Long Pillowed Poems
Long Pillowed Poems. Below are the most popular long Pillowed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pillowed poems by poem length and keyword.
Stretching long, without goodbye
Weary from the summer's play
The rolling hills are losing green
But laughing to a cloud flecked sky
while catching autumn's leaves
~
Autumn days show quiet grace
A fading trace of yesterday...
We watch a sky yield a change of hue
Turning gray from shades of blue
But there is now a harvest moon
Dancing to a different tune
For, winter's coming soon
~
After trees have lost their hue
Let the wind bring seasons new
I'll smile upon the pillowed earth
that brings a sense of peace instead....
A winter spread of snowy mounds
A softer sound upon the ground
as snowflakes waltz around
~
Until the birds return again,
I'll watch the dance of green begin
I'll brush the blossoms off my head
then,... dance because it's spring !
______________________________________________________________
For Gail's Contest: "A Season's Dance"10/1/12
It stands alone four square, white-washed straw-thatched,
small window panes, black frames, and out back chickens hatched,
pecking weedy ground around a single willow.
Set just a little back from single country lane,
high-hedged between the farms with tracks for bumpy tractor rides,
strong arms to try and guide wobble wheels on hardened sun-dry ruts,
to draw trailored dung across winter's dark and muddy fields.
Father's fingers, numb with frost by hand-picked sprouts,
with dawn's dim light not yet bright enough to warm his back.
And hundred weights of summer grain on neck and shoulder,
staggered through barn doors to store, to tip hessian sacks piled high,
sack upon sack.
My mother, crushed and bruised at milking stall,
squeezing squirting teats to fill the milking pale,
to complete them all before mucking out the dung and straw,
then moving on to something more which bends the back
and rubs sodden foot sore in chilled hoof-trodden boot.
This was no Eden's garden which followed war enough to harden
even softer souls.
Yet, it was a paradise for smaller feet to roam free among the fields,
not caring when to make for home and sup on sprouts that dad had picked
and mum had peeled, and soft cooked, with such hard labour,
all overlooked by youth, and by youth's youthful ignorance.
For some, certainly for dad, and for mum,
Eden's garden gave way to thistle and to thorn,
and to sweated furrowed brows serving children's carefree days,
and precious hopes for first and second son.
These rode upon the carts and crossed the dykes in leaky barrels
and threw their stones at tethered bull not caring for the weather,
whether fine, or whether dull, or whether small gloved fingers numbed with chill.
For them that Eden's garden was a Paradise still,
and though choking staining seed was sown, it was not yet grown,
and eyes not yet exposed to serpent's smaller gardens,
composed for ever younger eyes, for the tainting and enslaving of ever younger lives.
That wiley snake now lurks and lies inside dark orchards of delight,
a world explored unseen from pillowed comfort,
and sometimes in the darker night with a different sky blue light,
that Eden web now known world wide, that Eden made with fallen pride,
that Eden oft obscene, that Eden all of lies, that lies behind the pixel screen.
No human heart had he, though his, was full of love;
no human soul, but golden, soulful eyes, aligned
with mine, revealed a fervent tenderness, above
that which a non-human could show- so truly kind.
A gentle one, he stole my heart and soul away.
Each day, inside our home or yard, he'd follow me;
when called, would run from anywhere, without delay,
and jump into my arms or lap so faithfully.
At night, in bed, he'd lay below to warm my feet
and later, move up closer by my pillowed head.
Come morning, he would gently tap my face to greet;
I'd wake to golden eyes as purrs of love were shed.
For twenty years, my Charlie cat assuredly
was family to me, entrenched within my heart;
two-decades-long, we shared our days wholeheartedly.
The ache still lingers since that day death made us part.
I hold those years I spent with Charlie cat so dear;
no other pet has come into my life since then-
for, after years of joy, the pain of death is clear.
I could not bear to feel that emptiness again.
April 8, 2018
~2nd Place
Contest: My Companion and Close Friend That Never Complains
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Judged: 02/18/2020
~1st Place~
Premiere Contest: Non-Romantic Love
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
Judged: 04/11/2018
Form: Iambic Hexameter, 12 Syllables, 6 Feet per line
I write on my pets, most often my cats.
I think I may even have written on rats.
I write on God’s gifts that in nature are found.
I write on things based on sight, smell, and sound.
I write on great landscapes, on seascapes and sky,
especially on sunsets that dazzle the eye.
I write on almost everything that I know of.
I think in particular, I write on love.
I write on romance, some made-up stuff too;
I write on things mostly that I think are true.
I write on emotions, on evil and hate.
I write on TV shows and food that I ate!
I write on opinions I’ve formed through my life,
my joys and my trials (like being a wife).
I write on my feelings and sometimes on grief
and often I write on how life is too brief.
I write on my friendships, my children and kin.
I write on some topics again and again!
In conclusion, on paper I write while in bed
scribbling thoughts coming to my pillowed head.
When she retires,
she'll buy a private tropical island
and build herself a little house with furniture of wicker and bamboo.
Only those who she invites will visit her there.
She'll have five cats who will be free to prowl the island,
safe from traffic or coyotes.
Her days will be filled with the scent of salt and hibiscus,
the sounds of ocean and wind chimes.
At night, the cats will join her on the pillowed chaise
on her patio,
under a spattered sky.
Her fingers will rake lazily through their downy fur,
purrs rumbling as she counts the stars
and names the constellations.
In the morning,
she will eat sweet, fresh mango,
picked from the mango tree outside her kitchen window.
She'll swim in the limpid blue cove, cool and sacred,
and walk along the shore,
her toes kneading powdery sand.
She will find pink, coiled shells to add to her huge glass jar
and write poems in the afternoon—
after a nap
with her cats—
when she retires.
That was the summer...
Of watermelon fields, and hot, humid days
Of suntanned traces, and mosquito-bit faces
When the purpose of knees
Was to be skinned
Of running down a country road
Bare feet on hot asphalt
Criss-crossing across an open field
Helping ourselves
To thick pink crimson chunks
That melted cool on sun-parched tongues
Dribbling from chins
Leaving the best part
The black bullet seeds
To be spit out in rapid fire
Against the wind
Against the dusty ground
Against each other
And when the ammunition was spent
A pillowed head, among the vines
To dream on clouds that whispered by
In the blue afternoon sky
That watermelon summer
___________________________________________________________
For Skat's Contest: Summer
© 2010 (Jim Sularz)
A morning meadow - tall, red-yellow speckled,
now, humbled low by the wind.
Conifer sundials – mirrored shadows, slowly stretching, dancing, and then diminishing - along blurred edges of a lush, flowing sea.
Feathered, high flying eagles soar, circling small and wide, against a blue, white pillowed sky.
… a crow caws.
Nuzzled prairie dogs, with tethered tails, scamper for cover,
for danger spirals, just above.
Harvester ants marching in tiny zigzagged columns,
tunnel an ever deepened colony -
twisting around creviced rocks and roots.
Lightning fast gragonflies – thin tinsel winged airships,
darting, spinning, some kissing.
And white petite wild-flowers,
bobbing from honey bees, stand quivering.
Multi-colored butterflies flutter, undecided,
and brown-helmeted grasshoppers oddly peer -
like praying mantises, eager to leap.
Chirping sparrows, with cocked tails,
sand-bath in a warm, thirsty, summer sun.
And cat-tails, bursting, pierce through a sparsely wooded island.
A distant thunder-clap, and crawling, flat, anvil-headed clouds -
slide down majestic, snow-capped mountaintops,
marking the hour, like clockwork, this time of year.
Dusk comes, bathed in a warm, orange-amber hue,
waxing and waning with a melting sun.
A red fox stirs, finding at twilight’s gate, fresh promising scents, for her young.
And black masked raccoons steal away, through soft, cool moonlit grasses –
in a hushed, clown-like parade . . .
As I dwell in this sanctuary of place and spirit,
beneath an infinite, star-painted canopy.
I know with certainty - of mind, heart and soul,
that when God’s rainbow palette had hardened and dried -
All were - Forever One.
At the font of her own misery she wept silently
beneath a parapet sky of midnight blue
Silver stars enmeshed and softened the water
as she drew closer to the only venue of comfort
she knew, ...
Amongst the conference of moon's effulgence
lay a quiet angel listening
to the in and outs, of a sweet girl's breath
A pear shaped tear fell on her pillowed cheek
not a spark from the heavens could rouse her
not a single whisper from Jala could end
the sorrow that threatened to engulf her being ;
At the brink of disaster a healing hand reached out
softer then the caress of the breeze
gentler then the brush of wings
As she stood beneath the silver stars eyes glistening,
she found the edge line of the water and giving it
once last look, she embraced her fears and jumped..
June 23, 2021
Contest Name: The Shape Of Water
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
When Spring’s soft murmurs broke the stillness of the rolling hills,
He took his guitar outside to welcome days of daffodils.
His music wound throughout the pines in greening melodies,
The gypsy lady heard them and was stirred to fantasies.
Across the daisy meadow, his tunes reached out to her at night,
On his front porch she could see him bathed in yellow cabin light.
He played upon her heartstrings with chords he never planned;
She was his gypsy lady ... he was her music man.
At night, she softy crept into the nearby forest glade,
With moonbeams woven in her hair, she danced the notes he played.
He watched her whirling, twirling form reach out to him in love,
But bound by love to another, he cursed the stars above.
Each night she gathered up his songs in the folds of her gypsy skirt,
Then shook them out as a healing salve for her heart’s deep, aching hurt.
Danced among his guitar songs, wore his music like a shawl,
The image of his smiling face was painful to recall.
When sunny brightness swept across the daisy hills he pined,
While, cat-like, memories of her slipped in and out his mind.
Each night her presence in the glade made him sing a sadder tune,
‘Cause he belonged to another; she belonged to the moon.
She danced throughout his moonlit dreams, he knew his thoughts were wrong,
Though he was bound to another, his heart sang a different song.
She knew she could not have him, his ring showed he was wed,
At night while she lay lonely, he was warm in another’s bed.
Years passed, the gypsy’s youth was gone, but not her love for him,
His fingers stiff, he still played on though her moonlit dance grew dim.
He strummed out songs of passion with a calloused, shaky hand,
She was still his gypsy lady ... he was still her music man.
One April’s eve those piney hills lay bathed in quiet peace,
His guitar sang to her no more, his soul found sweet release.
From the agony of loving her through years of silent pain,
Now daisies pushed up through the sod in a gentle spring-time rain.
With silent gypsy sadness, mourning love’s unkindly loss,
She lay upon his sun-warmed grave, head pillowed by cool moss;
Tears glistened on her grief-worn face, her heart burst from the pain,
In death, she’d be his gypsy lady ... and he’d be her music man.
Book in hand, I find a quiet corner,
pillowed bench in bay window,
inside looking out . . .
or is it outside looking in?
Unread words signal for rescue,
drowning in ink gone liquid
welling up from some salty inner spring,
pressured heart the incessant source.
Weary thoughts wander
outside open windows . . .
soon, feet follow, white and bare,
to chase across dew drenched grasses,
inquisitive masses repressed,
where the moon hangs large and low,
beauty begging to be grasped.
Take me away with you, Luna,
hide me in your dark eclipse
where prying eyes miss
the emptiness surrounding . . .
Urbane wise men say
this will pass,
this aching, animal-burrowing;
I doubt they ever walked this way,
this windowed way,
looking out
or is it looking in?
Copyright, July 1, 2017
Faye Lanham Gibson