Long Handkerchiefs Poems
Long Handkerchiefs Poems. Below are the most popular long Handkerchiefs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Handkerchiefs poems by poem length and keyword.
Blades of grass, wet under foot, insect eyes
Dusk, offset by the cricket orchestra
Muted and receding into the trees and bushes,
Tickled by the wind, rattling snake tail wind
While we may be in the company of wolves,
A long legged friend is late for the party
Eyes, little iridescent stars
Attending to each one, and look there,
There she is, making the most beautiful geometry
Parallels within the octagons, pulling silks
An arm for every task, little perpetual motion machine
Is that the Queen of the Night under the rusted iron?
A forlorn lady, black patent leather, kill a man, maybe two
With her danger red symmetry, oozing with youth
And a penchant for paralysis, no one can resist her wine
Then there's the hall of cob webs, threadbare handkerchiefs
Left by ladies who exhausted all of their company
To be a spectacle under the moon, in the wood pile
Dressed up in the finest furs, all earth tones
Stepping out to introduce themselves in girlish droves
Venus of another sort, these little cursed jezebels
Hovering on the skin of the water, or on the red brick wall
Must frequent every happy corner, and slip away at a moment's notice
A real lady always knows when to say goodnight
Such graceful exits through cement cracks
Back to the parlor, to glow in the dark
And they become spiders again
To all the MAGA minions, let me be clear and concise ...
Your loyalty is somewhat admirable, but its limits have
Been breached, by a man who's truth is vacant of any
Meaning, and void of substance or growth.
That being said, this legacy will share its history with
The criminal, as an enterprise where the law and justice
Would remind Americans of their greatness again,
By their oath.
The greatest hurdle that must be met is most difficult,
Where your eyes and mind awaken, and you realize
That you have been misled repeatedly by this movement,
And need to break the bonds of those false beliefs.
Now if you're successful in climbing off your high horse
And returning to reality... you might consider rebuilding
Some of the bridges you have burned, causing damages
That may never be healed, but we might save a few handkerchiefs.
Lastly, you may realize that the anger your group displayed,
Is but a fraction of the rage that people against you feel.
Due to a platform that aimed to discredit democrats and
Democracy, my independent, non-partisan position had dreams
Of twisting off heads and dumping loads down your neck,
And that's real !
We have waited on the shores of time
For the universe to come close to our side
We have waited on the shores of time
When history will open its eyes
And the whole world will
Witness the sun as it slowly melts in the sea
and sea water will heat at a hundred degree.
We have made preventatives plans
To keep up safe on the land but you
have come aboard our ship and strip
away the protective layers from around it
leaving us vulnerable to sharks at sea
to destroy the human frame and leave us in pain.
The earth is naked and dry
and not one rain cloud is formed in the sky
nature has traveled a thousand miles
to tell you that the universe will cry,
Handkerchiefs alone will not dry the tears
And the Gods knows that you are alone there
Just let the tears flow
and go wherever it wants to go
Let the tears flow and fill the containers
that are dry with everything that comes from the sky
nature will grow and the hill and valleys will come alive
and what’s left on the earth will survive.
The days are closing in
and the heavens are getting ready to sing
the doors are open wide
and we are getting ready for the long ride
stay a while with me and accompany me
on the final leg of the journey.
Nature is moving swiftly and winter is calling me
to anchor my ships in the sea and have conference
with thee, you must make that move now before
Winter moves in and collide with the sun.
Winter is dodging around the mountains
and the migrant birds are flying round it
but it still remains one out of many
for not everyone can manage this journey
and not everyone can survive the tales of life
Nature has proven it and the heavens have endorsed it.
One of the many is just one out of many.
War World II was raging over this
southern Italian town* spared by a miracle...
a deluge that suddenly occurred:
a night of blasting sounds, of rising flames
as American planes bombarded its buildings;
the Nazis fled to occupied Naples.
In the North, the Fascits were executed,
as the Dictator Mussolini himself was.
The farms could not be furrowed deep and neat,
fear hung over the farmers' shoulders;
and wheat couldn't grow abundantly to make bread,
and brazen women to a distant granary they went,
risking their lives to grind the wheat kernels;
they were no young men in town, or the older ones
who had gone to war for a concept so deceptive.
Many youngsters and soldiers were kidnapped by the Nazis,
to be taken to Germany as prisoners of war...who would have
challenged the Third Reich, or disobeyed?
Old women with handkerchiefs on their heads, weeping loudly
and mourning the tranquil town it once was...so lovely and happy,
and their cry was too bitter and inconsolable to be hushed;
now, even bread was taken away from them,
damning the cruel Duce, who had betrayed them for vanity...
why did he bring prosperity to Africa, not to Italy?
Why was his ego so manipulated by Hitler's cleverness...
that he could have conquered peoples and lands?
Ruins and dead kindred...a scenery of dread and abomination,
and the lively memory of begonias on their sunny balconies
brought a sweet nostalgia in an hour of horror and death;
and gathered among the crumbled walls, their rosaries
recited with graceful whispers, gave them
the strength and the courage to desperately grieve:
"Peace, o beloved peace, have you overlooked
the kindness of such humble and honorable spirits?
Darkness brought the silence they had sought under the glittering skies,
to hide the ugliness of the war in their gloomy shadows,
never to reveal the devastation of their town;
and with the new sun rising, hope would have been
renewed in the sunrise's lasting glow.
They would have seen those wheat golden kernels
bend under their heavy weight and bow....
and heard themselves saying," Mercy, o mercy
of our righteous God, let prosperity abound...
as the misty rain slowly comes down!"
Southern Italian Town: Baiano
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
IT TAKES TIME TO SEE THE LIGHT
Death is best taught in the dark
Fetching sticks, setting sparks
Its bag of tricks: sickness and hope
A black curtain vanishes
The magician leaves you with a moonless night
A lonely night without stars
And you work to locate those sparkling crystals
And place them one at a time back in the sky
But tears fall like glass, resetting the progress
You need to accept the inevitable
But no one can do the Impossible
So cling to the possible
Surround yourself with an armloads of friends
Let them take turns dabbing your mascara
As their handkerchiefs turn from white to black
One day you’ll find the moon back in its place
You will wonder how long you missed it
1st Place
4/7/2017
DIDACTIC FORM
At the edge of the world
an angel bends down,
writing names in the snow.
Each letter is an unspoken breath,
each comma,
a grave where unshed eyes sleep.
The lamppost burns crooked,
the pigeons’ shadows spin over tram wires,
and only the ice-pencil presses
against my skull
empty of memory.
Under my eyelids, ash gathers.
When I blink,
the world’s windows open,
and light enters like a pilgrim,
tearing its stone robe,
becoming, for a moment,
my trembling body.
Elsewhere in the poem, a door slams.
A woman carries bread in a thin bag.
The clock in the square
ticks like a saint
biting glass.
I carry my heart like a candle
through a roofless monastery.
Its flame bends to every prayer wind.
Beneath my steps, psalms of ice,
and I tread carefully,
as if beneath each verse, children sleep.
No one sees.
Outside, I walk in silence,
greet passersby,
but inside,
the angel shakes its wings,
and the feathers drift through my mind
like handkerchiefs forgotten at a window in a nursing home.
A cat watches from the end of the street.
A train breaks under the bridge.
Words fall from my mouth
like paint peeling from old icons.
And yet,
on the night when language shatters,
the angel leans beside me and whispers:
“You are alive because you are silent.
You are alive because you carry the light
like a beautiful wound.”
Then the snow begins to sing
under my steps.
The road stretches,
a white sentence,
written for the one
who will never arrive.
New city street
With the wink of an eye
and a shuffle of feet
We wandered about
down a new city street
Where vendors wore blue
with a tangerine sash
In hopes to look good
with no chance it would clash
Their carts were adorned
with ribbons and beads
And funny designs
made of cantaloupe seeds
They hollered and bellowed
and beckoned us near
And when we did stop,
they let out a loud cheer
They offered us products
like peanuts with cheese
And daffodil handkerchiefs
in case we sneeze
Belts made of feathers
with buckles in red
And weird little cones
you could wear on your head
We bid and we haggled
but always were nice
To get a good deal
and a much better price
The street lined with houses,
most two stories high
With windows like shamrocks
reflecting the sky
The balconies all featured
ribbons and bows
That hung from the railings
such colorful throws
Where women were calling
to neighbors across
For clothes pins and hampers
they hoped they would toss
They spoke in a language
so funny to hear
For what they were saying
was not always clear
The men were all mending
and tending the place
Their hats cockled sideways,
a grin on their face
The knees of their jeans
were all covered in patches
While they polished the brass
on the handles and latches
It seems they were singing
an old fashioned song
We tried to join in
as we walked right along
We laughed and we giggled
so much fun was had
But we had to leave
and that made us both sad
So we promised each other
that we both would meet
Again very soon
on this new city street
In endless quest we sought seclusions peace
hiding in the mystery of a strength always thought weak
and so denied the hero the still of death’s parade
waved surrender’s handkerchiefs to fill his empty grave
relied upon the charity of victory’s feeble thrill
struggling to rise above fresh bloodied horror’s sound.
Relentlessly the ears decry the loneliness of empty sound
as furtive eyes no future seek in fear of war, in fear of peace,
the agony of their disgrace, the joy of living without thrill
they know they’re strong, they know they’re weak
for somehow evading battles grave
to march in fiction’s harsh parade.
Solemnly on hush of wind, wars ghosts, in shadow on parade
march to history’s retold lies, leave no footprints, make no sound
for they will not resign their fate to earthen shell of shallow grave
nor will they let it slip behind the fragile wall of unearned peace
returning to a world in which we are perceived as weak
malign them with contrived disdain, condemn their sacrifice as thrill.
Podiums will hail the cause, cheering crowds create a thrill,
rolling drums will precede taps, politicians will parade,
orators with fiery words that make us neither strong nor weak
echoing across dead ears jaundiced by the painful sound
of promises that never are the troubadours of peace
and fall, as soldiers fall, alone upon a grave.
Newsmen mumble, double talk, of situations grave
amusement parks entice us with a death defying thrill
fire crackers, waving flags, noise to celebrate a peace
heads will bow when passing by war’s endless parade
the young will even shed a tear at taps lamenting sound
grit their teeth and know that honor’s tears don’t make us weak.
For freedom is the resting place for the bravest of the weak
who stand in freedom’s honor when the threat is grave
and rally to defend her, to keep her promise sound
not seeking to be heroes, nor the deception of war’s thrill
just honoring the memory of those still on parade
knowing there’s no solace in seclusions peace.
At heart we know that all are weak, that war is not a thrill
that those who fill the graves are shadow soldiers on parade
that the melancholy trumpet sound is the exhaled breath of peace.
John G. Lawless
©6/19/2014
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The third drawer down,
stuck sometimes,
resists like a child refusing supper~
then gives all at once.
Inside:
a landslide of faded cotton,
each square a surrendered flag.
Some still crisp with the ghost of starch,
others softened by years of fists,
damp with forgotten tears.
The blue gingham one
worn thin at the edges~
once blotted my knee
when I fell running toward her.
The white lacy one,
embroidered with spring flowers,
never used, as if saving itself
for a grief too clean to stain.
At the bottom,
one still folded tight
into a perfect rectangle—
the way she left it,
the way I won’t unfold it,
keeping her last touch
trapped in the seams.
related memoir vignette at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/lavender_time_and_mother_13659
Even after the rice was thrown and the streets picked cleaned
A lonely squirrel searched for his share of the bounty
The widows had put their handkerchiefs in their purses
Tears of joy dried and our dance began
Holding you close and the band played our favorite song
Under the brilliant sun
Our lives begun
Those names always hurt you
Lived our perfect life in our perfect world and the dream
Your love grew and mine diminished
Those imperfections clouded with fear waited patiently
The skeletons in our closet opened for us to see
I did try to hold you close with nurture and warmth
Under the brilliant sun
Our lives begun
Those names will always hurt you
Our marriage ended with mistakes both made, and no one wanted change
We learned things ended because they were wearing out.
Our love grew thin from the washing and pounding on the rocks
We sewed and patched each garments and forgot that magnificent love
And accusations poked around each corner and grew frayed
Under the brilliant sun
Our lives had run
Did my best to desert you
The Paparazzi took pictures and were posted on the front page
Our vowels came apart and drifted on the ocean
And those waters were uncharted , and we shipwrecked
Natives parade our feelings on truncheons but still I lagged
Gave it one final effort and valiantly I yielded
Under the brilliant sun
Our lives had turned
New names that couldn't hurt you
P.S. I have work to do but this is a start