the desire to cease.
The truth is, we live a lie.
We must enjoy life, for we all will die.
glove - a covering for the hand having separate sections for each of the fingers and the thumb and often extending part way up the arm
mitten - a covering for the hand and wrist having a separate section for the thumb only
SMITTEN WITH MITTENS
Kittens are smitten with their mittens, while their mom uses white gloves.
Meowing, they’re lost…they’re dirty; mom’s clean as snowy doves,
except when they are used to find leftover dust, her special pair -
not that the naughty dinnerless kittens, with mittens, care.
Snowballs, mostly caked with dirt, sticks and stones, they roll
between their grubby-pawed mittens easy to pat with fingerless palms.
One of the pair, of course, got rolled and tossed - no food in his bowl.
He knows the fate that awaits, when mom drops her bombs.
Mom buys the four gloves. Now they’re fingers are separated.
They panic, with teeth, they chew and pull, then fill each one
with snow and use them to throw, but they’re cold and frustrated.
They meow for dinner, meow for mittens - naughty every single one.
Mom takes pity, warms each pair of hands, feeds them gold.
Their stomachs ache from so much grub…she loves them so.
After all, she really is most understanding and caring, all told.
She pulls out her master card, buys mittens - they play in the snow.
1/17/2023
Contest: Of what use are gloves to fingers
that only understand mittens Poetry Contest
Sponsor: John Lawless