Long Plaits Poems
Long Plaits Poems. Below are the most popular long Plaits by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Plaits poems by poem length and keyword.
Inside an archaic framework
she fetches a pail from the fields,
the bucket on her hip is full of
broken eagles.
Wind turbines churn in the distance.
He takes the mangled birds
plucks them,
puts their heads on poles
loads them onto a flatbed.
His dour darling fixes fixings
with a rusting air-fryer;
plaits her hair with chicken wire.
Drones mourn like doves in the evening.
Rattling pods spread
their dry seeds over abandoned crops.
Bald feathers flap on
a black-booted scarecrow.
A morbid factotum arrives
deposits clods of earth
from out the back of
of a fly-specked hearse.
Horse heads turn
on a squeaking wind vane.
Inside a slow burning barn
Unstrung fiddles lay at rest
in their open coffins.
If she had to cross the rubicon for lack of sorting colours
A Rubik’s cube remained an unsolved puzzle
If numbers granted her the wish to live another happy day
Sudoku would refuse transformation from a maze
If chess could move to manifest the pawn’s hopeless plight
She’d marry black and white together
If life dealt yet another set of hands tied to brave surrender
A poker face turned red hot poker in her eye
But when emotions garnished poetry and muses’ feathers
Ink fell into place from selfless fountain quills
Quite possibly she is unbalanced on a spread sheet of lost time
And yet her pen embraces harmony with words
Pythagoras still dangles angles and straight lines in broken sequence
But there is no bloody razor in Archimedes’ bath
She has no rubber duck but sails with Poe’s dark ravens
Unfolds her plaits for darkened Sylvia
When foam caresses treasure island in her tub at night
She sails the seven magic oceans
A dolphin croaks another oracle at Delphi’s flood gates
As she postpones hemlock for another day
When she reaches cataracts of blurry vision in despair
Zero sum games twist algorithms of illusion
She cannot square roots and circles will not divide her prime
However much adding up fracture pulls the plug
Regardless of whether steam or tears moisten her parchment
The misty fog finds metaphors to embrace healing
24th January 2020
Be the bee within the bees bonnet pouring
Not as old man in his slumber snoring
For soon the bees of honey do partake
And late the old man stands his last awake
Come comb your honey hair as sunny fair the day
Come bonny boy and toy not hour away
For in the garden by the gate your destiny awaits
And you may sow the early earth
in straight or crooked plaits
For high yon mighty oak where sun streams lightly
Breaking shade with measured days of gold
Beneath the canopy of stars formed nightly
Your memory’s youthful life exchanged for old
I have walked your many steps , run with wheels a turning
Squandered youth and mis-pent truth; left ashen life a-burning
So be the bee and by the by be captured in the poets eye
And all of this and all of that and all before you die.
Her hair dances like the cascading stream,
murmuring in the silence of dormant dreams.
It’s more than an element of graceful façade,
the curls carry a crown of style adornment.
The onyx hair cataracts elegance untamed,
swirls in the stream of longing squall
on the ivory template of her forehead,
engraves the contours of her charisma.
As the melting clouds drizzle on her,
luster flows on the shining strands of ebony,
rave rapture drenches her with surreal hue,
pristine pearls glide with the rhythm of symphony.
A bun flows with fluid finesse and engrossing charm,
a bob helps handle the workplace hassles with ease,
a pixie cut boldly highlights the facial features,
a braded motif plaits the strands of beauty secrets.
Whether worn long or short, curled or colored,
the hair composition isn’t just a fashion narrative.
It’s a powerful symbol of identity and self-expression,
a reflection of the persona statement of who she is.
Windswept
Over sheet music, harmonious movement of sand.
Droplets of rain dance - time swooning on sea and on land.
Cupid’s arrows climb, descend strings of the violin.
Heartthrobs, side by side, in best dress, on seasonal spin.
Fingers up and down long necks, in obeisance of song,
as bow ties glide along knightly, mounting music, strong.
Ultra concentration as the conductor gyrates,
creates, weights, debates, elongates, plaits and translates.
Unity in mass, jealousy laid aside, except
for the audience who longs to climb inside, windswept.
Ebb and flow of tears, patiently are kept and foreswear
allegiance to current marriage with hasty prayer.
Silver fox-french horns, don’t withhold their breaths, breasts pounding.
With lilt, rapturous, they’d give up their lives, resounding.
White pages, pristine ties, good looking manners of tides.
Hourglass climax expires. Silence shatters. Faith abides.
#1
That's a tall girl,
lean and tan,
pretty as a picture.
#2
This kid's short,
pale but chubby,
and yes, pretty in her hazel eyes.
#3
This girl, with curly hair,
fair, pretty, lean.
Not very tall, not very small.
#4
This shy girl,
with milk coffee skin
and bright black eyes.
#5
This girl, with a moon of a face,
long chinese eyes,
smile lighting her face.
#6
Twin of #5,
looking nothing like her sister,
Darker, slimmer, and hyperactive at times.
#7
this tall girl,
thin hair in two tight plaits,
tries her best to play the clown.
#8
Enter her, small in size,
nerdy looks overpowering:
making her pretty smiles smart.
And except herself, without a reason,
bother about the figure of #8.
Are they jealous of her:
being 15, but too small for her age?
Or are they just bullying?
Either way, it's not their figure...
Camera
Once I found a camera, swept up
on a beach. I picked seaweed off
it like strands of hair, unwashed.
A crab’s claw, no body of note,
clasped the shutter as if protector,
a titan from the deep: the memories
caught within secret. The screen flittered and
buzzed, popped into life and suddenly
I was married - a wife, brown skinned, plaits down to shoulder,
and had children - twins, sobbing eyes clenched against a flash.
I’d painted a nursery - cot, blinds, seahorse mural,
and cooked Christmas lunch – steam frozen above a turkey, crackers caught in a silent bang.
Before the light fizzled and faded, before that life dimmed,
I’d swum with dolphins too,
held a sunset, liquid orange balancing, inside a palm;
even snapped the inside of a backpack, contents blurred.
The screen dissolved. I returned it to the sea,
but not before adding one empty click of me.
All trees travel skyward
All leaves seek to hug sun
All flowers wish to emit scent
I too crave for the crescent
Whether sky or sun or crescent
Of course all don’t deserve
There is the order of high and low
Dews smile at the jagged judgment
Dews, those churned feelings from core
Dews, those burned candles in dark
Dews, those moments of light and dark
Dews, those pains when you closed the door
But dews are little moments trivial
Very loose molecules unstable
It’s beside the point if it smiles or frowns
High trees laugh aloud skyward
You wave your plaits and tweet
Accept the truth bitter or sweet
_______________________________________________________
July 4, 2016
It were you
It's been ages as I wait
moments frozen in my silvery plaits,
Years be counted in my wrinkles
passion shines as hope twinkles,
Autumns returned in the orange hue,
as crispy leaves cherished their due,
Vibrant flowers in mesmerising cover,
Wished it were you back every summer !
I waited as perished every flower,
and sweet fruits all turned sour,
Yellow leaves swiftly bid adieu,
Turned at knocks to find it were you !
Many autumns passed by
to the sweet lovers convoy,
As I reeled in worst of fears
my emotions shuddered in tears,
How long ! How long do I wait ?
With brush of youth, I colour my plait,
and camouflage smiles with wrinkles,
to find if life the soul can sprinkle,
As breeze renders me a soft caress,
Tranquil in time our breaths coalesce,
raindrops to tune of our hearts will rhyme,
Sure it must be you teaching mime !
Inspired by song by Suzanne- It could have been you
Album #2
Written Sept 17th, 2015
For contest by James Fraser
Awarded N/A
Now entered for "Screwed VII" contest by rob carmack
Awarded 2nd place win
Now entered for contest "Romantic poem- old/ new"
Sponsor- Skat A
Awarded 8th place win
I’m just having a good laugh while I still can dude before life takes its heavy grip
Until the community of clowns in disguise tie my tongue to their altar of reason
You think of a genius in the making but I just blew bubbles from my backside
Need some counter balance as not to think I’m off parity before the next photo
For the record I’m a bit sick of all those Rolling Stones songs on your play list
I can get satisfaction and you will be dancing to my tune as long as I tell you
Not yet silenced I am and you can’t always get what you want but will receive
What you need and moss could grow fat on that stone if you tried hard enough
I am your American dream or just pie in the sky for pi is a resolute number
And while I look like a young Einstein I favour the arts and a poet I’ll be
‘Baby’s got blue eyes holding back the pain’ reflecting the glow on your face
Give me face paint and Munch’s scream will look like Monet’s water colours
And those cute little ears I hear you marvel such fine complete composition
Soon they will find an audition of rebellion ignoring trite shallow advice
Craft verses and rhythm deliver fine words you never dreamt of hearing
The comedy will be shattering with a bit of existential philosophy in the mix
You can project dadada’s and incy-wincy spiders as long as the cows mew
I drink from a fountain of pleasure and spill ink on your canvas of conditioning
Think that I am overanalysing but that is what you do when I smirk and giggle
Canned laughter comes in Campbell’s soup cans and better Warhol than wars
Innocent facial composure lies in the eye of beholders and dreams are for real
Let me play for that is the best I can do when drama and tragedy loom so soon
I’ll have my dreadlocks in plaits and you must not be scared of Sylvia’s mother
Van Gogh had one ear but a writer needs only one incisive tongue to critique
My stream will be subconscious when I write about the meaning of imagination
When naïve contortions depict a world with smiles laughter and freedom
I will not change much from when the photographer took this digital image
Blue eyes stuck out tongue two ears one voice whatever you make of it now
25th April 2019
Written for contest: Baby Face What's You Thinkin
Sponsored by James Edward Lee Sr
Photo 2