Long Ringlets Poems
Long Ringlets Poems. Below are the most popular long Ringlets by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ringlets poems by poem length and keyword.
Black
I lay in my bed, alone with my thoughts, looking around,
But all I see is black.
Black is what remains of a disregarded rainbow,
Colors that used to spew from my mouth as happy words
Are now the slow drip of a faucet, thick black sludge drips down my chin.
I think about jazz hands that have now turned trembling digits,
Sweaty palms, purple nail beds, frozen fingertips.
I look at my eyes.
Once glistering with shades of bright green and deep browns.
Twinkling with brightness, beauty, and life.
I look at my eyes again.
Ringed with purple, irises a murky, foul swamp
Dull, emotionless, the eyes of a walking corpse.
I look at my hair.
It fell down my back in perfect golden ringlets
As bright as the sun
As soft as dandelions on a warm spring day.
I gaze once more.
Greasy locks hang above my shoulders,
Knotted from the countless times I run my fingers through my hair.
I listen to my voice.
Once bell like, sounding as smooth as honey,
Dripping with confidence.
I speak to myself one more time.
My voice left hoarse from sleepless nights,
Screaming,
Crying,
Giving up.
The bell is no longer in use, replaced by boards that
Squeak and creak every time I speak.
My voice cracks, shaking with fear, eventually to be silenced by
The air that is not entering my lungs.
I lay back down and look up again,
Attempting to get a glimpse of some sort of color spectrum,
But all I see is black.
Beauty Queen
Yes indeed, for all to see.
And what a doll you are.
Sun - lit colored ringlets in a row.
You do your little dance for the judges.
For all the world to see, you are the color of poetry.
Second on your talent, as you went strolling by them.
Walking in your sun bonnet and percale, singing along.
Big blue eyes to sparkle and shine.
Then one day they found you dead.
Seems God called you home at last.
Said, come rest your weary head.
Your name on the tombstone read:
JonBenet Ramsey!
3/ 28/ 2012,,,, I put my 8month old daughter in about 4- 5 pageants. She was about 3 last time as I put her on stage, I thought no more of this.
My dress is made of fine peach coloured lace
Hair is in ringlets, which frames my pretty face
The lights in the room cast a romantic glow
My first ever ball; I must go with the flow
The orchestra strikes up a wonderful tune
Ladies and gentlemen glide round the room
I stand on the sidelines I am oh so very shy
Then a dashing young man catches my eye
I smile at him, then I coyly avert my eyes
I find him so handsome; that I cannot disguise
He reaches tenderly for my awaiting hand
We move to the dance floor; oh it is so grand
His arm wrapped around my tiny waist
We dance to the music, there is no haste
So full of excitement at the hope of romance
I float round the room at my very first dance
At the end of the dance he bows down low
My heart is aflutter I hope this does not show
He leads me gently to the side of the room
Sweet roses enchant us, we smell their perfume
Time flies by so fast and we dance all night
He looks in my green eyes and to my delight
Whispers so gently those words I long to hear
You simply are the belle of the ball my dear
He reaches out gently and kisses my hand
My first ever ball has been oh so grand
Sadly now it is time for me to depart
I bid adieu to the man who has stolen my heart
4/1/19
2019 Poetry Marathon Final Placement
Sponsor: Mark Toney
11~15~14
Pressed on perforated lines by a lonely playmate
Affiance instant, folding fingers christen simulate
Phantasm button nose, rosebud lips, locks flaxen
Escapist catalogues outfits alphabetically, all prim
Repairs rapid, creases cease, orchestrated by him
Dependable quotidian, fix fold away any faults
Origami girl gives empathy, mouth without insult
Lilliputian with ripped ringlets, rested submissive
Lets crafter cover stiff corners with sterile kisses
Thirtieth of April
Thoughts overpower actual
The mood lifts from the lips, parched with permanent nicotine,
and falls, like snowflake-ashes from a turbulent volcano.
The uninhabited eye, underneath the patch - a vacant stare
into a cloudless night with flamenco-stars. Further from the truth
comes the truth of perspective, perspicacity, the long draw
of his cigarette and slow sigh of ringlets. The Camel scent
of his clothing mixes with lavender and the draught of tears;
melancholy plugs up the dike. An occasional red fingernail,
as if down a chalkboard, his spine, taunts the old timer.
He grunts, and drains the erupting whiskey bottle. Thoughts
take wing…oft’ he hears her laughter, a bird call. Good eye
plucked from the bar, placed with the rest of the stars -
he doesn’t deserve the halo above his habitat, the floor.
Every day, life spins, like a merry-go-round, with no point.
He’ll never tell - the tale is decades gone and oversold.
5/7/2023
Anatomy of Melancholy
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
The swell of cloudburst pours its showers;
gently tapping on night’s dewy aisle
while raindrops spill like pearly dots,
along a lush garden where ringlets flit.
O but that smile enthralls dusk’s approach,
upon her glow bridal buds enhance
as drizzles change hues in sky’s finery,
her gushes bearing gushes from corners of eyes.
A mellow dance of sleet frolics with the breeze
*while the rain kisses her cheeks her essence,*
this nearness which consumes wisp of air.
.............
6/8/2016
ika-labing-tatlo (13th): Rain, Rain come my way
binibining P.iNk’s Contest
*habang humahalik ang ulan sa kanyang mga pisngi,
sa kanyang kababaihang makabuluhan*
l.
Opening the closet of narra doors, I sweep through
organza skirts and gemmed ringlets; my hair
ruffling aimlessly upon scalloped kerchiefs
smelling decade - old hyacinth, Mom’s favorite
ambrosia: she would lift her anklets
in tiptoed hums, ”night and day, you are the one..”
Evenings touched her candle hands; hands
that soothed wounded knees from jackstone fights;
her fingers caressing a pony -tailed girl’s wrath
with piano keys rippling into a gentle moan;
And i am delivered from my tempestuous rants.
ll.
From nowhere, the porcelain mirror gazed at me;
her rhythm of silence billows, cradling my nights
with each veil of her almond eyes
that enter into my irises: a serene sight
too close, much too tight I clung to her unspoken word.
Through years, I grew like a bamboo shoot: her quiet smiles
and music walked me through reality’s maze.
And how I would wail bearing the grim of hard study,
coughing late, late hours of reading toil…yet,
she stayed like a moth with charm flushed
in a wind of calm gaze, ebbing .
lll.
And only Mom could melt my temper
when my raging soul paused to wonder
at her light’s glow: oh, her feminine beat illumined
more lamplights dancing inside this rebellious head…
and now, she hovers around me.
I become her eyes, chanting;
never balking at my surreal conquests.
She is gone bequeathing warmth into my torched flights
without question; with much love dripping
from her graceful movement, straying all through
these my breaths: “night and day, you are the one…”
T C
O O
E L
S D
as are the satiny sheets; gossamer
bright veil overcomes the four-post
bed, where your openness envelops
the goose down pillows. i avoid their
feathery touch to lie my ringlets upon
your handsome chest. the steady beat
grows stronger...peaks. we both, like
passionate-wine…. like the twilight or
sunrise sky, transformed from vanilla
to plum. the warmth reddens our hair
to Viking-strength, thrusts like waves,
the rapturous ebb and flow sea - down,
down to our feet. This duo - a waterbed,
two currents of a tantalizing hot tsunami.
hibiscus lips, likewise slide and light
disappears as eyelids shut tight in moan.
afterward serpentine struggle remains in
the volcanic ember of wrinkled sheets and
W T
A O
R E
M S
Along the tracks of Grandma's quaint backyard, her lavender perfume reminded me of my early teenhood,
digging the soil to thresh the roots as I buried seeds through its clayed womb.
In this late hour, my eyes feel her calm laughter, speaking to each blossom and naming every new bud after me:
Somehow, I sit on an old bench recalling how we tended ringlets of leaves...a pleasure which grew through seasons until it was my time to water more trees rising higher than I.
And fragile like shamrock, Grandma bowed low to greet new shoots while her fingers wrinkled and grew thin --hiding her unknown body pain.
Oh she owned the moon ; nature was her lavish throne.
Gathering a few truant stems, I hear her banter among vines... a melody so bouyant descending
from God knows where on the horizon:
I smile and sob in reverence at this panoram among the mist and weeds of duskfall.
A pond stretches its loop where ripples curl between my toes; and a festoon of red blooms huddle on its bent slope weaving through the rim of a hill...
The nimble tap of spring grazes my face as I wiggle my palms to relish this moment draped in pristine streams-- achingly alone-- bearing all
the glow of Grandma before an ensemble of birds whisks by.
Now as a midlifer, I trace back my teenhood with charmed fondness, knowing this secret garden is now mine to nourish and harness--
her spirit sashaying across the pampas
with abandon--
until then and until when, I cling to ' now.'
I was reared in ruins,
East London brick dust
on lard spread on bread.
Nobody had a ticket out.
My grubby figure
daubed by days of oil and dirt,
a boy by a railroad track.
Trains slid passed
screeching on pumping brakes.
People not from here
going somewhere else.
Once a little girl dressed
in posh clothes,
(I mean, not rough flannel),
jiggles of fancy ringlets
a clean hand waving.
My senses shaking
and shaken,
marveling at the beauty
of those that passed on by.
I told mother,
she shrugged not understanding,
maybe she had yet to learn
my train-yard language
She was a lock-in woman
& spoke only
as a long ignored dog would
if asked about
the meaning of life.