Long Tucking Poems
Long Tucking Poems. Below are the most popular long Tucking by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tucking poems by poem length and keyword.
delicate lace linked by crochet
labyrinthine stitches a doily a day
counted by repetitious candlelight
motherly hands of preponderant foresight
twisting and surrender of silent threads
tucking each one into intricate spreads
lovingly lace reflects persistence of face
a warm cosseted Victorian embrace
from hands that stumbled with wrinkles
forlorn and gnarled knots, catastrophic crinkles
yet the warm, soft hand that comforts her ill
a kin that kindles the fire and spins with skill
she’s mastered the lessons rendered at the knee
of longsuffering love and mother’s humble marquee
She never gave up that recipe, the
boys' favorite iced tea, made
smooth and sweet. Women
sit in the kitchen going over
coupons and recipes, regurgitating
the latest gossip heard in the
pew behind at this morning's
service. men sit on the porch
tucking chaw in their
lip pocket, spitting in a bucket
on the railing. Waiting for the
race to start, supper to be
served, the clouds to pass so
lawn can be mowed. Another
Sunday without Mama. The
iced tea is off, just enough
for the boys to notice, the
women to know they missed
again. If only she'd learned
to write, we'd have the recipe.
Rays of yellow and orange sunlight
Your eyes beaming with delight
Strolling hand by hand along the garden
Where flowers blooms and sweetness blend
Tucking an orchid behind my ear
Drawing me so close and so dear
I smell your musky natural scent
Twirling and filling me with sense
Quietly, we sat and had a small talk
Unminding even, as night falls
On the grass, we lie down
Staring up and pointing to heaven stars
Under the shadowy gleam of the moon
There and there, we shared one kiss
Next to you in a warmth loving cocoon
By
olive_eloi
5:23 pm
03/08/2014
We hadn’t visited for a while.
I looked forward to seeing her smile.
We came as often as we could.
Probably not as often as we should.
Mom was in a Nursing Home.
Dementia had set in and she started to roam.
So, this was the best place for her to be,
As we had to move out of state to Kentucky.
Walked in the door and saw her so thin.
A strange man was just tucking her in.
He was wrinkled and old with thinning grey hair.
We were surprised, not sure he should be there.
He explained he was the handyman named Sye.
Saw mom’s blankets on the floor when passing by.
We had come to town to sell mom’s things.
To see how much her furniture brings.
Her home is for sale, so everything must be sold.
Advertised online, should get good prices we’re told.
A woman had called, said she would buy it all.
Her dad had made that furniture. She said on the call.
He always used special gnarled wood. It was recognized.
We agreed on the price. She said his work was prized.
She asked how we had come by such expensive pieces.
All Mom’s old furniture, she’d given some to her nieces.
The furniture made of gnarled wood was sold.
We went again to visit mom in her home for the old.
To our surprise the handy man was again in her room.
Both sat at a table of gnarled wood with a cedar perfume.
I saw it advertised and had my daughter buy it, he said.
So happy she had it with her all these years. A tear he shed.
I made this furniture for her she was the one I adore.
Told I died, she married another, I was a prisoner of war.
What will be will be
No pitter-patter of tiny, wee feet
No building castles on a sandy beach
No tiny hands for to lead and to hold
No dressing up as maidens or knights bold.
No kisses upon sweet soft downy heads
No tucking up into warm cosy beds
No nursery rhymes or stories to read
No little one's hungry tummy to feed.
No wounded soldiers with bruised or grazed knees
No teaching how to say thank you or please
No guiding girl to woman, boy to man
No joys of grandchildren joining the clan.
No one to be addressing me as mom
No precious, much longed for daughter or son.
"I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart) I am never without it"
Quote _ by E.E. Cummings
Elizabeth was my father's mother,
a portly woman who was country raised.
She was called grammy, never grandmother,
and told me stories that held me amazed.
She was wise but could neither read nor write,
spinning tales of magic and fairy folk.
Whenever I got scared, she'd hold me tight;
and I'd listened to every word she spoke.
She'd check on me before she went to bed,
lovingly tucking me in for the night.
And she oft visits my dreams, though she's dead,
assuring me that she entered the light.
I carry her image within my heart,
for even Death cannot keep us apart.
(Sonnet)
09/07/2022
Writing Challenge- In My Heart- S Forms - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Lost to Heaven- Grammy
My body hates you
Holding me near enough to your heartbeat
Tucking my hair behind my ear so I can hear your broken voice talk me through the war of your battlefield
Through unmercifully intimate actions you drew me in
Until you decided it was your turn to be cruel, like everyone had been to you
Before so forgirveful as grace followed you
Now written with dirty scars and the ongoing pain of the broken promises behind your eyes
With each stolen glance, follows a gulp of guilt.
Years of regret are to come, both of us know.
At least one of us fought.
My body hates you.
No longer repulsed by your lack of love or care
But instead purely emptied as you walk by
I forget myself sometimes, when I feel my arms reach for you
Hoping you’d catch them once more, carry me away from all the troubles that would soon catch up to us
It’s a longing feeling.
My body hates you but my arms forget
Warning - Don't read The Raven and Watch Hitchcock on the same night.
Once before my bedtime, nearing, which I dreaded, fazed and fearing,
Stories mother would read me before she closed and locked my bedroom door —
While I washed up in the water, could mom have drawn it any hotter?
Before me swam a rubber duckling, chuckling as my mother shut the door
“‘Tis some water fowl”, I muttered, “which mother bought me from the store.
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I can place it - the sad night Mother would misplace it;
Or entirely erase it; of her mind remaining nothing more.
I lay in bed, mother tucking, on feathers of mother’s plucking
Time for your book, said mother clucking, clucking as she locked the bedroom door —
I’ll read “Make Way for Ducklings” and then warm milk she began to pour -
all across the bedroom floor.
Assuredly, I felt no sorrow, as mother left me till the morrow
Sighing - buying time – which maybe I could only hope to borrow;
I heard my monstrous mother screaming, or maybe Tippi Hedren streaming
as Hitchcock’s “Birds” was beaming from the TV laying on the floor—
“’Tis just Hitchcock’s “Birds” beaming from the TV laying on the floor” -
This it is and nothing more.”
Inside that book peered at me smiling, a crazed duck that set me dialing
911 and protective services to frantically implore
The feeling in my stomach sinking, “I need a friend”, I was thinking
Staring wildly at this ghastly mallard who chilled me to the core
Then, at once, I saw it, heard it, this grinning duck needn’t chill me to the core
as he said, “I will be your friend forevermore”.
Thy Moon I seek tonight,
Calls the wind to come to light.
Blowing the words in my head
While I’m whistling as I’m ahead
Of all the wild rowdy commotion
Featuring the herd with its notion.
Thy white moon I seek tonight,
Faces the fields to hold me tight.
To stop me from walking home
As I’m stuck in the world I roam.
I appreciate its hefty humble soul,
Tucking me tight in fields I stole.
Thy bright gleaming moon I seek,
Comes to visit me when I’m meek
To greet me when I’m at my worst,
To greet me when I’m at my best,
To listen to my language of art
In the end, middle and the start
Thy moon I seek tomorrow night.
Will make sure I’m in his sight
When I’ll visit his fruitful fields
It is the night where he shields
My twinkle twinkle little star.
Good night. I’m going far.
A heart that breaks in silence wears the brightest, widest smile,
She walks a thousand lonely steps to go the extra mile.
A pillar made of glass and grace, she holds the world upright,
While tucking all her own dark storms away from public sight.
She mends the wings of others though she cannot even fly,
And catches every falling tear with no one asking why.
They rest within her steady hand and take what she can give,
They love the strength she offers them, but not the life she lives.
For though she acts the mountain, she is crumbling from the strain,
A masterpiece of hidden cracks, a soft and silent rain.