Long Linen Poems
Long Linen Poems. Below are the most popular long Linen by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Linen poems by poem length and keyword.
fragrance of yesteryears distilled from heartache and joy
mixture of entropy and cohesion scented in hopeful aroma
sweat from wanderlust of adventure
tears from emotional advancement
blood of hard work’s injuries over time
fears contained and turned into vigour
petals ground into an effusion of love
a medley of rose-tinted lenses and reality’s patched spectacles
a truth serum of honesty kindness and unshakeable compassion
the knowledge that one’s perfume blends with compatible skin
smell of freedom to mind our souls
salve to soothe blisters and calluses
tincture of longing and tangible peace
composure of hard-won harmony at last
array of butterflies collecting honey dew
just like myself you had to endure the stench of past injustice
tribulations trials errors betrayal and displeasure of suffering
have been hurt by flavoured malodour of other’s transgressions
had the dubious benefit of having to turn up your nose to escape
stink fetour and mere existence in order to synthesize essence
balance of reason and heartfelt emotions
waiting for yin yang seeking a perfect fit
a mate best friend mirror spouse and lover
in sack cloth silk linen and satin sheets in a
bodouir graced by passion and pheromones
kisses of sweet pleasure rapture and satisfaction climax together
wet lips follow the path of mountains rivers splash and nurture
fan the flames in which fireside ashes mix with ember and warmth
in candour I have no magic potion until our perfumes merge into one
This was inspired by: Mike Gentile
His poem is entitled : Confessions Of A Youngster, At Heart
Whoever thought one day I'd let my hair go gray and walk with a sway
"They are only laughter lines" I told myself, disregarding a wrinkle in time.
I promised to be one of those ladies who would look suave at sixty five,
but when you see me walk down the isle, I cannot hide that lombar slide.
I will wear dresses of fresh linen with only leather belts that buckle,
and when my shaky hands refuse to still, I'll blame it on my knuckles !
When I looked into the mirror then,... all I saw was a pretty girl,
but now I see two kindly eyes and a memory impearled !
I rise at 6 and retire at 9, I sleep on my side for the one I adore,
lovie says that when I snore, it sounds like a lion's roar !
I am happy with my life,
and although I lose my train of thought sometimes,
I still wake up every morning feeling grateful,
that I am still able to dress, to the nines...
Your castle has a moat
to mark for the unawares
the point of danger,
the change of rule.
My fort has a juice box
Your castle has a drawbridge
to allow in only those
who pass the "Hark! Who goes"
test and cause the chains
to move.
My fort has peak roof
for peeking out
and, on occasion
for peeking in.
But only for the Lucky Few
and only in the Lucky Few
moments when all is well,
for a spell.
Your castle has
both balustrade and colonnade,
meurtrière 'n its parapets
for staving off the storms
and againststanding and
withstanding arméd swarms.
My fort has a
pair a pets:
this fluffster at my calf,
snoring and this stuffster
in crook of arm;
well-worn, with eye
missing but stuffed
animals see with squishy bits
inside, not these button eyes.
Your castle has barbican and portcullis.
My fort has a wittle wiccan. Jealous?
Your castle has both crenellation and machicolation.
My fort has an introvert's narration and ceaseless cogitation.
Your castle has walls of
stone, long-charred by dragon
breath. With dents by dint
of Minotaur and Harpy.
My fort is cotton batting,
linen for winnin'
battles with monsters
greater than your gods.
Rhapsody of rainbow morphs to morose mélange
Bleeding colors bleached from the twilight cloud
Rainstorm daubs as blemish on the broken heart
The shades of grey paint the frayed linen of love.
Requiem of roses resonates in melancholic medley
Petals pine for dripping tear drops of mourning dew
Desiccate in somber sunshine in the deserted mind
Fallen flowers make bouquet for deceased passion.
Cacophony capsuled in the cauldron of mute melody
Chaotic symphony dismantles on the discord waves
Strained smiles sneer the scarred scenario of lone life
Songs turn to convoluted noise echoed by the soul.
The lattice of life seen through the languid cynic lens
Magnifies into crooked contortion of distorted essence.
Dear Folks: I pen this note as we ply the dark and stormy sea.
Thanks to Uncle Sam I'm cruising on the Queen Mary, all for free.
You'd think we'd travel in style on such a luxurious tub,
But I'll tell you about life aboard and what we eat for grub.
As usual, the officers and nurses live in comfortable style,
But things ain't so pleasant for us in the rank and file.
We stand in line for everything, even to use the head.
I've been seasick so many times I wish that I was dead.
The brass dine at tables with linen, china and silverware,
And are served their meals by waiters with eloquent flair.
We stand up for chow, eating from greasy steel trays,
Trying to keep our balance as the boat rolls and sways.
Officers sleep four-to-a-room and have sheets on their bed.
I bunk with a hundred other guys on sagging hammocks instead.
I hear the Lord's name taken in vain frequently around here,
As we stumble over each others' feet and our assorted gear.
The brass dine on such things as ice cream, cake and steak.
I've had all the stew, orange marmalade and figs I can take.
Another bout of mal de mer is attacking me, I gotta go.
That's all for now, till next time, Your loving son, Roscoe.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
.
i watched hern nymph
spy my
whilst
'pon oak
mine
floor
she sat
wit
top hat
kneez up
fundament
locked unto the wood
aaaan'd
up her hip's
limbz
draped in linen
went
tap tap
tap
tap'n
'pon mine
Royal model P
her purty feet's
digits
tap tap'd
tap
tap'd
spryly
side mine
think
a place of blessing
with decrees
distinctive requirements
a requisite to be
holy
a decalogue
a covenant
to possess
the Lords name
with dignity
the Angel of the Lord
present permanent prospective
in perpetuity immovably secure
covered
by the blood
the actual prescence of the word
a meeting place
a tabernacle
the mercy seat
the wonder of atonement
symbols
to illustrate
in blue purple&scarlet
dressed in white
linen
of heavenly origin
of royal lineage
&dignity
linen unstained
of purity&
moral majesty
a message to tell
of character&purpose
glory&beauty
the light
& perfections
in consecrations&
peace offerings
in acts
of identification
a retreat
continuous& perpetual
purposed in
redemption
near the cross
a healing stream
a perpetual incense
before the Lord
a saviour to penetrate
the veil
sweet&holy
the annointing oil
a sabbath sign
Tucked in a keepsake box,
A lace linen napkin
Holds in its gentle fold,
A tiny stick.
I recall the moment
My love for you emerged,
In the silent language of
Two little lines.
~
Through the nursery window,
The white lace curtains swayed
With every little breath
Of gentle breeze.
They danced to mark the moment
I felt you stir inside,
A whisper of your life
With just a kick.
~
Little owls on a blanket
Edged with lace and purple hearts
Brought warmth as I first nursed you,
Newly born.
All shifted in that moment,
You, wrapped within my arms,
My swaddled heart inside
Lace purple hearts.
~
A crafted birthday card,
In perfect little hands,
Adorned with lace heart cutouts,
From you to me.
My girl, just three years old,
Beaming as I read,
“I love my mommy,”
Written in red crayon.
~
My child, you were made
From purest, truest love,
Uniquely woven, delicate,
And rare.
Each day that I am living,
I dedicate to you,
My arms were made to keep you
Close to me.
~
For nothing is so precious,
As you inside my cradle,
You and I, forever
Intertwined.
In every cherished moment,
And in each one to come
You’ll be, forever laced
Inside my heart.
Written: February 08, 2024
________________________________________
Scarlet lips susurrous softly,
amid quiescence of dusk
bequeath beamily beguin beats
within our sumptuous souls.
As grace echoes in crimson,
tears trickle toward titillating face
vital words are shared in embrace,
eliciting a warm scintilla that crams,
my heart to the brim,
our euphoria shall shut out the world
Such are your lovely virtues,
scarlet swing, swirl, and splendor,
mellifluous plea of my heartbeat.
Perhaps this flesh is gossamer,
wrapped around wintry bones,
until I hear the timbre of your voice.
We should meet at dusk,
as the sunshine is waning.
Daffodils light up my mane,
peppery sanguine sepals.
lusting lyrics lost like lines
Join me at dusk,
softly swinging
across stardust lips
of weary soul, singing in embers
drawn down dunes deter
We should meet at dusk,
as our skin melts into night linen,
and we sit beneath the moonlight,
not requiring any words,
floating on seahorses,
amid sapphire blue waves,
and waltzing to sea-angel moans.
We should meet at dusk,
to show me your soft hands,
wrap me in rose petals,
slow-burning summer opening.
We should meet at dusk,
with quartz amethysts
cravings for whispers of the future,
while never departing.
I shall wrap my ribs around yours,
sustained and pianissimo.
kindly apply your fingertips,
and tiptoe down my spine.
We should meet at dusk,
and, well, simply kiss me,
throw me a steamy embrace,
will fade into wildflower shades.
we whisper as silence draws,
shy, pink, fizzy, sizzling apple spirits.
I retain a nightly tally,
hours on given days
amidst the quiet murk of waiting
you embody my soul.
I almost lost faith
soaking in a velvety eclipse,
years flew by lacking your love,
which goes hollow until you smile.
I attempted to forget,
the curves of your body,
and sweat-formed salt puddles,
dewing on the warm golden dome,
those were milestone spots
of mutual delight.
Kisses resemble seaports.
such a visceral map to feel
that plagues my dreams.
Years of seclusion occurred,
erosion-prone, and sallow
a memory-bound state,
that yearns solely for,
your trustworthy love.
The daughter of a professional seamstress, I am a tactile learner,
I have to feel the possible fabric to make a decision.
If it is rough like linen or denim, I am not a fan.
I like flowing soft, pliable easy materials
Unless I am trying to sew them together
Slick and elusive, velvet, satin and silk fabrics are difficult to maneuver.
And you have to make sure all of the cuts are made in the same direction.
Shiny pieces with beading or rhinestones intrigue and interest me,
But I rarely wear them as they are stiff, hot and uncomfortable.
Plaids are a nightmare to piece together; worse than matching wallpaper.
My twin sister buys fat quarters and makes beautiful quilts.
Her luxury hobby is sewing, she spends hundreds of dollars on it.
I run from a sewing machine in every direction.
Homemaking was a chore, I wanted to take woodworking.
In highschool, my mother used to rip out most of my seams at night,
so I had to start over in the morning.
Mom wanted everything made out of fabric to be perfect.
She was a professional, but this discouraged me.
When I need to create I cartoon, paint or write. I do not sew.