Long Threadbare Poems
Long Threadbare Poems. Below are the most popular long Threadbare by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Threadbare poems by poem length and keyword.
The sweet scent of Spring permeates the air
as the rivers and lakes no longer freeze,
and a searing sun melts away despair.
While Winter's white duvet, bland and threadbare,
gives way to emerald bushes and trees,
the sweet scent of Spring permeates the air.
Wildflowers blossom with color and flair,
their aromas perfuming every breeze:
and a searing sun melts away despair.
Grassy patches start to show everywhere,
and saplings begin to unfold green leaves:
the sweet scent of Spring permeates the air.
Daffodils start appearing here and there
gambling, Spring's arrival is not a tease,
and a searing sun melts away despair.
A treat for the senses, fragrant and rare,
one whiff, and your tensions begin to ease.
The sweet scent of Spring permeates the air,
and a searing sun melts away despair.
Along luscious green acres banks steep grade
(in close proximity to
Petticoat Junction) naturemade
Perkiomen Valley watershed,
verdant landscape displayed
yours truly, (a garden variety
proto human) arrayed
solely donning birthday suit,
whose fifty plus shades hair gone grayed,
i.e. one infinitesimal measly mortal
whiles away hours, laid
back days of his life as
the world wide web turns
comprising second decade
of twenty first century
civilization, where
coronavirus veritably waylaid
furlough afflicts populations feeling betrayed
entire fabric *****sapiens staid
threadbare existence now best describes
chock full of endemic ennui proliferates,
where vast majority of people afraid
to leave their houses lest COVID-19 played
greater havoc, whereby society already upended
unemployment factor at record high since...
Great depression witnessed
courtesy somber parade,
eighty nine years ago benchmarked
from May 11, 2020,
an invisible oppressed heaviness weighed
down the madding crowds
aghast how stock market trade
hit rock bottom making paupers,
ill fate clobbered breadwinners
circumstance none could evade
October 29, 1929 haint no charade,
when Black Tuesday hit Wall Street
bitta bing bitta bang bitta played
bitty bitty chitty chitty bang bang
linkedin with irrational exuberance portrayed
American economy supine splayed
versus March 11, 2020 characterized
coronavirus outbreak as pandemic
by the WHO subsequently signaling
Trump cited "fake news" and not dismayed
to expedite drastic measures
none would impede golf, nor Mar-a-Lago
leisure him sipping lemonade
acid test teetotaler - tee zing 'bout
not quaffing electric kool-aid
without getting his doggy dimples in a bunch
he grudgingly complied and obeyed
purveyors (governors) and Anthony Fauci
complete United States government shutdown
approximately mid/late March 2020
which undertaking generated brisk business
grim reaper experienced
(still does) protracted heyday.
and I remember on that day
when from my home I walked away
did not know where I would go
only no more that here I could stay
past the heap of what remained
all too much for me to take
cast aside cause I had no choice
so little left of once was mine
and I wandered day to day
finding nowhere for me to stay
and I could begin again
to seek anew what once was
and seasons did past me by
and the years I would count
hoping for a little bread
and somewhere to lay my head
within the winter now I am warm
within a home again I stand
gaze upon the winters night
think of those who are without
who know not food for many days
and have but few threadbare clothes
and rest their heads upon their arms
and would rejoice in a box to live
there is so little I can do
and meager it seems what I do give
yet I remember how once it was
when my poor gifts for treasure would seem
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
1895: the year it first stood,
a sentinel of walnut and dust,
North Rogers Street humming beneath its porch~
first with hooves, then pistons, now electric cars.
Granddad signed his name on a blank promise,
ink bleeding into faith.
Plumbing crawled indoors like a shy animal.
A garage yawned open.
The roof—oh, the roof~
stretched its spine against decades of hail.
Granny arrived with four shrieking shadows
who grew into echoes in the walls.
My mother’s laughter still lives
in the crack between floorboards,
her childhood a fossil trapped in varnish.
We came later—cousins, brothers~
tracking mud like a second skin.
The house tolerated us,
let us carve our initials
into its patience.
I know the smell of Granny’s perfume
better than my own breath.
Granddad’s slippers whispered
shhh-shhh across the planks,
a lullaby in Morse code.
Dusk on the porch swing:
Missouri spilled its sun like persimmon jam.
Trees dissolved into charcoal smudges.
Then—magic~
the lightning bugs arrived,
trading secrets in flickers.
Granddad called them living embers.
I called them proof.
Inside, the walls hoarded snapshots:
birthdays, Christmases, a thousand untold mornings.
The table’s oak face grew wrinkles,
each scar a story.
Gingerbread men drowned in cocoa,
their vanilla eyes wide with surrender.
Summers brought gardens:
tomatoes fat as fists,
cucumbers crisp as lies.
Granny’s hands, knuckled and sure,
picked them clean for jars of sweetness.
Now the house wears its age
like a favorite coat—threadbare, but still warm.
I press my palm to its siding,
feel the pulse of a thousand suppers,
a hundred storms.
Time won’t rewind.
But here’s the alchemy:
memory is a door
that swings both ways.
Home isn’t just where you sleep.
It’s where you wake up
again
and again
and again.
Accompanying memoir vignette can be read at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/this_old_house--the_place_we_called_home_13650
They are under the hedge, the elderly,
the silver whiskered. Threadbare possums,
frail chipmunks. The feeble,
squeezed into narrow parts of the day.
Her apartment is hedged in.
Her telephone is black, silent and Bakelite.
A groundhog comes out to gaze at the sunset,
some myopic sniffing, then shuffles back
with that stout rolling gait of his.
She forages in her living space.
From a window she blinks at the moon,
only yesterday it slipped from her purse.
Once she bought tickets, visited the young.
Once relatives parked new automobiles
under her sparkling windows.
They are settled, tucked into socks and pockets
seeking foods
unprepared for the present.
Paws hang soft.
Pills pend under bedroom lamps.
Some of them are under the hedgerow,
some unsnarl the threads of bundled quilts,
together they gum at a nub-end of twilight.
They will stay here knitting hours together
until the long forgetting finds them.
The door is open,
To the month that precedes the year's end,
The curtains have given way,
The eleventh month has taken the stage,
A transition to the change of time and season.
The plans for the year are brought out,
The to-do list is run through,
The highs and lows are considered,
The shortfalls and superfluous are evaluated,
The ambitions are brought to the table.
Hope is threadbare,
Zeal is doused,
The succeeding year is in view,
Hope is to be deferred into its arms,
Gaze is fixed on where the eagles dare.
A pathway is sought through life's maze,
Light to suture the broken pieces,
Hope holds a periscope,
It admonishes a look through,
A medley of hope and light the weary heart seeks.
November 3, 2022.
November Poetry Contest,
Regina McIntosh.
In my dream, I am walking through the frozen snow,
past snow drifts like swans asleep in a wintry meadow;
drifting in the cold is the song of a little sparrow-
then, many are singing like the low wails of a violin . . .
The wind is whispering as the snowflakes begin,
like gauzy curtains of infinite white they spin;
and in this winter storm, I am lost within-
I raise my hands for the filigree flakes of lace . . .
The snowflakes soft as a lover's kiss on my face,
all through the forest the snow and trees embrace;
a winter scene before me where all things interlace-
Crystalline ice drips from branches like diamonds . . .
I lay myself down to sleep in winter woodlands,
dreaming, dreaming of trees with festive garlands;
and colorful birds like Christmas balls are thousands-
I gasp for breath in the frosty, frigid bitter air . . .
It is time to leave this ice-kissed dream- oh tear,
I do wish for a warm coat and not this gown threadbare;
as now the snowflakes are falling, falling everywhere-
In my dream I am wandering in the frozen snow . . .
________________________
December 4, 2017 (Re-post)
Poetry/Rhyme/My Winter Dream
Copyright Protected, ID 17-1216-354-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted into the contest, Strand Select 11,
sponsor, Brian Strand
Second Place
A Simple Story
Little child finds upon a heap of rubbish
Favored threadbare rabbit of tawny velveteen
One eye missing
Cloth rubbed to shiny by little hands.
Beloved bunny,
Shopworn keepsake from babyhood,
Languishing in forgotten jungles of junk,
Broken teacups and outgrown sweaters.
Heartbroken child, with faithful love,
Cradles one last time this life companion
To kiss goodbye this forever friend
In a eulogy of tears and turns to leave.
Love works miracles
From the rubbish arises a living bunny
Bulging stuffing and missing eye repaired
Now hugged again in arms of delight.
Golden bunny of dappled coat
Lives in colorful clusters of carrots
Straight radish rows and leafy greens
Planted by the small child’s hands that
Remember…
3-21-23
Contest: A Simple Poetry Contest
Sponsor: John Lawless
Based on the children’s book – The Velveteen Rabbit
Dear poet, please come get your tapestry,
Tacked across the window—it hangs askew.
My cat’s convinced it’s hers to claw, you see.
The reds all clash—they’re far from harmony,
But hey, it fills the space and hides the view.
Dear poet, please come get your tapestry,
Its threadbare pattern does not speak to me;
Much too common, and maybe that’s your clue—
My cat’s convinced it’s hers to claw, you see.
It’s not a work of art, and nothing’s free
From dust or frays. (Did I just spy some glue?)
Dear poet, please come get your tapestry,
And now I wonder why you let it be
The thing that guests first spot when they walk through.
My cat’s convinced it’s hers to claw, you see.
It stabs my eyes, though I am rarely pleased,
A story’s just a string from old to new.
Dear poet, please come get your tapestry,
My cat’s convinced it’s hers to claw, you see.
I drift alone on a most tranquil lake,
Currents take me towards my objective.
I dare not look behind me for I dread
Past failures, yet sorrow is effective.
'Twould be folly to recall only my faults,
Surely some good efforts must be there too,
Life is but a mixture of our choices,
Pure joy and true sorrow form my long queue.
But now it's time to look further ahead
As my boat continues with its slow drift
Towards the not so distant misty shore,
Knowing I have no urge to drive it swift.
For on that shore beneath the threadbare mist
I could discern a large cemetery
'Twill be my last place after a hazard life,
Is that an angel, an emissary?