Long Polishes Poems
Long Polishes Poems. Below are the most popular long Polishes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Polishes poems by poem length and keyword.
OTHER WORDS FOR LOVE
Like snow, there are other words for love,
That swirl and fall upon us.
One of them is daughter.
Another is father,
For when his beard is salt and pepper
And his voice the sound of cracking frost.
So what can I say that is newly fallen?
Not that I feel, but that I am, with you?
You are my teacher.
You show me where my care lies huddled,
Hiding from the cold.
Without doubt or trepidation,
I am never more certain of this Being we are Becoming,
Than when I remind you to tie your shoe,
Or wipe the chocolate from your face.
(Watch, keys and phone.)
My rag polishes your mirror and
Reflected in your shining face,
Are all the moments that are yet to come:
Birth, death and the swirl of illusion inbetween.
With all the certainty I will ever need that this world,
This world is a good world.
This life is a good life
Simply and precisely, because you are in it.
Glorious are the blue-tipped ridges of snow drifts,
a see-though sun is a crystal teardrop in my eye.
Sunlight sparkles through a clear mirror sky,
glorious is the bright and luminous snow.
A mouse has scurried over a surface ridge,
its paws impressing tick mark tracks,
that glint and check a fleeting length of time.
Mind mesmerizes itself. A diamond
polishes a skin-deep prism.
The glory rises, my heart pounds out,
long hallelujah moments.
At the foot of an icicle-tressed oak
a Black-Capped Chickadee
chirps-out loud its song of life.
Glory sings along and hits its high notes,
again, and again.
The greens are all about themselves, boasting and bragging.
With gang signs that tell of their beliefs in plants, not people.
It is hard to miss them; they wear tattoos on their cheeks.
The purples despise the greens. They think they are pompous.
Are all of them pompous? I ask my uncle, who is a member of purple.
All of them he says, slapping his newspaper down hard.
Every single one of them? I ask. I am eight. I do not know anything.
He stares at me. Go talk to your aunt, he says.
My aunt is a lavender. She is a misogynist genius.
I am on my way to a protest, she tells me. Get out of the way.
What are you protesting?
Women’s rights she tells me.
Lavenders are stupid they should not have them.
I am eight, and confused.
Aren't all women lavenders? I ask.
She nods.
Does this mean all women are stupid? I wonder....
Or only women my aunt knows?
So all women are stupid? I ask.
Yes, she assures me, as she polishes her bullhorn.
All lavenders are women, and all women are ignorant.
Only purples should have the right to vote.
Even you? I ask her. Are you stupid too?
She throws back her head. Laughter fills the room.
Especially me! She says. Just ask your uncle.
Purple yells from the living room “She sure is!”
First name
unique, generous, wondrous, enigmatic, hopeful
Sister of Madonna, Gail, Chris, Diane and Heather
Lover of life, puzzles, people's laughter and language
Who feels loves intensity with hope
Who fears the dark, enclosed spaces, yet feels fearless in the breeze
Who would like to see the masses succeed
Resident of home, a warm embrace, a tender touch
Surname
I found this structure boring and unimaginative and mundane in a world enriched with such flavoursome musings - I unapologetically ruined the form with pride and decided the words below were more entertaining for your reading pleasure... Enjoy me
An ounce of ratbag, a giggle, a bounce and slide,
she puts on her socks and polishes the floor with her moves,
the running dive onto the bed is never a question and she loves to sneak up and tickle.
Frosted grass, and a breaky sunrise eaten from the curb, delights her heart and inspires her mind.
Her one love - a child of impossibility - held on by hope; a chance to live, to laugh.
Intrigued by the landscape of colour, enlightened by touch, cleansed in a breeze.
A smile to light up the dark, delivers a truth profound, generous in love in all its forms.
A dancer in a world of statues, grounded and real, she will lift you up and hold you til your ready.
Musically, she paints the tragic world with grace, sensually depicting each space, raw and defined.
A family of separated ties has carved an independence so fierce she is rarely displaced.
Adopted by the masses, free in spirit she maintains faith, home is all she needs and finds that in many: a comfortable easy smile, a gift of coffee, an open door - embraced.
Loved.
A friendship gift, a unique beautiful ride, buckle up she's arrived...
17/10/2018
Spring is regaled as the belle of the ball,
all decked out in her emerald green gown.
And riding on the carousel of life,
like a playful child, she subtly arrives.
With warm winds, tethered to a treetop breeze,
She unfurls turquoise and peridot leaves.
And April rains water budding branches,
of maples; enticing sweet sap to rise.
Tending to the plants in Nature's garden,
Spring starts with daffodils and crocuses.
And as her moist, balmy breath melts the snow,
yellow dandelions begin to sprout.
She summons showers for the wildflowers,
while songbirds play tag with the dribbling drops.
And she polishes the sun till it shines;
while painting rainbows with refracted light.
In the kitchen she sits on a three-legged stool.
She died in the living room,
her heart burst, and out flew
all the skills of her hands.
Now she cooks the twilight between the days,
the dried fruits of yester-years.
I watch her thoughts take shape,
how they sway to the music of Glen Miller,
another memory she gave this space to.
These words are partly hers,
the flavors are mixed. I pay a rent
as interlocutor.
Room corners are still planted
by her broad-leaved thumbs.
I water the old ferns as if I were
the curator of her old friends.
Kitchen cups rattle on their hooks,
chipped china chimes upon moonlight jingles.
In life we never did meet, but at night
she polishes my eyes.
Spits on a yellow duster and gently wipes
until something shines in me, and I know her
and she knows me.
Pocket knives, tape measures.
An extensive collection of coins.
Nails, screws, numerous sizes, and sets
of nail clippers, files, polishes and brushes.
Shoes, always shoes. And dresses.
Shirts and ties. Loud and quiet.
The sick and the dead are forever quiet,
never quite quiet. Our solicitude's unnecessary.
Playing cards, backgammon games,
chess. Every move's a variation on the next.
And so it is with words, numbers,
shapes and sizes. Feet and hands,
knees and eyes. Why and where and how won't matter
once we've divided the bags of clothes
among the poor and destitute. It's not too hard
to laugh too hard. The son and daughter deliver them
and then go home. Letters, wallets, clocks and watches.
Photographs in which the name and face don't match.
Clear the track, here comes Jack
Or Johnny Canuck to some
To a bunch of friends on Poetry Soup
He's that Wacko Jacko bum!
He's Canadian eh! From way up north
From the land of ice and snow
He eats bowls of nails for breakfast
Wearing manly lumberjack clothes
“Good day eh! How's it goin' eh?”
Are two of his favourite greets
As he polishes off his morning brew
With a slab of uncooked meat
He's a tough old dude, that's for sure
With mush instead of brains
A grizzled good natured son of a gun
With love running through his veins
He'd give you the shirt right off his back
But it's too damn cold up here
For fear of freezing his nipples off
Instead he's just say, “Wanna beer?”
Clear the track, here comes Jack
Or Johnny Canuck to some
To a bunch of friends on Poetry Soup
He's that Wacko Jacko bum!
© Jack Ellison 2013
Tucked away in dad’s back closet,
Stocked with polishes and such;
Dad would let us boys come work,
And learn to earn a buck.
He taught us work had dividends,
If we would put the effort in.
Come days, or nights or weekends
We’d shine them up for him.
He didn’t pay us what we’re worth,
Or offer “bonus” pay;
But there we learned initiative,
That drives our lives today.
I remember when he taught me,
About colors, soles and buffing.
Then He’d spit into the tins
I’d scoff and thought: “He’s bluffing!”
In reflecting dad, I’m thankful…
For little jobs like shoe shines.
You gave our lives a “polish”
Beyond your quarters and your dimes.
If I could, I’d take your shoes right now
And polish every one.
To let you know my love and thanks
For ways you raised good sons.
By Shoe Shine Son #3
Inside familiar folds of my hanging apron
I encounter a blinkless miniature figurine
Glossy, posable, plastic as a Lego creation
Loyal component of kitchen enforces routine
Breakfast allures with buttery muffins toasted
Lunch- a- lot predicts sandwich towers teetering
Dinner calls for lavish legs of livestock roasted
Day which follows knows a sequence repeating
Pack away cycle of soap, soak, replace, bench polishes
Scouring for recipes, Lego lady's eyes neatly smile
Cinnamon wafting whirlwind with servitude accomplishes
Devourers' belches earn her Master Caterer title
Beneath bed, which ejects me at six am alarm
Failed slipper search produces palm sized plaster sculpture
Icing faced, eyes without memory, eternally calm
Solid base she stands on stops commotion from toppling her
Nine am sees my arrival, politely inquiring co-operation
Afternoon forgets to yawn, incessant key tapping keeps on
Harsh carpark steps echo, repell dusk's contemplation
Traffic jams tomorrow's chasms, where dreams hold reunion
Crisp gives way to crinkles, plaster sculpture refutes
Her congeniality and aptitude due to exhaustion
Chalky cheeks split with encouragements' overuse
Legs held as one are motionless to express discourse
Steam escaped open door shows mirrored me showered
Bounce of towel buffed flesh rises in delightful nonchalance
Droplets of conciousness roll a path cleansed in empowerment
Serpent tongue hair saturates time, attacks life with vehemence