Long Varicose Poems
Long Varicose Poems. Below are the most popular long Varicose by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Varicose poems by poem length and keyword.
The afternoon sunlight filtered through her window drapes
revealing each age line molded to her face
alone in the dusky shadows working in her measured way
a basket of clothes at her feet
one by one she pulled each wrinkled cloth out
and began to iron their folded lines
the sound of steam broke the silence
a can of starch was on the table
its contents sprayed from time to time
her eyes never left her ironing board
she never noticed day had turned to twilight
though the sun was setting outside her window
she hadn't eaten all day
focused on her chosen chore
to do for her children...no matter the length of time
or the pain that burned inside her swollen legs
of varicose veins
she stood sturdy undaunted by her task
quiet, solemn, motion upon motion
so was her gift to those she loved
it was her way
thinking of others before herself
she was my mom
and her gift was unconditional
Ella was an old woman
Who wanted to learn to skip
She held tightly to the rope
So she would not lose her grip
Tossing the rope over her head
That's when everything went awry
Her face went extremely red
As the rope hit her in the eye
This did not defeat her
She was determined to win
Until the rope lassoed a vase
That made an enormous din
Ella put the rope on the ground
So she could pick up the mess
This skipping lark was tiring her
This she must confess
Ella tried again
She wanted badly to skip
It would help her to lose weight
Feel healthier and fit
She was a little overweight
And wanted to be trim
So she would look her best
For a holiday with husband, Jim
Ella picked up the rope
She was beginning to despise
Weary and exhausted
With red and watery eyes
She was growing very pale
Her persistence brought no gain
Gripping the dreaded skipping rope
She persevered again
Her legs got twisted in the rope
It burst a varicose vein
The pain was excruciating
It nearly drove Ella insane
Then she overbalanced
And split her swollen lips
Hit her head as she fell down
And fractured both her hips
The last that was heard of Ella
She was in a Hospital bed
With not thought of skipping
Happy knitting instead!
A note pinned to the thigh reserves it,
the whole cadaver is parceled off.
Legs are a late harvest of the indigent.
Their limbs carry a visual poverty
long after the body is plucked.
In a small room, I separate
muscle groups, filter large blood vessels
from fibrous runnels.
My scalpel seeking out fascial planes.
The leg is devolving to scraps,
yet ingrained in the tissue,
I sense residual shades of a life.
Seaside postcards and old photographs,
war ribbons and yellowed newspaper clippings.
The gray flesh retains its memories.
There’s a wife behind his knee,
bone whittling winds have not erased her features,
her youthful form still entwined
around ashen ligaments.
A child climbs up from an ankle bone,
as a sinewy plasma -
it has no substance of its own,
but borrows and gathers a varicose presence.
Sights and scenes invest
a limbs mangled landscape.
Images that can’t be cut away
by living hands.
Some imagine they dissect a limb,
but I turn bloodless pages,
read images once squirreled away,
that now form these sinews
of a journey’s end.
Trust is an oak tree with shallow roots.
so very treacherous in windy weather.
I feel as though I'm glued to the floor;
pinned like a moth to an insect display.
I wish to leave this horrible evil place,
run far away into the cold, dark night.
In the flickering shadows of mankind
sympathetic words are a honeycomb,
sweet to the soul; healing to the heart.
Dreams rise and fall like lunar tides;
engrossing thoughts flood the brain;
as blood through old varicose veins.
Flotsam strewn about dying fields as
jetsam falls from darker, foggy skies.
Face rises to the sun, a sallow pallor.
Vultures perched, perversely hawing;
a flag is folded in presentation style;
roses tossed onto a shiny new casket.
The eve of one's quietus has arrived.
A company wants naked butlers,
all handsome, well toned, looking tough,
to carry out duties around people's homes
besides apron, they'll be in the buff.
I've not filled out an application,
my chance of success being slim,
unlike, I must say how I look nude today
as my Doctor would tell you, it's grim.
My complexion's generally pasty,
the same sort of white as a fridge,
and the varicose veins you'll have
seen on the tube as directions to
Blackfriars bridge.
A victim of male pattern baldness,
on the back of my head a few locks,
I look like I once bought a 'bullworker' kit
but could not get the lid off the box.
Still, I just plod on along, and not moaning,
one thing in my favour I'll say,
if I did get the job, with a beer gut like mine
I've got somewhere to balance the tray.
I shudder while peering at sepia photographs,
showing visits to my maiden Aunt Hilda’s house.
Even though I was very young
it was clear she didn’t tolerate children.
I was to be ‘Seen and not heard.’
Pa said I wasn’t to utter a word.
I loathed being pushed and forced to kiss her.
Aunt's wrinkled leathery skin looked like
she’d been pickled in vinegar.
As she waddled around with a damp duster,
wiping at my finger marks that only she could see,
the wooden floorboards creaked like old bones
for she was grossly overweight.
Her buxom breasts smelled awful
and emitted a musty, moldy, cheesy smell.
Stretchy tan tights were never able to camouflage
the vivid blue bulging varicose veins
which snaked from her calves to her fat ankles.
The old sour puss passed away when I was six
Now, as I reminisce, I will no longer remain silent!
Turquoise tears stain my face
Like violet varicose veins
Stains of sentimental sensuality
Wrapped in white fears and black feathers
For love has fuschia flown away
Ruining reverie’s red roses
Turning them black decomposes
Any ink dried died in letters for love
Would have fell on silver sword
Sacrificed, sliding through heart
Silky bloody poetic death
He saves a cutting of brown hair
And a crimson rose of despair
Pressing between pages of art
Like my onyx broken heart
Was only a notch on burnt belt
Firey from love’s hazing hell
Wicked love spell wilting passion
Kisses rationed refusing
To hold wet tongue’s telling
Of rebelling rose’s rise
In spirit despite demise
Petals of purple pain
Painting passion with rain
And teal tears tangerine train
Of torment trailing behind
Like a wedding dress
Of jilted beauty
Doing duty during dilemmas
Flower to remember
Pressed between pages
Of a little black book
Of love unreturned
Brrrrr my alarm clock wakes me with a start. I open heavy eyelids to see sun streaming through a chink in the curtains. Bounding out of bed I hurriedly dress in my bikini and cover up with my shortest shorts and tightest tee-shirt. With my arthritic knees and varicose veins I am no Betty Grable, but I’m gonna prove once and for all that I can still cut it! Grabbing my surf board I head off to the local beach where my family are gathered for my 100th birthday celebrations. There is an air of anticipation as I strip down to my bikini and dip my toes into the freezing water. White spume crashes up the beach as I paddle out on my surfboard, everyone cheers as I stand and begin cresting huge waves eventually coming to rest on the damp sand. My son wraps me in a fluffy towel and hands me a steaming mug of hot chocolate. He presents me with a telegram from the Queen and a gold envelope containing a voucher for my next challenge of wing walking ...I just cannot stop smiling!
centenarian
surfs like flipper the dolphin
palm trees blow in breeze
Hey Write a Happy Haibun Contest
Sponsored by Caren Krutsinger
2/7/19
FROMAGE BADINAGE
Some cheeses improve with age
But, in danger of being verbose
Just serve me plain and mature
Yellow, without that thick rind
And tastier on the tongue, I find
Not fancy, with that false allure
As some blue veins are varicose
But wait, there is a war to wage
Never the plastic American kind
But calling it sharp, it’s still bland
Some made backwards, as Edam
There’s French ones, some smelly
I’ve seen them advertised on telly
As cheese, Philadelphia is a sham
And yet so few dairies understand
Please keep it natural, not refined
A few odd cheeses can squeeze by
As Greek Feta or Cyprus Halloumi
From Italy, there is Mozzarella too
For pasta, it is Parmesan, of course
With a true origin one can endorse
All should be entitled to their view
I report what I taste, so just sue me
And crumbly cheese makes me sigh
Jesus replied, “Foxes have holes
and birds of the air have nests,
but the Son of Man has no place
to lay his head.” Matthew 8:20 NIV
PLACE OF RESPITE
Cheek-tinge of pink dawning in the murky skies.
Blandness of deep-earthed bark, stretching,
touched by birdsong…long overdue, it pries
the stirring of tinctures, heart-revival fetching.
The soft cooing of dove-white countenance
behind the adventurous arms of upright praise.
The milky colorant, the soothe of boundlessness,
heaven’s face — the wise eyes of Jesus’ blaze.
Crustose lichen of green, subtle stripes of peel,
signature branch-sketch, by God’s hand, varicose
leans into his every word — his glory-heel
at cross-times past, every blood path, bellicose.
Eureka! I once again, open my ears to golden notes.
Why is chirping so charming? …like an angelic shake,
the bell one or many…the beckon from furry coats,
unseen-existence b’neath the heaven’s silver lake.
The light brightens on the horizon, a New Year shines
through the I’m-glad-I’m-home-steal-my-heart blinds
Familiar bittersweets and blues, buttercup-yellows, signs
that love is close of hand and hearth, most oft’ kind.
1/4/2022