Long Knuckled Poems
Long Knuckled Poems. Below are the most popular long Knuckled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Knuckled poems by poem length and keyword.
A lock of sweat-matted hair over one eye,
she shakes a red knuckled fist at a naked child,
wailing upon a cold floor.
Mary drying feet with her hair.
Mary at the temple calling.
A street corner Mary full of sperm,
full of a grace,
She is invisible to rabid dogs and drunks.
Old or young,
fat Mary on roller skates,
sweet Mary sucking candy,
badly handled, nameless Mary's.
Sweet Mother,
the sweet lure of jail baiters winking.
The bold-faced laughter
of the -you, free-thinking.
Today the sky is a Robin egg blue,
robed in virginal light.
In a Chick-fil-a, a family is praying
over their sandwiches.
I make the sign of the cross.
I mean, why not?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
1895: the year it first stood,
a sentinel of walnut and dust,
North Rogers Street humming beneath its porch~
first with hooves, then pistons, now electric cars.
Granddad signed his name on a blank promise,
ink bleeding into faith.
Plumbing crawled indoors like a shy animal.
A garage yawned open.
The roof—oh, the roof~
stretched its spine against decades of hail.
Granny arrived with four shrieking shadows
who grew into echoes in the walls.
My mother’s laughter still lives
in the crack between floorboards,
her childhood a fossil trapped in varnish.
We came later—cousins, brothers~
tracking mud like a second skin.
The house tolerated us,
let us carve our initials
into its patience.
I know the smell of Granny’s perfume
better than my own breath.
Granddad’s slippers whispered
shhh-shhh across the planks,
a lullaby in Morse code.
Dusk on the porch swing:
Missouri spilled its sun like persimmon jam.
Trees dissolved into charcoal smudges.
Then—magic~
the lightning bugs arrived,
trading secrets in flickers.
Granddad called them living embers.
I called them proof.
Inside, the walls hoarded snapshots:
birthdays, Christmases, a thousand untold mornings.
The table’s oak face grew wrinkles,
each scar a story.
Gingerbread men drowned in cocoa,
their vanilla eyes wide with surrender.
Summers brought gardens:
tomatoes fat as fists,
cucumbers crisp as lies.
Granny’s hands, knuckled and sure,
picked them clean for jars of sweetness.
Now the house wears its age
like a favorite coat—threadbare, but still warm.
I press my palm to its siding,
feel the pulse of a thousand suppers,
a hundred storms.
Time won’t rewind.
But here’s the alchemy:
memory is a door
that swings both ways.
Home isn’t just where you sleep.
It’s where you wake up
again
and again
and again.
Accompanying memoir vignette can be read at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/this_old_house--the_place_we_called_home_13650
Panagiota is a whirling Galaxie.
With her blue thunder words.
A spirit like black diamond lightning.
She bruises the clueless and ignorant.
Not out of hate but of love.
Not with a brass-knuckled fist but with pearled wisdom
Layered around grains of life's relentless grit.
Her words are not fanciful or minty...
They're always stained with the talon of truth.
She crushes the weak-minded and the oblivious.
With her Olympian soul and rose-scented boots.
She fears nothing and never spares the rod of truth.
While weaving a spirited ink to her parchment heart.
Atop enchanted moonbeams, she lances pit vipers and tangos with God.
we paraded behind him
he in a fawn casual jacket
military badge right breast pocket
over a maroon v neck cardigan
even in summer
dark blue trousers
sharp crease
hands behind back
hair neatly slicked down -
stiffly upright
me next aged 7
gray flannel shorts
gray slipover
clunky brown lace up shoes
newly scrubbed
eyes round as saucers
mum last
head down
brown slacks
white blouse
sandy blond
vacantly beautiful
I would keep turning to look back
at mums place
mum had a place
last was here place
not wanting to fall back
trying to keep up with long striding dad
occasionally trying to get in front
the sharp knuckled rap
on my head
from an unyielding god
people looked at us *****
as we marched down the road
all the way to the park
to sit on a bench
dad on one side
me in the middle
mum at the end
sitting silent
pigeons drew near
seeking breadcrumbs
we had no bread crumbs
when it was time
(dad always decided)
we stood up
then filed back home
to listen to the radio
listening
dad nearest to the set
nothing to say
me on the floor fidgeting
mum in the kitchen
fading away
'Twas a dark and stormy night on that dark and stormy night!
HMS Blunderbuss plied the billowing seas just off the Isle of Wight!
Able Seaman Steer manned the helm when dead ahead he saw the light!
He woke the snoozing Officer of the Deck to apprise him of their plight!
Captain Ironbottom (who happened to be in the 'head') was duly alerted!
He dashed to the bridge in his drawers to ensure that disaster was averted!
"By jove!" he cried, "Her Majesty's ships turn aside for no one, I say!"
He grabbed the radio, "Ahoy there! Turn east 15 degrees! Out of my way!"
From out of the ozone a voice retorted, "Suggest you turn west 15 degrees!
I'll not change course for anyone, so heed my warning if you please!"
"This is Captain Ironbottom of the HMS Blunderbuss!" he thundered back!
"I know the rules of the road! Turn now or I'll see you hung from the rack!"
Able Seaman Steers' eyes grew as large as saucers knowing not what to do!
Communication between the captain and the mysterious light was turning blue!
As the distance narrowed between them, neither would give a nautical mile!
The white-knuckled Officer of the Deck was turning pale with a sickly smile!
"This is Captain Ironbottom again! Are you challenging Her Majesty's might?"
"Yes sir" was the reply, "You see, this is the light house on the Isle of Wight!"
Today the mighty HMS Blunderbuss rusts upon the Isle of Wight's rocky shoal.
Captain Ironbottom faded into oblivion due to the folly of his last patrol!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
By allowing her to leave in haste
and miss the signal of fate’s consequence,
I wrestle with this fumed moment…and
as knuckled hands tighten, my quest
for closure suffocates a hallway.
Backdoor lightly opens…the shadow- woman
rushes down down iron stairways.
I clutch those quivering hands upon rails...
her sweat mixed with tears grinding on my arms,
while I taste its pain, smell its despair.
The pungent flavour reeks of hidden sins,
of untold confessions trapped within
hardened pores: I wail, she wails
on the steep floor...
and we holler again. This need to open
what is locked from chains revolts me.
Afraid , I let go plugging the knob
which could finally release my false self.
........................
Craig Cornish's Contest
The Fourth Floor of Nowhere
9/19/2020
* an updated version of a piece I wrote for my favorite baller, Kevin Garnett *
~
intensity ... defined
excuses were for gods and gamblers
(lesser giants with fairer feuds)
HE ... was of a wholly-invested mettle and mind
the conscript of a checkered court
dauntless defender of glass and lattice
and the pride of a kingdom
grand and green.
chilled steel above
warm wood below
the thund'rous awe
each mightied blow ...
adversaries wept for his fervency
ability, focus, effort ...
at levels unequaled and as yet unseen
a vitality and resolve
that at times seemed immeasurable
expecting the utmost from his confreres and allies
yet far MORE from himself ...
of rare devotion to his cause and kind
a jaded gypsy who had found his home and heart -
the hallowed ground
worthy of his marrow and blood.
one honored hub
a stronghold land
worth ev'ry wound
each knuckled hand ...
he was clad in shining-yet-simple armor
- béni avec cinq -
that he wore with a generation's honor
and wielded a sword of sinews and strength
noble and knightly, but of ferocious intent
with a dignity, dark ... outspoken
mindful, selfless ... monstrous and mad
the grace and guile of a mongoose
with the hiss of a snake ...
the childish charm of a leprechaun
with the wild howl of a wolf ...
and a heritage that coursed his veins, veridian.
those demons, green
that spurred his dance
brought each his foes
naught e'er a chance ...
his fortress now stands empty
but the ramparts still tremble with his ire
the ether within those sacred walls
yet echos his roar
and strains to press a cheek
all for the sake of his standard and spoils
and thus, now -
yes, and none too soon
those rafters roil with a banner his own
and a kingdom, blessed, bows in reverence
for his consummation and creed
and the green blood that still stains his flesh
and those proud parquet floors …
one day that land's
bright sun may set
still, flames will burn
the name ... Garnett
thank you, KG!
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, September 2, 2020
When I look at the charred plasma
of a bare knuckled wind
I forget the ardor of yellow.
Then I recall the smeared tones
of skunk cabbage
rising through haze and mizzle,
or how in the Far East
the river at sunset
transforms a blistered heat
into the stippled gold of temple lamps.
After the grey scuttle of urban hours
there’s a yellowed drizzle
of twilight in any city
when a chill brume of evaporation
hangs gleaming and electric.
I see the mottled leaf of autumn
how gold seeps through
its flamboyant carnage.
Far away from the ruby panic
of fledgling mouths
or the crimsoned wounds of orchids,
I seek a tint, a gloaming yellow essence,
a sun-flowering at the of day.
waves ripple the knees
of hoary cypress
dark waters encroach
licked by an oily light
spanish moss
weave in and out
of sifting shadows
the flat bottomed boat
carries my thoughts
to a far bank
where alligators bask
and small white birds
piggyback upon knuckled
motionless hides
if i go one way on this stream
the skiff will dock
near an amiable flock of
other river boats
if i go another way
the maw of a listless fear
may open to trap my mind
i will leave behind the world of men
and their dreams
forever
the swamp will devour my name
the cypress trees gather my clothes
keep them chained and dangling
in their hollow hearts
Go to where the air runs thinnest
where snow leopards stalk granite paths
where prayer flags slap cherry-faced spirits
where nature is conceived... unforgiving
go to where the air is thinnest-
Go to where hearts caress the clouds
mountain goats walk the path of dirtbag ghosts
Where oxygen is more cherished than gold
Where visions tumble from red-knuckled clouds
into rucksacks of the wizened who've earned them.
Go to where grandfather blizzard is unforgiving
Go to where the air is thinnest.
Go far away from where you're at now.
Far from the riotous and caliber crowds.
Go to where the visions are clearest.
Where mountaintops go unvisited.
Where rewards are measured in star-dusted breaths.
Where nature dances under blue avalanche.
Go to where the air is thinnest... and live!