Long Matrons Poems
Long Matrons Poems. Below are the most popular long Matrons by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Matrons poems by poem length and keyword.
Kindheartedness to me
Comes in many forms
Being fostered and cared for
As my young life storms
Born to a mother
Who decided to leave
But this seven year old
Never wanted to grieve
For his words became true
As he grew through the years
The matrons in children's homes
Replaced his tears
As he grew to his teens
With his friends he did stay
For their mother became his
So many mothers to this day
As i look back
To the women in my life
They all became my mother
And saved my life from strife
Kindheartedness to me
Came in many, many forms
So many unlike my mother
Seen me through the storms
The spring anthem doth now sound
Helpless eggs lie all around
Encased larva still tightly bound
Brooding mothers redound
Ingenious caretakers cover nest and mound
Ravenous predators scour tree and ground
Doting Queens have nests tightly wound
Succoring honey begins to compound
Aging pupa entombed all around
Nubile creatures more nutrition impound
Docile minions escape their waxy mound
Tracking nectar wherever flowers abound
Hovering matrons incubate above ground
Enervating heat the eggs must surround
Brimming yoke with new features expound
Emerging embryo can now be found
Emboldened chick with beak doth pound
Suddenly from cracked shell does new life resound.
Form:
What i love
further in this life,
It's woman...
woman of any
creed, race and color...:
female,
femme.
female...
long hair
firm ideas.
woman is formidable
pure mother,
sweet girl,
beast, feline that
attacks and defends,
as the panther in the vision
male...
Always present
always companion.
is occasionally fragile,
other times
she is adrenaline...
night female
fiesta girl... fatal
or simple
homemade...
Several types exist,
quiet homes,
bossy matrons,
family matriarchs,
mounted amazons
everything is wonderful...
other different types
are models that appear,
are pin up hanging,
women displayed...
Arrogant socialites,
dazzled
nouveau riche, and others
fighters...Joana Dàrc
of life...
the poor women,
the excluded poor,
no vote, no dowry
no right...
Awkwardly or not awkwardly
there is no other way...
want it or not
angry, not angry,
no dispute and no fight,
the woman is all nice
is the best in this life...!
happiness
i have spent this life
with mermaids and maidens
the most beautiful of women
who made words like sweet perfume
flying above me are valkryes and fairies
long looking for my soul
and how they could bless me
lovers and mistresses made of the earth
built in human weaknesses from birth
they answer my calls with words
of worth, pecancy and flirts
also in my kingdom are queens
and princesses
perched on high mountains
and lifted heavenly
men with pen's exalt their beauty
because it is their solemn duty
to worship each other in this way
some search for saddness
and saddness they deliver
some search for gladness and
it too is in the quiver
some are sinners
some are saints
some from out of musty
books they paint
emotions or some worthy cause
matrons and the mothers
who could only live
by the graces
only a mother could give
i've laughed with these women
and cried on their shoulders
enough time has passed that
they've made me grow older
daughters and sisters my next of kin
i shared with you my secrets
my poetry with in
and sang my songs
of juvenilia
and angels that brought
lucidity and luciferous
to dark caverns of
inhumanity
gratis for the guilty
words describing filthy
from those who
writhe in pain
cowgirls and tomboys
you know who you are
with words of encouragement
you made me a star
and to add to the list
one vixen and one witch
one who's been deleted
and the other
i don't know which
but they all make out the
women i love on the soup
they turned out to be
a tight little group
i think i've added all to my list
especially a woman
who's name rhymes with bliss
so here's to you all
i give you this
a great big hug
and great big kiss
The esteemed guests streamed into the candle lit
Foyer and dissolved into a sea of idle courtly ritual,
Landowners, majors, magistrates, slender maidens
And fair matrons all slithered into the modestly gilded hall so
Discreetly adorned by understated gluttony. Their lofty manners,
Their shield ; their feigned courtesy, disguise for icy hearts.
Only a thin veneer of silky decorum coats their acrid tongues,
For them, honest men are but emotional beasts to be
Snared and skinned by slander most gleeful and vicious,
Leaving in their wake their perverse masterpieces—
Hollow shells that would make a taxidermist proud.
Petaled confetti is set adrift upon powdered faces and intricate wigs lost in Laughter, Chatter, and the Clatter of soles ; and as Measured gaits of the Minuet Mingled ‘Mongst The Music and Morphed into the Milieu, well bred ladies politely pricked with veiled Slights of envy, and the men indulged their ornery humor, turning giddy at the sight of Misery, their openly secret delight.
Meandering through the dense meadow of decadent masters are the servants who carry Silver platters of pheasants and plum wine. Their obedient stony facades hide hearts That lust after larceny. Birds of the same feather, separated only by station.
Alas! Heaven cries as it looks down to judge…….King Yama lets out a sigh and asks:
In this hall of monsters, who is modest still?
In this world of wickedness, who is upright still?
In this land of lies…..who is honest still?
Poem released into Public Domain
Original published on my blog: purelandsutras.wordpress.com
Eroding names on long-faced headstones,
a small graveyard marooned on a patch of past;
long rooted and confined while beside it
2022 blares unseeing past the forgotten lot.
An old-fangled America right there
forgotten crypts
tucked between gas station and strip mall,
a small deposit of once horse-drawn bones
amid a modern thoroughfare.
A haze of traffic emissions half-hides the secreted,
the tucked away,
yet, there are whispers on mossy mounds,
mouthless echoes of forked-over farmers,
matrons of dispersed parishes,
tanners wrapped in musty mule skins.
An olden daze leans toward us,
tilts into the present, slides sideways into
a ‘Wendy's’ car-park.
Voices sweat into the skin of a biker filling his tank;
beneath his dew rag they wetly whisper.
He shudders in the warm sunlight,
thinks about a lime phosphate soda
long defunct.
A cloudy memory follows a teenager
toward a newly opened store,
but the new won’t thrive long.
Nothing around here survives
longer than the bygones.
They are the last ones by the peaceful shore
under the gloomy twilight darkening tones;
one holds a seashell in her cupped hand,
a delight for two Mayflower matrons.
Her fingers brush off all grains of sand;
such a revelation astounds even more.
Perhaps in Plymouth they never saw
a similar one, being far from any beach;
the curiosity they display is very raw,
nothing ahead of them is out of reach.
Taking a stroll before sunset is utter joy
while their soul search for inner serenity,
but besides stilness there is another reason,
to admire the awesome works of creation.
They will take this gorgeous seashell home,
put it on a window sill next to an Amish stone
whiter than a grand cathedral's round dome;
no match for the ocean's waves rolling ashore.
It was one of those splendid mellow golden days
in early autumn when many trees, though still green,
begin to betray a trace of red or yellow.
In the afternoon I took little Eleanor to the park
just round the corner from where we live.
I came across a man whose hair, greying slightly,
was swept back to hide a bald patch. His cheeks
were hollow and he wore bifocals:
"Der Hund tut nicht beissen!"--he reassured me
when Eleanor ran up to one of his hounds.
Only little children and dogs were worth knowing,
he said, the rest he didn't give a hang for.
Eleanor was accosting all-comers--frosty matrons,
flint-faced marchers who had calculated that
the most direct path between A and B led through the park.
Then she joined in a knock-about game of football
till a young Turkish lad, shrewd in psychology,
gave her a spare ball to play with all on her own.
Her euphoria was ended when, carrying her trophy off
she tumbled down a six-inch hole. By the time
she'd recovered, the ball, ineluctably, was somewhere else.
Unabashed, she toddled to the playground, where
she found some children digging away in a sandpit.
She brought out the mother in a girl of eleven
and bathed in the glow of much adulation,
too young to know divisions of language and custom,
to be aware that the minutes were fast ticking away.
Then I looked at my watch: Well past six, almost dark.
Despite my entreaties, Eleanor remained unpersuaded
that it was really time for us to go.
With what vehemence she kicked and screamed,
how transfixing her glares when I got the pushchair
and strapped her down. She made me feel
what a pig I was all the way home.
NB. Der Hund tut nicht beissen - The dog does not bite
A sea of tents, stood side by side,
raised at the Dragon’s Gate.
And bonfires roared, red firefly light,
as round them Giants ate.
Maids and Matrons decked in gilt,
chemise ‘bout bosoms and knees;
came to and fro with cup and bowl,
to serve the giants’ feast.
The warriors held the stanchions straight,
while beauties tasted treats.
The bards sang sad, songs, with a sigh,
and faint hearts felt defeat.
Goblets gave surcease from pain,
as darkness did retreat;
for fair maids with undone hair,
charged valiantly to the breach.
And as the sun rose in the East,
each dragon banked their fire,
then one and all proud and tall
Havens Clan retired.
If your'e going to preach it brother.? Hit-em with the Gospel
For its like no other; Spell' Speak of mercy..And the flames of hell' and ring out the message like a ten ton bell.' Tell the truth
'The world is round' like Isaiah shouted.' He really went to
Town.' Also the village for that to matters.' No doubt giving
The matrons a feast of natters.' Yes tell of the King! With a
Sceptre of iron.' Ruler of Nations the one so much better,' by
Leaps and leauges.' Yet a donkey His steed! the pharisees bane.' He allowed them to keep their greeds.' Yes preach of
Life and tbe riches of God.' To all those destined to go under
The sod.' Some clerics may repent.?To turn away? from the
Gasp-ell of death they gasp out today.' Nothing is new as
Solomon put.' Just whitewashed tombs on top thats it.' The
Bones of this matter.' Wont be raised at all.' Who have gasp-ed
Out the message of slavery and thrall.' Its hotter than this
Poem.'The place they must go.' If you don't want to join them 'just let Jesus know.'