Long Pins Poems
Long Pins Poems. Below are the most popular long Pins by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pins poems by poem length and keyword.
BLACK MONA LISA
Art renaissance, a masterpiece did appear,
A captivating portrait, both bold and sincere.
Splintering ebony grace, a figure so rare,
The Black Mona Lisa, with brown eyes and flair.
Her visage, a canvas of shadows silent night,
A drapery of contrast, a mesmerizing sight.
Her ebony skin, like a moonlit night's kiss,
Radiates elegance, impossible to dismiss.
Her brown eyes are windows to her soul,
They hold mysteries, stories we'd love to know.¹°
With depth and warmth, they capture the gaze,
Inviting the stare of all who occupy her space,
They look upon her and are undoubtedly amazed.
Some criticise this rarity yet she remains unfazed.
In a world where beauty adheres to a mold,
The Black Mona Lisa breaks free from the old.
This isn't the archaic Mona Lisa you all knew.
It's a rare painting, an artwork that pins your view.
For within her lies a narrative profound,
Such as resilience, triumphs, adventures unbound.²°
With each stroke of the brush, colours disperse.
Her existence, a testament to beauty diverse,
A celebration of uniqueness, a universe to traverse.
With her dark beauty & brown eyes that gleams,
She reminds us that art is more than it seems.²5
VICK MANUEL POETRY {VMP}
FORM: Rhymes
Copyright ©? December 2023.
Clock work spiders are climbing up my wall ‘sticking in their nasty pins so none of them will fall,
As one of them lifts her leg and begins to spin her steel ,
another scurries closer and strums it with its heel .
wide eyed and terror struck i remembered going to bed ,
then the clever thought occurs to me
‘just test it and bang your head .
Nope I’m none the wiser ‘now definitely wide awake the mechanical spiders play too me as none of this is fake .
Dozens of them are present now ‘all shine with a metallic grace
‘ but why my room I ask myself
‘why now and why in this place ?
Segmented shining carapace’s ‘move slowly in the gloom ‘
their steel strung out of different lengths
‘lends melodics to the tune .
Tiny keys are turning that adds motion to their gears
‘the thought of what the hell’s going on ‘l
‘nearly bringing me too tears .
Should I Trust theses clockwork spiders ‘
when will their playing End ?
‘who sent them too late night serenade me
‘was it enemy or a trusted friend?
This picking arachnid blue grass
‘ was really something to see
‘terror was starting to subside ,
I was tapping gleefully.
Please don’t climb down from the wall’s
‘keep playing this wicked tune
‘if could just reach my trusted harmonica
‘I’ll join you really soon.
So there I was sat up in bed
‘the spiders kept their beat ‘
it was now time for my solo ‘ I’d better make this sweet.
scratching approval from these arachnid bots
‘was what my piece had gained
’this was becoming awesome ,this could lead to fame.
Then one by one they began to fall,
‘softly on on my bed
‘ the lack inertia for their key winding
’had ended the music dead .
No ‘I called out in grief there’s a lot more we can play ,
‘please reinstate your innerspring’s and carry on that old country way .
But the lifeless eight legged metals ‘lay still and didn’t move ‘
the time had come ‘we’d had our fun ‘
that was the conclusion of our groove .
Where had these spiders come from and how did they know too play
‘I’ll never forget their music ‘
I’ll never forget this day .
is the tendency of the reddish sunshine
to become drenched some more
let us hear
what the milky-way seamed by pins
says
and it’s you
how much can you be able to read
the venation of the Barringtonia acutangula
can you touch the season of making apples
in the aquarium
the empty bottles without any co-ordinate
that shoulder with endless grief
the hands of the wall-clocks
in a sudden depression
they’re also making crowd
at the beauty parlour
you have promised someday
to present a flower-vase to display some drops of blood
in the circled face
do you remember it
you haven’t floated that turnip
till now
here the month of trumpet-flower
covers everything
with reedy grass
with the festival of colours of the white horses
the new leaves of bananas become associated
the total dipavali rows
along the evening-balcony
taking it as daylight
will any bird fly towards it
then send a walkman
for the bamboo plants
you must go today
in search of the source
of the hand-woven lamp-post
from the pitcher-worship to the kantha-stitch
it is a very large
twelve-horned deer
the mango-marrow
demands more land
demands more kingfisher
the breath of the Ravenala
touches the chicks of the black-pepper
in every evening
the flood that tears the button
touches the bowstring
that passes through the centre of magnolia
11/28/16
Thrive survive and live
It is what it is
A day of nothing or success using sieves
Carbonation in the soda pop making it fizz
Distinguished areas for hers and his
Individuals involved or infatuated with the showbiz
Don't get in a tizz
Some just take and or give
The planet spins
Life with cartilage and fins swims
Strikes, splits and gutterballs in lanes with bowling pins
Rooms for rent available at inns
Breath mints in tins
Boys and girls occasionally born as twins
Music made with all instruments even violins
Sports and games played with javelins
At church they'll sing hymns
Sometimes you'll need a membership to certain gyms
Whole milk, soy and skim
Going out on a limb
And off a whim
You either lose draw or win
Even if it's only by a smidge
Another opportunity and day begins
Going from light to dim
Above and below the ridge
On either side of the bridge
Help out your kin
Especially when times are grim
Low to high bids
Placed on items
Waters fished for nearly everything, including squid
Due to road conditions, speed and a loss of control, the car slid
Around the corner and the tires started to skid
Recently or way back when
People have disappeared off the grid
No idea all that you or I have did
And the same could be said for where we've been
By: Dalton Ogletree
Poem submitted to "Those We Love Poetry Contest," Mystic Rose, sponsor
ECHOES
I open the sewing basket, letting my eyes and hands run over the tools she had used—the scissors, the darning egg, the pinking shears, the pins, the tattered, tomato-shaped pincushion, and spools of thread. I gaze at the metal spool-shaped bobbins remembering how, as a small child, I flushed them down the toilet creating quite a ruckus. I finger her antique thimbles recalling her numb fingers and hands. Despite her diminishing eyesight, she quilts until her last day, painstakingly feeling the fabric, cutting the shapes, and hand stitching the pieces together silently suffering from the pricks and misery her needle sometimes inflicted. When tiny drops of cerise colored blood dripped from her fingers nary a tear emerges from her eyes.
I close the basket and walk through her sewing room, white silence enveloping it. The faceless dress form patiently waits for her return, an unfinished garment draped over its shoulders. The sewing machine sits idle, its motor no longer whirring and the needle no longer punching through the fabric with its steady, rhythmic chuka, chuka, chuka sound.
echoes pierce silence
sound of mother’s spirit
I know in my heart
*I published this poem in Poetry Soup in June 2025, then deleted it. This is my original poem, and I'm reposting because this poem is a special one for me.
CHILDREN OF LAHORE
(Easter Sunday 2016)
Arms flailing
From
Her
Blue burka,
The woman
Jumps
Like a checkerboard
Piece
Up and over
The white squares
Of bedsheet
To bedsheet
To bedsheet
Each
Draped
Over a
Red blossom
Bump
Lumped
And soaked on
The gravel dust
Fairground
Floor.
Like a game of peekaboo
Between mother and baby,
The woman
Lifts
A corner of sheet
Howls
Then pins it back
With her fingernails
And just as quickly
Jumps
To the next
Small
Square
Hump-covered
Sheet
Lifts
Repeating
The move
Three hundred
More
Times.
“Ibrahim!
Ibrahim?”
A police officer puts her in handcuffs.
No, her husband
Is tackling her.
Actually,
She is a fly swatter
Crazed, swinging at new yellow ghosts.
She
Tears
Her hair
Out
From the back of her head
Like overgrown grass
Grabbed
From a mud puddle
In clumps
Clamped
In her garlic-laced fists,
Even the dirt is surprised,
Hanging
By its bloody roots,
Dripping
In the air.
That is what a bomb, does.
She was a mother
An hour before,
Before she lost her shoes,
While she sat to the side, chatting
With friends
On a bench
As the Merry-Go-Rounds
Went round and round
And round
In the safe distance
And the painted horses
Panted
In the yellow dust.
The children stood in line,
Waiting their turn,
Sharing candies
From pockets and purses,
Checking time
From their phones.
The mother’s shoes
Were spooked
Away
Like fish behind a glass
At the moment
Of the hot flash and swish.
That man,
Yes
He knocked on the glass,
He knocked on the glass,
He pressed his narrow face
As he peered in,
Yes,
He knocked on that glass
Just before
He pulled the cord
Wrapped
Round his waist.
Oh, beautiful God
How could you allow this?
How could
Even the Devil
Do it?
Only a man.
Only a man
Of unfaith,
Of course,
Could smother the sunlight, like that,
Blowing to smithereens
A playground full of children.
I couldn't wait to get to my grandparents
During the holidays when I was young.
Their arms always outspread with affection,
Their warm love for us was quite apparent.
Waking in the morn with smell of baked bread.
Wouldn't take much for grandpa and me to pause
Whatever we were doing when ready.
Slice of bread and butter, our stomachs fed.
Gran would let me help wash clothes in a spent
Wringer washer, then hung on a clothesline
With two-pronged wooden pins in the backyard
To dry in the sun giving them fresh air scent.
I am older with my own family.
I try to keep those warm memorable
Traditions. A bread machine, a dandy
Invention; all ending so happily.
One of the few things I lend and provide
myself if ambitions; on sunny days,
I will hang my clothes out on the clothesline.
Memories of childhood I hold with pride.
12/7/2020
Story From Your Childhood Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: L MILTON HANKINS
Christmas is here
The family is gathering at Darrell & Lola's
Bowling alley this year
For a few good laughs
And lots of good beer
Potluck don't have to cook
Our host this year
First time for everything
It will be like a big premiere
Open taps
Little ones doing laps
Lights flashing
Teenagers dashing
Pins smashing
Music blasting
White elephant laughing
One big Christmas celebration
With family dedication
Grandma's feeling the holiday sensation
All of us living the positive vibrations
Wish we all could have been there this year
Open door the bowling alley being a grand host
And so much more
Something for the whole family
So well done
I believe I can speak for everyone
This holiday event was so much fun
It's hard to believe Christmas at grandma's
Being outdone
I believe that we all have won
Christmas with the family this year
Was so much more than good cheer
We should make it a holiday tradition
Darrell & Lola have truly spun
This memorable day for everyone
A few of us feel like we are going to peel
Nothing like sharing a good holiday meal
How getting together with family
Really makes your soul feel
Together with loved ones priceless
And the memories are so real
A family that plays together
Stays together
See you all next Christmas
Put it on your calendar
To be here next year
For more family fun
And holiday good cheer
MERRY CHRISMAS
&
HAPPY NEW YEAR
In shoes with their laces untied, a picture frame with image faded,
in a hotel room whose guest is dust, a drawer, empty, but for rusted pins.
In the letter that you never reply to, the bin not emptied,
in a phoneline disconnected, a priest flockless - no sermon to utter.
You got up from the dinner table and told me to wash the dishes.
I put them in the sink but left them, neglected, and the memory
of you hardened, crusted. I told myself I’d scrub them when you
came back. Flakes float in greasy water like leaves aimless
in a puddle, the suds lamely lapping at burnt leftovers - a
tired ocean current feigning interest in destroying castles.
In a kettle without water boiled, a car seat with no belt,
an artist’s palette blank, a notebook with no impressions of thought.
The deaf person’s signing without hands, in the umbrella without ribs,
in calendars void of days, a clock with hands counting backwards,
trapped in the amber of time. A mosquito caught in a tree’s sap.
I notice him as he went through the
song list. He wanted someone to
perform "One Woman Man". Now
knowing what we do about this type of
music we knew it would be a troublesome bunch.
Getting it right and real. Most of these people
would rather hear' Whore Pour Rannuna"
sounds strange but Sweekey Loves Meaty
and Meaty don't jive like that.
You are
I speak such about you
on Your Behalf
And Jealous Lover
are some favorites
they are quite costly meaning
it takes an orchratra to perform
only two of these sound right with a band.
Every thing we do has insisipation
and
Needing it in the Night
can have band performances
with some badass background singers
"Je veux chanter celle-ci.
and the controvesa
'"Dos Juxes is sloppy"
a pettion went out
for a group of magizine to
claim
and recognize the reigns of
g. Valintine def. B Backland
Ted Dibaisise defeats Andre the Giant
via Andre pins hoag and passes the belt