Long Gloved Poems
Long Gloved Poems. Below are the most popular long Gloved by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gloved poems by poem length and keyword.
parTA
My sweet little gran-mire is 94 Years old.
She still works, as the chairwoman of the family trust.
You can call her “Godfather.”
The “frail old lady” is a humorous disguise she dons
to bamboozle the unwitting - like tiger stripes.
Don’t be fooled, or lulled and don’t ever try to BS her.
The business cosmos wheels behind those eyes.
Her heart was replaced with an abacus, centuries ago.
She’s met everyone in the world who matters.
She has body guards and minions.
Tonight there’s a small birthday party
at the Musée Marmottan Monet (museum) in Paris.
When she comes in, the 40 or so guests formed
an impromptu receiving line - so I queued up too.
Stewards regularly pass and I manage to gulp down
two flûtes of champagne while waiting (I LOVE Paris).
This has the makings of a great party.
Finally, it was my turn. *we cheek kissed.*
I took her small, gloved hand in mine
and it struck me that little white gloves are genius.
“Thank you for inviting me,” I said
inching closer because the music was loud,
“Nothing tops a big-budget party.” I said.
“We agree.” she said with a nod.
“Happy Birthday.” I mouthe.
We cheek kissed again and I moved on so the conga-line could progress.
Ooo! Another steward!
They dock at the old ferry landing,
drip fern-water and quartz dust,
pull shapes from a memory
nobody can name.
The news calls them pioneers.
The city calls for volunteers:
one hundred credits a shift,
hazard pay if you stay after dark.
We line the streets in plastic ponchos,
swing buckets of bleach
at whatever falls from them—
glass teeth, velvet skins,
the small, sad faces they wear like necklaces.
The mayor cuts a ribbon made of hair,
offers a key to the city
that dissolves in the taker's hand.
Still, the parade lurches on:
a hollowed calf that leaks birds from its eyes,
a choir of mouths stitched into a winter coat,
a gloved hand, walking on its fingertips,
asking directions in sign language.
We clap.
We wave flags.
We rinse the sidewalk behind them, smiling.
We stay because the escape pod is too expensive.
There was never room for us anyway.
The loudspeakers keep saying:
Welcome home. Welcome home. Welcome home.
I am a chocolate milk child of Scooby-Doo Saturdays
The leggings-clad, laced-gloved Material Girl teenager
Who will soon be a half-century
Who is mother to no son or daughter
Who parents a household of four legs and fur
Some days I am the bride
Some days, the dishwasher
Some days I am Florence Nightingale
Some days, Lizzie Borden
Some days, I am pleased with what I finish
Some days, I don't know where to begin
Some days, I am a bridge
Some days, a wall
Some days I am the lift
Some days, the fall
Some days I am the structure of silk
Some days I am patchwork plaid
Some days I am the rock of reason
Some days, the wind of chaos
Some days I am an apostle of ink
Some days I am a pagan page
In ambitious acceptance and calm confusion
Like a rainbow - I am an illusion.
5/05/20
For 'I Am - Bio Challenge' contest
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
"Blue Movie"
Electroflushed
True Blue
shines neon
his gospel brow
indigo guilt crushed
into the perilous
fathoms of her
deep Ocean
The Challenger Deep
depth charged
exploring
the beauty of
her black habit
plunging forbidden
lace marks
a penance veil
kissed hard,
unrepentant
rippling ponds are
mirrors open
through soft masks
defiant hidden graces
rope strung
heaven bound
deep in the dial up
velvet gloved fingers
trace the boundaries
of lips plush pink
sweet opalescent
silky smooth and
milky inside a
conch shell
and violet rhythm
ripples across the
satin shadows
whispered across skin
where the burn melts ice
snapshot sighs smile
and go to lost territories
lips ripe and salty wet
persimmon pursed
tipping pearls
in the shiny pink velvet
knees grazed
in the genuflect
fevers contagious
exploring her book
kept shelved and
shut tight
treasures to be found
Mariana
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
"Grazes' / Sneaker Pimps, Bloodsport
https://youtu.be/SO_PYTFgHIg
....hmm, I guess I'm Hellbound.
1. Challenger Deep
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Challenger_Deep
2. Mariana Trench
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mariana_Trench
LYRICS/ "Grazes", Sneaker Pimps
https://genius.com/Sneaker-pimps-grazes-lyrics
Tomb of the Unknown
Twenty-one steps south down the black mat
Turns and faces east toward the tomb for twenty-one seconds
Turns and faces north, changes gun to outside shoulder and waits twenty-one seconds
Marches twenty-one steps up the mat
Turns and faces east for twenty-one seconds
Turns and faces south, changes gun to outside shoulder and waits twenty-one seconds
Twenty-one steps south down the black mat
The cycle is repeated
Three hundred and sixty-five days a year
Twenty-four hours a day
White gloved hands snap through the shoulder arms
Sharp green uniforms show no rank
Dark sunglasses hide the solemn stare of the guard
Select members of The Old Breed maintain vigilance
Over the marble tomb
The crowd must be silent
All must show respect
To those who are unknown
To the faceless and nameless
Who sacrifice all
Galaxy, heart
erase, gaze
tender, cold
How do I love thee --
I cannot count the ways,
for there are none.
Not because the sun doesn't
grace thy face with its brilliance,
leaving the rays reflected back in a trance
and even the shadows dancing
as they trace thy golden reflection,
guiding thoughts through galaxies
tenderly gloved within thy gallant gaze
no imagination can erase.
Nor because the wind breathes traces
of divine intelligence
as thy tender breath reaches my wearied face.
No
Not because there is nothing to love,
but because love had left my ice-cold presence
long before we met,
and my heart was left alone
with no shadows of my own to dance
as they traced reflections of light,
for there was no light to trace.
Snow.
The rifts and ledges.
Flakes just like to flake.
And eventually stay.
Snow covers cars a bit.
Then we uncover them.
We like to pretend that the snow is not melting down our spine, and destroying us.
Shaking.
Then we shake it off.
Gloved hands, taking them off.
If a stranger walked by, he wouldn’t help at all.
Snow covers my eyelashes a bit too.
Snow.
Towers over us in our sleep.
When it’s cold and our car won’t start this morning.
So it shuts us down.
Snow.
The snow plow did come through.
Eventually.
Then it came through the same street once more and it was crazy.
Then the snow stopped.
Gloved hands, throwing the gloves to the ground.
Breaking down because.
Snow.
Snow on a Sunday morning.
Doesn’t feel as bad, crazy, or unbearable.
I’m shaking, yet I’m on my cozy chair.
Snow towers in our sleep.
If it snows overnight?
I might have a problem.
The lacquer, the tease, the crimp, of the hair
as we go out in style, mesh tops with flair
the motley choices of fashion pronounced
by the neon signs on our t-shirts no doubt.
Bobby socks and crop tops, spangled and bright,
all bangles and pearls to represent a Mardi Gras night.
The girls they did flock to the taverns in pairs,
to listen to the synthesised tunes that filled the air.
The boys, tight jeaned, and permed like a rock stars,
would enter in packs as though they were the masters,
sauntering through the ladies of lace,
one gloved with the charisma, yet held no grace.
The eighties were deemed a time out of place,
where anything goes, a retro space.
Defined by the music, the look now seems displaced,
yet there was fun and freedom when the eighties took place.
25/10/2018
It stands alone four square, white-washed straw-thatched,
small window panes, black frames, and out back chickens hatched,
pecking weedy ground around a single willow.
Set just a little back from single country lane,
high-hedged between the farms with tracks for bumpy tractor rides,
strong arms to try and guide wobble wheels on hardened sun-dry ruts,
to draw trailored dung across winter's dark and muddy fields.
Father's fingers, numb with frost by hand-picked sprouts,
with dawn's dim light not yet bright enough to warm his back.
And hundred weights of summer grain on neck and shoulder,
staggered through barn doors to store, to tip hessian sacks piled high,
sack upon sack.
My mother, crushed and bruised at milking stall,
squeezing squirting teats to fill the milking pale,
to complete them all before mucking out the dung and straw,
then moving on to something more which bends the back
and rubs sodden foot sore in chilled hoof-trodden boot.
This was no Eden's garden which followed war enough to harden
even softer souls.
Yet, it was a paradise for smaller feet to roam free among the fields,
not caring when to make for home and sup on sprouts that dad had picked
and mum had peeled, and soft cooked, with such hard labour,
all overlooked by youth, and by youth's youthful ignorance.
For some, certainly for dad, and for mum,
Eden's garden gave way to thistle and to thorn,
and to sweated furrowed brows serving children's carefree days,
and precious hopes for first and second son.
These rode upon the carts and crossed the dykes in leaky barrels
and threw their stones at tethered bull not caring for the weather,
whether fine, or whether dull, or whether small gloved fingers numbed with chill.
For them that Eden's garden was a Paradise still,
and though choking staining seed was sown, it was not yet grown,
and eyes not yet exposed to serpent's smaller gardens,
composed for ever younger eyes, for the tainting and enslaving of ever younger lives.
That wiley snake now lurks and lies inside dark orchards of delight,
a world explored unseen from pillowed comfort,
and sometimes in the darker night with a different sky blue light,
that Eden web now known world wide, that Eden made with fallen pride,
that Eden oft obscene, that Eden all of lies, that lies behind the pixel screen.
On glossy pages generally reserved for stars of stage and screen
golden calves lounging casually on cushioned chaises, deities of decadence
sunlight streamed in black and white through filthy, filmy windows
as flies converged in the corners crawling over themselves in a frantic frenzy
I could hear their communal buzzing echoing in my ears
facing my own fears for my future
forcing myself to read past the first paragraph
Another photo followed, captured on the same sort of camera as the famous
The bathroom of the apartment one level below
black slime soaking through the ceiling, oozing down the walls like ectoplasm
congealing on the cold tiles, dripping in the sink
I could smell it in the ink
the sour, sickly sweet, pungently putrid scent of a slaughterhouse
The identity of the source of the gore from above
gleaned from the contents of his wallet
removed from his back pocket as he lay face down on the floor
by the thickly gloved hand of a man in a moon suit
He had been drawn to the city decades before searching for fame
to see his name on marquees
hoping his face would soon grace the covers of magazines
like the one I was currently reading
His neighbors knew nothing of him
describing their fellow dweller within the walls of the run down slum
as a silent ghost
rarely seen but for a moment before vanishing behind his door
as if he had condemned himself to solitary confinement for his failures
In the end no next of kin could be found
His ashes collected in a tin container sat on a shelf
in the city morgue for a year
before being dumped in a hole dug in the ground by a stranger with a spade
in a corner of a neglected cemetery
along with all the others who had died alone
unclaimed, unmourned, unrenowned
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