Long Pillow Poems
Long Pillow Poems. Below are the most popular long Pillow by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pillow poems by poem length and keyword.
BLOTTED OUT
He loved,but could not say
such words,he could not find;
He loved,but could not touch
such warmth,was just too much;
He was proud,but could not praise
such sounds he could not raise;
He supported,but not with words
such feelings,witheld unheard;
Sentiment,tight reined close within
banished, unvoiced by him,
embittered by his own hurt,
a scarred child 'neath his hairshirt.
In that distant past,crippled emotions lay
imprisoned,unsaid,'til his dying day.
BUCKINGAM LACE
Sussanah
great grandma
times three
a pillow puffed
up on her knee
with daughter
in cobbled Cowfair
daily shaped
their
homespun ware
Within such humble
women dwelt
a rare
& dextrous art
fashioned out
stitch by
stitch
pillowed patterns so rich
tinkling bobbins
bewildering skill
inch by inch grew
the intricate
frill
Twisting threads
in pairs & groups
knitted
together
as interlocking loops
a town craft
then
of world renown
plain or old point
hand made lace
lost foever
with no longer
a trace
COWFAIR TO ANCHORAGE
We left our abode in old Cowfair,haggled
a price for an old shire mare.Onto the
landlord's canal boat,lock stock and barrel
for a life afloat.Farewell to our Buckingham
birthplace ,a meagre living from old point
lace.Dawdled up to Cosgrove, meals around
a blackened stove.This moveable house
painted castle and rose, a life we would not
have chose.Eighteen fifties harsh and mean,
cargo of coal, nothing stayed clean.Doff your
cap,touch your forelock at the gatekeeper's lock.
Food scarce except for or fish,perch , roach a
staple dish.Clothes drying on a line,home for a time
whilst the toddlers were young.As numbers increased
and grew ,places to sleep, all too few.Family life
became impossibly hard ,so back again to a
tied cottage in Aylesbury's Anchorage yard.
Listen to me read these poems at youtube under the name ichthys
"The softness of the summer day like an ermine paw."- Anais Nin
Soft is a tissue or a cotton ball.
Soft was my old teddy bear I recall.
Soft are some foods like oatmeal and rice.
But soft crème brûlée could be twice as nice.
Soft is the butter spread on soft bread,
and soft is the pillow where I lay my head.
Soft are those fabrics so nice on my skin
like the blue velvet gown I like to dress in.
Soft is chinchilla, chenille, and mink.
Soft are the wool clothes I hope not to shrink.
Soft is my favorite pair of silk panties
and soft are those pink and blue cotton candies.
Soft are the lotions smoothed onto my face
and blankets which on winter nights I embrace.
Soft on my tongue are flakes of new snow,
and soft are spring's breezes that most gently blow.
Soft are the petals of flowers so pretty.
Soft is the fur of my precious small kitty.
Soft is a baby's cute pudgy cheeks,
and soft are the words that a kind person speaks.
Soft are the feathers of a white dove.
Soft is the smile of the one that I love.
Soft is his hair and his dark eyes so sweet
and soft are his kisses whenever we meet.
Written by Gail DeBole on January 26, 2013
Portrait One
You thought that they were crazy.
Watching the news each night.
Your explanation was simple.
Crazy. The killers, the liars, the cheaters…
And I snuggled next to you.
Thinking how overly-simplified your conclusion was.
Your shoulder making an excellent pillow.
Your apron always on.
And after the news was over
You were back in the kitchen taking care of…
Everything and everybody.
Portrait Two
In the video…old video…it’s now a memory.
You and your sister
Talking and laughing.
No sound video.
Can’t tell what you are saying.
Can only see the love between
You and your sister.
That will have to be enough.
That’s all that matters.
Note: Part of the Portrait Collection
Darkness has overcome me, back alleys alongside the stray cat, no needs to be seen no longer, everyone’s gone home… only the sounds of sirens chasing the empty city streets…
Strangers wrapped up in their only warmth of a tattered blanket, cardboard box is their hotel. No family around to seek my feelings, welcome mat has been pulled..
Life’s showing its ugly face, broken beer bottles, fu garbage cans becomes my fast food, no stranger am I to thus depressing mood.
My only companion is my shadow looming in the evening moonlight, our nightlight soothing our sorrows of a once loving family, laughter, hugs, a warm roof over our head, loving mom who tended to my every need, now up in heaven..
Time for bed, as I wrap up right in my one dirty stingy blanket, a jacket as a pillow to lay my burdened head down, my darkened shadow too is laying down, good night world, my soul I give to you, if I shall die before I wake I give it to God…. Good night
He awoke, though he could not tell
if it was the middle of a long night
or the middle of his life.
The years before were sodden with autumnal leaves
and so he remembered much.
The mechanics had laid down their tools.
Social engineers played harmonic slogans
to the tone deaf.
A burdensome truth has been put down,
and few dared to pick it up again.
Then there are the girls; they have waited so long
for his kisses, and he now so aware and
no longer sleep-walking cannot undress them
with those velvet infatuations
he had saved just for this moment.
He recalls meadow larks and strong apple cider,
walks paused in the glow of painted lips.
Dark movie theaters, hands on white thighs.
Mountains and the ways around them,
the freedom of real choices.
A muffled pillow speaks to him
of what was once and what could have been.
Again he feels in the middle of both
watching time and circumstance
pull themselves apart.
He thought: How old do you have to be
to be in the middle?
Even now when the evening is closing
virgins easily birth new mornings,
he feels the wetness of their
coming and going.
He was a rough lad,
and he did what roughness can do,
now the melting has left him gentle
and in love with ghosts.
He must move without moving
drift soundless to where a world is suspended
in a timeless amber, an irreducible middle.
The new world order is off-kilter
bare-faced and inclined to decline,
its jellyfish arms glom onto
the frail and unwitting.
He will not leap forward with it,
he will abide now
where the past and future dream his dreams,
stay there at that halcyon center
where the air in his lungs is still sweet.
Advertised as an Estate Sale
Which I took to mean
Not just yard sale discards.
Here are some
Of the things you could obtain:
Aluminum baking pans
Plastic punch bowl
Four segments of track from a train set
Discolored tea-towels with embroidered edges
Christmas themed throw pillow
Velvet painting of sailing ships
Flimsy dollar-store wall mirror
Cheaply framed picture of Jesus
A used tire with "free" sign taped to it
Tupperware, a bit stained
Tiny shelf for back of toilet
Chipped bowls and plates
Mismatched spoons
Wobbly lawn chair
Book club mystery with coffee cup circle
Bread basket, slightly crushed
Half a box of staples
Cookie tin, rusty inside
Fragile teacup with handle glued back on
Melamine resin plates
VHS tapes in sun-faded boxes.
The leavings of a life
Can certainly be sad.
Everything was pink for Zee when she was a child
Hot pink, light pink, medium pink, nothing blah or mild
Pink bed, pink pillow, pink closet, pink clothes, pink doll
If it was not pink, Zee simply did not want it at all
Imagine our shock when she joined the military at eighteen
Our princess was now a soldier, which was quite unforeseen.
She trained to be all black and white, there was no pink or gray.
We watched her boot camp video, laughing our guts away.
Zee got a corporate job, and rose straight to the top.
Her career was the best, it seemed her success would never stop.
What about pink? We wondered. Where is the pink now?
In her corporate washroom we found a pink toilet, it was a wow.
Not only pink, but shaped like an enormous kitty too.
You cannot leave yet we’d say; you have to use the loo.
Our daughter would roll her eyes, thinking we were crazy.
But we all wanted to see the toilet, designed by our Zee.
From the moment they gave him the measuring tape
That's the second Monty started to measure away
Measuring this and measuring that
From the round side of rings to the square side of flat
He measured the span on the wings of a fly
The knees of the bees as they buzzed him by
He measured the toot from the sound of a flute
And the beat of a drum, Monty measured that too
He measured the space between space and time
So there were no mistakes he measured it in the light
Pulled the tail of a lion to measure its roar
The teeth on a shark but only up to row four
Monty measured the clowns from the circus in town
With a wink and a nod, the upside of down
He measured the dinner his mom sat on his plate
Then for dessert, he measured the cake
The last thing Monty did before he went to bed
Was to measure the pillow where he laid his head
And in no time at all, Monty was fast asleep
Where in between snores he measured his dreams
The lip of childhood was bloodied.
When the CSX ran over my puppy.
For years I fired rocks at the metal devil.
Trains were supposed to be a boy's second-best friend.
Not a killer of soft things that wag their tails.
Lick your face when you come in from hell.
Sweet things that never have an off mood.
Or care that you're a slow learner.
Tossed to the backwaters of grade school.
Childhood was cut in half by CSX railroad.
Why couldn't the train have swerved and struck
that pervert 5th grade teacher instead.
Then again, trains don't swerve or lick your face.
They just plow straight into the pillow of childhood.
Then blast the devil's conch in manic celebration.
I’ll make myself the fabric of your dream
I’ll lead you to drink from fantasy’s stream
When you are hopeless, in desperate need
I’ll fill your mouth with sweetness and cream
I’ll mold myself to desire at night
My body is yours to bring you delight
When you’ve had your fill and you long to sleep
I’ll be your pillow till the morning light
I know your every hidden desire
I’ll ignite them into consuming f're
When your body demands my surrender
I’ll yield, for in pleasing, I never t’re
I am your destiny, your longed for prize
I pitch my tent in the warmth of your eyes
When you need to touch something that’s divine
I disrobe…down falls this human disguise
I’ll be the fruition of every whim
I’ll rival the moon when your life grows dim
When you are blazing in passion’s fire
I’ll be the ocean which lures you to swim
I'll make my fingers drip with honey sweet
I’ll offer my body, a luscious treat
I promise you’ll never beg me for more
I’m the fantasy that makes you complete
June 29, 2013
For Shadow's Fantasy Contest