Long Jewelry Poems
Long Jewelry Poems. Below are the most popular long Jewelry by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Jewelry poems by poem length and keyword.
In the Spanish language, it means “The Meadows”.
To this desert oasis, many a gambler goes.
There are hotels with restaurants and fabulous shows.
However, the biggest attraction is the casinos.
They drive from as far as Los Angeles and San Diego.
Plenty of cash is dumped in each casino.
With no more money, gamblers cannot roam.
There is no other place to go but home.
The one thing to do is to depart this scene.
Unfortunately, they need a tank of gasoline.
Filling stations have strange inventories of stock.
Penniless victims go there to pawn and hock.
There are watches, cameras, and diamond rings.
They have loads of gold jewelry and other things.
In the near future, these visitors will return.
History will repeat as if they will not learn.
The customs men shake their heads
and watch the women enter Mexico.
Three with skirts, white socks,
one with jeans
and proper blouse.
Seventeen, eighteen
just out of Concord Academy
in a black Packard Super Clipper,
not quite as big as a hearse.
They buy silver jewelry from the women
and beers and tamales from a man.
Night comes,
they watch the moon large
over the Pacific.
They lay under the Packard on blankets,
staring at it
while a whitehaired man swats away
with a broom handle
two stumbling young men
who get too close to them.
What happened, Mom?
We asked her about then-
The summer of 1949.
Did you meet a boy there?
No, nothing happened,
she said.
Nothing happened.
We went there
and came back.
It was the lull in between,
everything happening.
And then-
Everything happening.
I see it now,
my mother,
the girls,
the moon reflected in their eyes,
the smooth Pacific,
a guitar, a song in the air.
Their moments run through me,
each one,
as though
I had never been born.
Danny was a smart fellow,
he always seemed mellow...
some thought he was gay
and became an easy prey.
Danny spoke with an accent
very distinctive to an extent;
even the wealthy derided him,
and one of them was Mr. Skim.
" Bastards!" He yelled with much rage,
" Hard times destroyed my elite image
and they insult me by tossing dimes...
while they munch on Chicken Fries! "
" Even in brutal weather, I holds sign
that reads," I wear no Calvin Klein'
jeans and sneakers, no Gucci' jewelry;
I have lost my job...have a little mercy! "
A good-hearted man approaches his sill
and kindly offers him a hundred dollar bill,
" Buy yourself a warm blanket and food,
some Coors to blast away your sad mood! "
Written on 10/24/2018
Shrunken sweaters, dusty ball caps
Tarnished silver, and hedge clippers
Pointed hat pins, gaudy jewelry
Faded jeans and worn out slippers
Greasy fry pan, wobbly table
Crates of dog-eared musty books
Tattered doilies, ragged Barbies
One brown old crock pot that still cooks
Rusty shovel, dented buckets
Ma's old apron, broken dishes
Dated calendar, crooked lampshade
Chipped glass bowl for all your fishes
Ugly painting, candle holders
One old bike for exercising
Broken TV, toaster oven
Doesn't work....it's not surprising!
What's the point?" our husbands mutter
While we fill the garage with clutter
I explain to him..."She buys mine, and I buy hers"
"What's the point of shopping stores??!"
"Now...don't you know the grass is greener?"
"OH GOOD!" "She's bought my vacuum cleaner!"
Just then I point across the street!!
Another yard sale.....and we both shriek!!
He points at me and shakes his fist
But I'll just ignore and toss a kiss
And side by side I'm in a race...
Who gets there first will buy that vase!!
Whoopee!!! I spy a broken chair...well, I can glue it!
Just hope she doesn't beat me to it!
Another point about my purchase
Perhaps I can use it for another purpose
Oh No!!...he's found old tool collections!!
And points at them with great affection!!
The point I'm making is simply this
Another's person's trash or junk, may soon become your bliss!
N ever again will the Tribes of Israel be the sacrificial lamb of man.
A nnealed in furnaces not in Olam HaEmet by the Almighty "the World of Truth."
Z ealots rose from the ashes of the ovens and now defend like Sicarii of old.
I srael blooms and grows in the desert, returned by Allied Forces to the cauldron.
H ome to the Holy Land, sent, shipped, caste surrounded by Arab foe, isolated.
O vens melted their hearts, striped their forms for their souls held no intrinsic value.
L ampshades and shoes made from their skin, jewelry from the gold in their teeth.
O rders given by The Third Reich obeyed without conscious. The herd was culled.
C hrist-killer the Christian mind said, devil worshiper, their deaths were acceptable.
A nti-Semitism always has been and always will be a threat to Jews everywhere.
U nited, Jews must form a majority in Israel, so Jews everywhere feel safe.
S anctuary will never again being denied, Israel will be safe haven from persecution.
T o a future where all men have worth regardless of race, creed or religion, pray.
*Thanks to Arild Andresen Ertsland for his inspiring
From the Ashes
Chronicles of marriage “life” my “wife”
My “life’s” story, don’t “worry”
The LORD has given me a vision to “carry”
My great destiny I can’t “burry”
I urge you to write it down in your “diary”
I am strong like a desert “lily”
I love you and value you “dearly”
Such words from me come “rarely”
I ain’t speaking just “merely”
I guess you have pictures in your mental “gallery”
In my minds I see you as a precious “jewelry”
Good “times”, bad “ones” lousy “ones”
We‘ve passed through “together”
Remember storms don’t last “forever”
There will bad days just like “weather”
But let’s persevere just like “leather”
Whatever God has put together, put asunder “never”
It takes three to get married; God is the “cover”
Though it rains cats and dogs, I am your “lover”
They say marriages were made in “heaven”
Perfect and whole like the number “seven”
Ten years of marriage, add one, it is “eleven”
How great will be the joy when we turn “twenty seven”
But I realize, it calls for greater “understanding”
Pot holes of our marriage journey “filling”
Broken hearts “mending”
Real issues being “solved”
Problems being “resolved”
Level five of communication being “practiced”
Remind me where ever I‘ve “missed”
It’s darkest before dawn, there is “mist”
That you can’t clearly see your “destination”
Marriage is marriage even if you pass through great “education”
Ups and downs are also found in this oldest and first “institution”
There is no perfect and spotless marriage, sorry to “mention”
But how do we strive to perfection is my “question”
Only in our right frame of mind, issues “discuss”
Putting facts according to their “class”
Rummaging through, till a solution is found at “last”
Reconciling over unsettled issues should be a “must”
Putting in mind never to break what God has joined “asunder”
Wonders in this institution, will they ever cease? I “wonder”
It was an island of piety
out of place in Port Adelaide’s
working class sea of pubs.
Off the main road,
St Mary’s was a refuge
for the Catholic faithful
and a few wino’s
pretending a prayer
for an hour of sheltered warmth.
Three masses on a Sunday
drew a dwindling crowd.
My grandmother,
dressed in her best
with the mandatory hat,
went to the 10.30.
It was a mass
for the elderly and the young
hung over
after a late night binge.
I cut my teeth there
on the grim chew
of its doctrine.
Back then latin rattled through
its wheezy lungs.
Old, dark, paint peeled,
it always seemed a breath away
from its last.
Creaking pews, polished
to a shine by a century
of sliding bums, would advertise
when you were late.
Stained glass windows
filtered sunlight
through a panorama of pain.
I was baptized by that wash
of joyless light.
Almost gone, St Mary’s
was resuscitated by Italians
keen to cage a stake.
Their statue of the Virgin Mary
poked a Mediterranean finger
into the collective Anglo eye.
Jewelry dripped, imposing
and ornate, she affronted
local tastes.
Statues were for background,
guardians of peripheral regions
placed to arrest
a wandering eye
and bring it back to God.
This Italian Virgin Mary
stood like a crowned colossus.
The old bishop’s ghost,
they say,
still wanders the church
shackled to his guilt.
Mary McKillop hovers
in his tormented head.
She's gone to God and sits
a newly minted saint.
The church grows smaller.
Lodged like a barnacle
on Port Adelaide’s rusted hull
it still hangs on.
The Italian Virgin Mary
now seems at home
and looks down
on rows of vacant pews.
Outside - shoppers pass in haste
to serve more fickle gods.
My favorite makeup is her smile,
the lip gloss of a soul at ease,
mascara of her grace and style,
the rouge of blushing when I tease.
My favorite jewelry: her eyes,
gold flecks in starburst bright design,
diamonds of silvered moonlight rise
as they gaze deeply into mine.
The beauty marks I love the best
are those that deep within her dwell:
intelligence; a sense of jest;
and faith, her robust citadel.
Her love is that accessory
that ties together all she'll wear,
with kindness her perfumed esprit
that woos me as it fills the air.
Her beauty comes not from a shelf
nor from a product humans made,
but deep within her winsome self -
a loveliness that does not fade.
Written 22 June 2022
Ever ask your partner if they want Chinese food for dinner,
They reply, “That’s fine”, now does lying make them a sinner.
Think back to every reply where someone has said “That’s fine”
They really mean, with no other options, acceptance they’ll resign.
When picking out wallpaper, a piece of jewelry or a special gift,
The word “fine” in the response, will not give the intended a lift.
Answer any question with “fine”, you have to realize its not great,
It’s neither affirmative or negative, that’s why its the word I most hate.
Go ahead use the word, say “She’s fine” because that’s fine by me,
Enjoy your gourmet dinner - alone, you can watch the fine scenery.
Written July 27, 2012
For Michael J. Falotico’s contest
What word do you hate most
The Walker
Sometimes, there is a sense that the road doesn't
roll out further, there is no vista of a highland or a slow-running river of sweet water to lazily swim
while remembering Marilyn in Lazaro's jewelry shop, a dream so vivid, not dim, as the years roll by.
It is time to take the boots out of the cupboard try them on, and feel how they make your feet walk
Travel light, a rucksack will do, and a solid walking stick to fend off dogs.
The upland has no rain, although it might shower
on the way there; at night, you can seek shelter
in an empty bear lair and sleep well till the thrush
says it is time to walk on if you want to find the place you know is there, over the horizon
In the dulcet knowledge of the longer one walks
the younger one feels.