Long Hairline Poems
Long Hairline Poems. Below are the most popular long Hairline by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hairline poems by poem length and keyword.
Contest: Broken Promises
Placed : Second : June 26
Sponsor: Silent One
a smouldering ember, promises lay on white ash emitting amber sparks into a half barrel ~
hot barbecue was long past eaten with its
juicy sauces dripping fat down sunburned
throats (...)
for what are promises but hopes for another experience, other canvases when such is no-one’s prerogative but Divinity’s to give-
take at stake as cosmic balance deems
stability fit —-
hairline cracks within whispering strings
verbalised appear as thoughtforms touch
oxygen to smoulder upon brick and mortar
dissipating into sandgrains upon a pane of
tears transmuting promises into primroses
fractured assurances open hearts like
bread broken on a spring picnic mat
cracked ghost glass secretly glanced in
darkness as subliminals already heard
distorted frequencies enticing eerie
perceive avatar promises as poorly stitched
pom-poms ready to fray onto polished floor
for in dim silence mind flowering tongue
is but colourful creator making magic
with both promises and primroses
let every augur dance across forehead
in daisy chains
for core to remain unsore ~
Since you are here,
You might as well make yourself useful.
Pull up a chair and start shelling some peas for me,
I can make use of you to stack those chairs,
I could use your help today,
Are you any good at icing cakes?
Can you put that in the boot for me?
What are you doing on Monday?
Can you teach me how to do that
We are short of volunteers to visit those in hospital,
Can we borrow your ladder?
These are just some of the opportunities that have been offered to me,
How about yourself?
Remember time is running out as those doing the asking,
Are getting thinner on the ground,
And those things stuck in your ear,
Plus, that gadget in your hand is blocking the incoming invitations,
To be useful,
Before the opportunity no longer exists,
And you find yourself alone
With a receding hairline,
Poor health,
And a distinct lack of goodwill to anyone who knocks on your door,
In a last-ditch attempt to offer the milk of human kindness,
And a chance to do something useful,
Before that hope too fades forever.
Winter’s body is a car boot sale, a mosaic of the seasons and shifts,
the breezes and breaths of a year’s footsteps, gone.
The battered wheels of a truck, spinning against morning frost, rotate into its eyes.
Berries, dropped by a robin mid-flight, are smushed and stretched to make fingertips.
Leaves colour and curl to form that receding hairline.
Winter is ambidextrous:
can wake in chill, just to later doze in warmth;
is neither gender, with its sex a fresh April daisy and an October mud pie;
has a diary’s dog-eared pages for scabs to pick at.
Puddles that freeze, melt, undulate, act as lungs: expanding. drip. decreasing. drip.
Toddlers’ mittens sewn to jackets decorate Winter’s mouth with a cross-stitched grin.
Winter has stained glass, fired in prayer, for flesh;
regurgitated cud as wrists.
It has clumped silt for a nose, dotted with freckles from sand;
vines that interrupt brick for hips.
Winter is not just winter but the culmination of a year,
with bark as its backbone: a spine that creaks, splinters and
protests against autumnal rheumatism, yet will
slip into a supple Spring bend with the gentle weave of a craftsman’s hand.
Stage 4 cervical cancer,
Is what she had,
A long line of cancers but this one was bad,
It wasn't by choice not to be picked,
I would rather it was not ,
Every problem it ticked,
It silently grows inch by inch,
Week after week pound by pound it will pinch,
When treatment begins,
You prepare for hard times,
Losing your beauty,
Eyebrows and hairline,
They are the side effects everyone knows,
It's the ones that you don't,
Your bowels when that goes,
A cathata in place,
But not doing its job,
A trip to the toilet is enough for a sob,
With such a short trip,
No control as to grip,
Every step forward ,
Much more than a drip,
The pain is intense,
Constant at that,
To watch as a partner,
And catch with the mat,
I can't make it better,
I would swap all-day long,
For a human to go through this,
It's morally so wrong,
But it was the normal,
The same for 3 years,
Slow to progress ,
But lived up to your fears,
I was there for my lover,
I look after her dear,
Her dignity out the window,
My help was sincere,
She began to pass out ,
If only for a second ,
It felt a lot longer ,
More than she reckons,
You need to take notice,
It's as serious as hell,
This is a true story,
One I must tell,
A girl who had everything,
But lost a lot more,
Her ability to walk,
Everything else was so sore,
Please answer your invite,
And go for your smear,
Don't live your life worrying,
Everyday in total fear.
Built to Bend, Refusing to Break
Some days, the weight is quiet,
a heavy coat you didn’t ask to wear,
sewn from words left unspoken
and the cold, sharp truth of feeling unfair.
It settles deep within the chest,
a hairline fracture in the stone,
a sudden ache that reminds you
how heavy life gets when carried alone.
You learn to breathe through the bruised spots,
to speak in a voice that doesn’t shake,
to trace the outline of your own ribs
and count the promises you didn't break.
Because strength isn't the absence of tears,
nor pretending the sharp edges don't cut—
it’s keeping your heart open to the light,
even when every instinct begs to keep it shut.
So let the storm do what it must;
it cannot wash away what’s real.
You are not made of glass to shatter,
you are the iron forged to heal.
You carry the hurt, but it does not carry you.
You stand, you endure, and you begin anew.
As I age
the formerly wide chasm between ecstasy and despair
grows narrower,
deeper.
I had not thought this an attribute of maturation,
quite the contrary,
but perhaps an aging crevice,
a thinning fracture
between played-out manic bliss, over-extended harvest,
and depression
nondually faces two extremes
of positive major chords and keys
with negative minor tensions
searching for each other out and in,
become too vocal, focal
looking for tacit evidence
apposition yet lives
on another side
of this darkening
enlightening
divide.
Dr. Jeckyll's confluence
redeeming Mr. Hyde's dissonance
double-binding midway balance
now become a treacherously tight rope
tensioned for resonance and buoyant bounty,
just short of snapping side against side.
Perhaps wisdom is learning how to equitably co-invest
in both wonder and shock,
without becoming paralyzed in-between these boundless awes,
deep wavering yes and please not yet,
not yet,
carving a gorge
deep echoing sacred reverence
and secular irrelevance,
ecstasy with ridiculing despair,
boundless sufficiency without endless satisfaction,
reiterating eternal integrity
not yet surely promised
beyond potential disintegration.
If solitude portends sublime co-operation,
what remains for aching loneliness?
Who and what could become redeemed
through double-binding isolations
within voiceless awe
for wonder indwelling silent shock
of ego loss
deep shadowing eco-gain?
To win to lose,
to lose to win,
co-arising deceptions again.
Deeply resonant depressions;
subliminal,
suboptimizing ego dominations.
Two delineations
with hairline fracturing co-definition?
What would be blissful contentment's promise
without any dissonant content
for comparison?
What are omnipotent spirits
without ego vacuuming materials,
evidence of necessary,
hopefully sufficient,
deep double-binding awe
that we,
even I within we,
have been something,
someone,
someone's,
rather than the far more statistically likely
nothing at all
evermore.
TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY WITH A HAIRLINE FRACTURE CRUSHED NASAL ARCH BASILAR SKULL FRACTURED CRUSHED EYE SOCKET BEING A TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY PATIENT RECOVERY IS BASICALLY LIFELONG WHILE COPING WITH SEVERE TRAUMATIC HEADACHES MONITORED BY PAIN MEDICATIONS PAIN MANAGEMENT 12 INJECTIONS NERVE BLOCK EVERY 25 DAYS OPTIC NERVE DAMAGE LIKE TINY WIRES BLOOD VESSELS THAT CARRIED SIGNALS FROM MY BRAIN TO MY EYE COPING I AM SO BLESSED TO HAVE MY WONDERFUL HUSBAND CARING FOR ME TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY LEADING TO MY TWO STROKES ON BLOOD THINNERS TO CONTROL BLOOD CLOTS FROM SMALL ANYURESM 3MM BASILAR TIP LEARNING TO WALK TALK HOLD A FORK TIE MY SHOE TYPING WITH ONE FINGER KEEPING MY TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY JOURNAL MY ILLNESS VERTIGO PARTIAL BLINDNESS EVEN EARLY ONSET OF DEMENTIA FUNCTIONING HEALING COPING WITH PTSD ANXIETY DISORDER PANIC DISORDER DEPRESSION SURVIVING DOMESTIC VIOLENCE I FEEL TRULY BLESSED HEART RACING WITH ATRIAL FIBRILLATION I STILL HAVE HOPE SUFFERING WITH THE REALITY TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY DOESN'T GET BETTER IT ACTUALLY GETS WORSE OVER TIME MY HAIRLINE FRACTURE IS SUNKEN IN THE FRACTURE ACTUALLY GREW SKULL FRACTURE IS THE WORSE THE FORCE FROM THE CAR BOMB EXPLODING MY FACE WAS SO POWERFUL THAT IT CRACKED MY SKULL FROM EAR TO EAR UNDESIRABLE PAIN IT ACTUALLY FEELS LIKE ALL THE BONES IN MY FACE IS STILL BITING MY BRAIN TINY BONE FRAGMENTS FLOATING AROUND MY BRAIN ORBITS CAUSE MORE DAMAGE AND YET THERE IS NO WAY TO REMOVE THEM UNLESS I WAS DECEASED THATS WHEN THEY COULD REMOVE ALL MY SKIN FROM MY SKULL SO MY PAIN IS BEING MANAGED TO MAKE ME AS COMFORTABLE AS POSSIBLE MY HEAD FEELS HEAVY NOW HARD TO HOLD IT UP MY FACE ACHES MY EARS ARE RINGING BALANCE IS OFF BUT I AM NOT ALONE I AWAIT MY BRAIN TO SHUT DOWN ONSET OF DEMENTIA I WRITE I WRITE I WRITE UNCONTROLLABLY I KNOW THAT ALL PART OF TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY WITH A HAIRLINE FRACTURE TRYING TO WRAP MY MIND AROUND UNDERNEATH MY HEAD OF HAIR IS A GIANT CRACK IN MY SKULL FROM EAR TO EAR I LAUGH AT MYSELF A BOMB CRUSHED MY FACE CRACKED MY SKULL AND BRUISED MY BRAIN MY NEUROLOGY SAINT SAYS I SHOULD HAVE DIED HARD TO BELIEVE I SURVIVED SUCH A HORRID TRAUMATIC EVENT
A murmur beneath the pattern,
a hairline fracture in certainty
no one expected to see.
A sound without a cause,
a tiny flicker of light.
A shadow untethered by reason,
freed from explanation.
Sometimes the smallest crack
in the pattern let's light
slip through to reshape what we know.
We are taught to ignore the unfamiliar,
to dismiss whatever is strange and untamed.
The peculiar, the unsettling
becomes another fault to repair.
We moor ourselves to reason.
Insisting every mystery
must surrender to an explanation.
Yet, many great discoveries began
with someone pausing, noticing,
when dismissal looked away.
Crystal delight sparkling in the sunlight
like frozen jewels casting rainbow colors
through the windowed glass held tight in my hand.
Perfected shapes of transparent wonder,
sweating droplets of life giving liquid,
that pool at the base as sweet refreshment,
yet, add water and everything changes.
Beautiful shapes turn gnarled and distorted.
The ice screams as it breaks against the glass
leaving scarred surfaces that change slowly
from clear to translucent and then opaque.
Each minute fissure obscures my vision
as I look through to see the truth of me,
my essence waiting on the other side,
but with each crack, each thin hairline fracture,
my sight is dimmed, and I'm left cold and dark,
emotionless, uncaring, lost inside.
12-18-16
119 words
Getting Old
By Franklin Price
June 17, 2014
Getting old's a little strange I don't know what I thought
I've chased the years and here I am and don't know what I've caught
I look into the mirror and looking back at me
Is an older version of myself I do not expect to see
The skin's wrinkled and sagging been that way for awhile
I still have my own teeth I like it when I smile
My eyes still have a twinkle though the lids are closing in
And if I gain much weight at all I have a double chin
The hairline is receding and getting mighty thin
Darker when it's wet when dry it's gray again
The bald spot in the back is getting bigger every day
No eyes back there to see it so I think that it's okay
All in all I like the one that's in the mirror there
The face the teeth the eyes even the thin gray hair
Because I know inside my head a youngster still resides
Tempered by age experience honed still likes amusement rides
My health is good I exercise for my heart to keep it strong
Walk without assistance and help others get along
I am very grateful for what God has given me
But not yet ready to meet him to spend eternity
If he is willing and the creek don't rise I've got some years to go
I don't know just how many I'll make the best of them you know
For I am loved and love right back it's how I live my life
Treat everyone as family if able help them in their strife
This is my view on aging and whether you are young or old
Appreciate all that you have and if I may be so bold
Don't look back with regrets or envy others for what they've got
You're still here and living and that is quite a lot