Long Sleeves Poems
Long Sleeves Poems. Below are the most popular long Sleeves by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sleeves poems by poem length and keyword.
2/14/17
At similar and different degrees
Animals, humans, and objects proceed
At lower and higher speeds
By the land and sea
Near many trees
Bearing fruit, or mainly leaves
Far too many display greed
Being naive, with intentions that deceive
And mislead
I believe
Indeed
I'll succeed
And achieve
While following through on deeds
As I aim to exceed
Burned, dug and pulled weeds
Some of which got cleaved
And eventually heaved
Into a orderly pile before, after or during the eve
Pollen in the breeze
Causing those allergic to sneeze
Near and far from hives of bees
Some pray on their knees
In the midst of Summer heat or Winters freeze
Evidence and other items getting seized
Some but not all could be got back through paying fees
What was difficult for many, may have been done by others with ease
Regardless of if they have prestige
A vast amount of cuisines
With greens
And or meats, some of which considered lean
Either following or breaking the creed
In the midst of, or behind the scenes
Handmade crafts and figurines
And others created by machines
Instead of charging in with a head full of steam
Better think and heed
While trying to grasp what it means
Do you agree or disagree
That is not all that it seems?
Areas with weather considered extreme
Occasionally turning things into smithereens
Another night where I didn't dream
Whether I did or didn't fall asleep in front of a screen
Can the soul be redeemed
Despite there being no guarantee
Finished tasks solo or in a team
Above and below terrain having ravines
Dirtied up, scuffed and cut my jeans
The same could be said for my sleeves
Not yet have I had mead
Or paid for a limousine
Close and beyond places known for the occasional stampede
Could it have been preventable with vaccines
For afflictions and disease
Above and below streams
As well as submarines
However this all may be deemed
There is no hidden strings or schemes
It is good to read
Brain, body, soul and spirit need to feed
Intervene
Got to switch up the same old routines
And reign supreme
By: Dalton Ogletree
Blithe breaks at the illumination of muted yellow leaves,
so alive, nearly laughing like children; still life clinging.
Autumnal blouse of painted bark and pretty sleeves.
Silence of bluebirds and red robins - inward singing.
The rake’s barely broken earth, a few clingers at task.
Season’s copacetic with only a tinge or tingle of coolness.
Time’s fallen back as I read and write in open-door-bask.
I will join worshippers at church to net November’s fullness.
A shiver, a shake, an ooh, an ahh, A phoebe does go
on and on about the break of day; brightness in her clutch.
The slightest breeze bursts forth to create the ebb and flow.
It’s like an artist brushing hither then thither; a mirthful touch.
More beaks join the chorus, as will I, when I hear the music.
Oh how delightful, a dizzy dance of bells in the wind’s socket.
I swoon and sashay, on the pavement, in communion’s cubic.
How much more seasonal joy leaps from robin redbreast’s pocket?
Flickering like candles in the slightest breeze,
Raw with emotion, they are seen so easily worn on sleeves.
Asunder they may break, so
Gentle you must be! Gossamer
Is the flimsy sweater of protection that they wear.
Laugh or look too hard at them, and you are liable to
Embarrass or perhaps even to embitter them.
Heed my advice:
Exercise restraint. Their souls
Already are exposed and must be assuaged.
Refrain from ridiculing them, for
They already suffer from self-consciousness.
Sweeten your words instead. Strengthen and support fragile hearts.
Written Oct. 23, 2016
In the Ardross Castle in the Scottish Highlands
The host of "The Traitors" greet with open hands.
For the US, Alan Cumming with his cunning brown eyes
And flamboyant outfits that dazzle and surprise.
For the UK, Claudia Winkleman with her smile and famous fringe
Supporting her contestants through their moments of cringe.
They gauge up personalities until they find
The Traitors they are searching for with mischief in mind.
In the deathly shadows they hand over the cloak
Which the new Traitors adorn once they have sworn the oath.
These hosts give hints and comments as chaos ensues
And talk to us, the audience, to hold interest and amuse.
They keep a dastardly dark secret at the round table.
In no way do they expose the truth of liars stable.
Every murder mystery and money building task
Gradually reveal the truth with no questions asked.
Daily the Faithfuls are cherry picked one by one
While Traitors s up their sleeves knowing what's gone on!
We show two sides of ourselves in the process of this game.
Our sense of justice insists that we wouldn't do the same.
Yet on the flip side, if there are Traitors at the end
A part of us wants them to win. A slight moral descend.
An affair of many twists and turns with risks, but all the same,
Could we find it in ourselves to play "The Traitors" game?
A singular thinker misses the blinker missing the link up trying to sync up
drinking the drink up now he’s a dreamer convinced what he dreams up seemingly sees stuff pulling his sleeves up walking with knees up because he can beat us believe we’re beneath his world supersedes us believing his greatness so high he is weightless in the stratosphere spacious among the creators aligned with the makers but he’s just a being above where he’s being imagining what he’s seeing imagination set free in manifested but breathing but it’s dead like a sinner a delusional winner brain cells getting thinner unaware that they simmer to a simple beginner just a singular thinker
A dress, tangerine fading into sunflower.
We stand together,
rooftop of a white concrete building.
Higher than clouds, further than moon—
she looks down, my eyes follow.
Our gazes collide when they
fall onto the mist pooling into swirls.
I couldn't help but stare, on her porcelain cheeks,
something sparkles—tears, but I cannot tell
if they're from joy or devastation.
I want to hold her—
In her eyes I see
the look echoed in my mirror
when I was addicted to
weaving crimson lace sleeves into my arms.
Her smile, the familiarly calm smile—
so indifferent it stings
—like witnessing the grace of a crashing star.
My thoughts knot themselves in scarlet threads.
She whispers something...
I only make out the word ‘believe’
before the mist folds around us like a shroud.
We fall—
through ruptures in the clouds,
the air turns sharp, blistering.
Wind tears at our skin.
Her dress unravels—tangerine threads
trail behind her—tail of
a burning comet.
I reach for her—
but fire moves faster than flesh.
Gravity devours us whole—
a silence building beneath the roar.
I close my eyes,
but her widened smile
is already branded into my eyelids—
“Prepare for impact,” she hums,
joy rising like static in her throat.
We break through the last veil of mist—
The concrete rushes up like a verdict.
I see ourselves,
red splattered over black stone—
I brace—
dancing heat feasts on my skin——
——No impact.
The flame burns us clean
before we make it to the ground.
Ashes like quiet snowflakes...
are all that's left of us.
Seem so simple, trivial, these books but aren't.
Firstly, humans are picture people. Always been so.
Young minds forming memory, cognition.
Before kids can read, they can conceive images.
Just not speech or actual words yet.
Feelings, however, do register.
And mirrors do stump babies for a while. Ever notice?
Toddlers do show some preferences in time.
So Granna, ever the observer, was clever
in making up still photo books for each grand.
Thoughtfully captioning each picture for later on.
The books are child size, four by six inches
with clear plastic sleeves for about two dozen photos.
At bedtime, new parents will patiently sit
and read these books to groggy children fighting sleep.
They look and turn pages as parents talk away.
Seeing themselves in photos, they jump. Point. Giggle.
Seeing cousins, uncles, aunts and far away friends
is all important in developing little egos.
Not able to read a single word,
they "pretend read", mumbling. Mimicking.
Memorizing images, refeeling the feelings.
Soon the grands will request the books.
Going over them again and again.
Remembering fun days, becoming part of the tribe.
Once Granna and Granda are gone,
only in the books they'll live on.
Reciting captions, sharing times, places, passed faces,
always carrying the feelings, the indelible conceptions.
Sometimes it elevates to look so very close in.
Gently falling back into moments
when dust has been whisked away by time.
The bed is too big.. the air is too small
I stare at my phone waiting for you to call
I still keep a picture of you on my wall
I still wear your hoodie with the sleeves on and all
The distance between us cuts like a fillet
The memories of you.. they start to decay
The scent of your shirt has almost gone away
I haven’t left my bed since you left that Sunday
Still tracing the shadows that live on my ceiling
So numb to this life and devoid of all feeling
Unanswered prayers but I’m still out here kneeling
My heart shatters silently.. is it even healing?
I miss you the same way the stars miss the sky
My soul’s missing pieces but I never knew why
All I hear is ‘get over it and find the next guy’
Telling me to move on but I’d much rather die
Because forgetting you is like forgetting the sun
No one can compete when you’ve already won
There’s no other man who can do what you’ve done
I can’t quit your love, can’t you see you’re the one?
I hid a firefly,
its wings beating against the low strings
like a secret refusing winter.
Your “I love you”s are no longer words;
they have taken the shape of tiny silver fish
crossing my nights, leaving behind them
a trail of crumpled moonlight.
I gather them in a chipped cup,
near the window where the rain writes
alphabets no one can pronounce.
The last notes never truly die.
They simply change their calling:
some become stardust on sleeves,
others keep watch over the lighthouses of sleeping ships.
I answer with my silences,
those transparent birds nesting in my throat.
They know your name better than my voice does.
When dawn unfolds its nautical charts,
I find your refrain beneath the skin of my fears,
in the hum of weary streetlamps,
in an orange forgotten on the table,
in the tiny heart of ordinary things.
I love you too,
not like a promise,
but like an underground river
that keeps singing far from prying eyes.
good morning
we have been here before
dawn arrives slow, boring
the knife we ignore
from dusk we’ve dreamed of the slow slice
the pain that covers the real
long sleeves is the price
you don’t know what we feel
child abuse
fear creeps deep
no one will hurt us but the noose
deep 6 big sleep
the sun is no fun
when your dreams scream
and your last thought is the sound of a gun
the message so serene
you don’t know what we feel
when your thoughts of driving into a big rig
mangles flesh and steel
as it burst into flames from your cig
the thoughts come in a blink of an eye
as we sit on the couch with the remote
all the ways we want to die
tomorrows dawn will be rewrote