Long Hopewoman Poems
Long Hopewoman Poems. Below are the most popular long Hopewoman by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hopewoman poems by poem length and keyword.
There seems to be silence within the serene night,
yet those indoors have eternal cries of unspoken fright.
One man drowns in chocolate, shamefully eying his hips,
as the woman next door kisses the hundredth man’s lips.
Two floors below, one screams out in pain,
as fatal anger has won the game.
The killer, shadowed, makes no remark,
but watches the blood flow, immersed in his soul of eternal dark.
Three doors across, an elderly man sits, rejected and broke,
hiding his face with tendrils of smoke.
His trusty cigarettes always at the ready,
when his finances where never steady.
Another flight down, a woman drowns in her agony sip by sip,
her life seems to slip by like a commercial blip.
Yet all she can think
is that her marriage is on the brink.
Before she fades into the night of another day,
all she remembers is throwing her wedding ring away.
Traveling down to the ground floor,
the troubles seem to equal more.
A woman tosses about in her anxious bed,
while her worries do pirouettes in her head.
Try to let the past and present go,
but the future looms like a horror show.
Outside, in the darkness, a piercing light shines
as a moth flutters by, on the still air it climbs.
It seems this beacon, as bright as the sun,
new hope has just begun.
The moth bangs itself against the glass,
trying to reach glory at last.
Yet no matter how much its antennae bend,
or wings grow fragile and not able to mend,
it seems like the only thing to do
to deal with its feelings, old and new.
Until it steps back and looks at the light
realizing that harming itself won’t set anything right.
With the last of its strength, ending its plight,
the moth flies off into the night.
At this moment, the man decides to rid his house of fat-packed glory,
as the woman on the ground floor takes a deep breath, changing her story.
The killer at large turns himself in,
the end to his years of sin.
The woman pours the bottles of wine down the drain,
finally she can remember her name.
The elderly man exhales his last puff of smoke,
the grueling memories no longer prod and poke.
And the woman kissing her hundredth man
lets him go, heart no longer sinking in deadly quicksand.
The light of dawn finally breaks,
and the darkness of the mind no longer takes
away from the people’s lives
as the light of hope is now by their sides.
Head down
The old woman sews
A dress
Nimble fingers
Marking each stitch
The whirring of machines
Whirling and whirling
Round and round
Threading memories
Of another time
Reminding her
Of a night
Long ago
When she was afraid
To speak to a boy
Sitting next to her.
As her busy fingers work
She remembers more
Of that summer night
A blue cotton dress
With tiny ribbons
Lace curtains gently
Pulled by a breeze
Drifted out through opaque windows
While musicians played a rhythm
Of their own
And shadows pranced
On empty walls.
Waiting that night
She wondered
Why no one
Asked
Her to dance.
Old memories
Glide by
On silver sails
And today?...
She knows that today is now.
And yesterday was yesterday
Finished with her work
She catches her breathe,
Straightens her hair,
And turns off the lights.
Pausing to look back
Into the darkened room
Shadows return her glance
With a gaping stare
Adjusting to the darkness
She begins to recognize
Familiar shapes taking form
Satisfied that all will be the same
When she returns
She closes the door.
Going outside
She holds onto her purse
Waiting
For a traffic light
That has already
Changed
A smile crosses her face
As she remembers
When the boy
Became her husband
Children were born.
And the years went by
In a brown bag
Neatly folded in two
Is a blue chiffon dress
Almost like the one
She wore years ago
Only this one
Is for her granddaughter
Impatient for no reason
To go nowhere
The crowd pushes forward
But the old woman lingers
On the corner
Savoring the moment
Glad of memories
As a busy world saunters by.
i am the wordsmith
son of the verbalist
my expressions flows
in clicks of my tongue
like the San of the sands
the only strange thing about me
is my cliks and twists are softer
and sincere
but fearless...
I am the very woman
who will live by her offspring
and voice her dreams
because she could care less
who shuns her because
even then, her skin and
state of beauty
still sets their tongues wagging
Call her strange but
she is the very woman
who would put her foot down
and swear in the eyes of the beast
that she has had enough
The very woman
who would live until the very end
so that she sees to it that
all she loves stays well
The very woman who would
halt the habit of a man
who solves his financial crisis
with the back of his hand
and resolves to the toxic green bottle
for refuge
The very woman who would
live seven lives just so that
her will gets done
She is the very woman
who measures her worth
by the count of heart beat
her essence
has its own calibration
greater than man
She is the very woman
who would be quick to get up
after greatly falling
and heal her bruises with time
then follow the sun
for her home is where it sets
That woman is me
you
her
them
caged in these little girls
waiting to be unleashed
so they could rule!
Form:
There's a woman inside,
with a very big heart,
but the people outside
keep trying to tear it apart.
The woman inside can't seem
to say no,she wishes just
once she could begin to show,
the true feelings that she feels
inside,and hold her head up
with a little more pride.
The people who know her
wouldn't know what it's like,
to go through everyday
having to put up a fight.
The people around her just
don't understand,how they
take advantage when
she tries to lend a hand.
Everyday is a battle not
knowing what's to come,
or at the end of the night
when you just feel numb.
The woman inside wants
to take her own life,
because the pain is so strong
it's like a piercing knife.
The woman inside often looks
in the mirror,but know matter
how hard she looks nothing
seems clear.
She looks and looks trying
hard to find,for once in her
life a little peace of mind.
More than anything in life
she wishes people around
her could see,The Woman Inside,
the real and true me.
Colleen Marie Bono