Long Wrinkled Poems
Long Wrinkled Poems. Below are the most popular long Wrinkled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wrinkled poems by poem length and keyword.
In winter’s grasp, an aging woman stands
Emerald eyes like jewels gleam
Slightly touched by the passing of time
But a lifetime etched 'pon her wrinkled hands.
Her pressured youth has long passed
Yet grace and compassion are retained
Wisdom gained through joys and tears
Reflected in those eyes pine-green untamed
Shamrock eyes, deep stories they hold
Many sheltered secrets remain
Tales of love and loss will forever bind
Her heart to truth that is tamed
Behind those eyes, a universe unfolds
A journey filled with triumph, joy and fears
Like ancient trees, their roots forever hold
Essence of her dreams throughout the years
As I sit upon these old porch steps, that I have always known
A weathered stoop, with gray floorboards, that shake with every wind
These creaks and groans, the flaws and chips, ... familiar to my hand
I have come to some conclusion,,,
I've come to understand,
how well I know each board, each slat, the shape, the size,
the warps, the cracks, ...each rusty nail, ....
but not the facts of you.
Oh yes, ... I've seen a glimpse or two,
in photographs. I have a few
I see a robust man, in yellowed hues, of vintage stock...
By a house, a barn, where land is strewn with stones to move.
You stand behind a horse and plow, in coveralls,... a mustache. too.
I do recall, so vaguely gray, as gray as the paint beneath my hand...
a jolly man, a wrinkled face,
with a smile, a laugh, a loving way
A dream I have, or is it real?
Is that me when I was two,... sitting here, beside you then?
Or is it just my wish to know... more than just a trace of you?
I never knew the man you were, your hopes your dreams...
the thousand schemes that brought you to these rocky slopes
so far from where your hopes began
Where the steep cliffs rose and seas were blue.
Today, beyond these furrowed rows,...
tall grasses grow in amber waves
The eyes will wander, and shadows grow
I ponder how it came to be....
that I am me,....
who came from you;
a man I never knew.
_____________________________________________________________
(To watch the youtube video recitation:)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hF4GCLqf9_o
I stared into the mirror, wincing at my own reflection,
through eyes fogged by cataract.
Saw a black tint spreading around my eyes
and face like a wrinkled piece of linen
Where is the bubbly girl of seventeen?
I asked myself.
How flamboyant and flaunting I was,
now enveloped in silence.
Do anyone remember my younger version-
the little birdie that tweeted endless?
Beneath the shell of this withering cortex,
I still have a heart young as ever,
not yet shriveled, but succulent
full of love and warmth;
a sleeping guitar, capable of music,
if trained hands move over my taut strings.
So please don't take me as a wretched hag,
and push me into a state of silent non-being
or throw me like the chip of a broken mirror,
making me feel so inconsequential!
A nobody cast into a sea of duties
Drowning in confusion and being dragged
By the turbulent tides
A vulnerable thing tossed
By the waves of prejudice.
Opening my mouth—
to scream a single word
Stretching my hand—
to reach where nothing holds—
Bearing a sense of emptiness
Pressing into my spine.
Struggling to retain my sanity
with a single thread—
A rotten rope
stretched between various dreams
While suppressing nostalgia for
The golden silhouette of the wrinkled past.
In this small patch of blue,
With a wave of her hand
I could say it....
clearly, without doubt—
She's my sky.
1966
I was just 10 years old when Dad said I
was ready for the Men Only Swim Hour
at the YMCA Downtown where we were
members. He had rehearsed proper
etiquette with me many times and I was
ready, 'Behave as if you are the only
one in the pool, greet other men, and
go about your business, swim laps'
I always most enjoyed the first few
moments upon entering the pool
area, the heavy, humid air brushing
my freedom, a powerful, strangely
omnipotent sensation, like this feeling
was the natural order for a secret
society of male rulers, inviting me
into their kingdom to experience truth,
if only for an hour.
We were all equally noble, wizened
and wrinkled sages, lithe and muscled
herculeans (my Dad among these)
and me...all here just to freely wet the
whistle, for an hour.
Sit beside my bed...
Sit beside my bed...
Before my breath starts counting to naught.
One more last time,
For many lives to come,
Let our eyes meet once again to love,
Before they part..
Let me once more smell the fragrance of you
The fragrance which I adore to keep
My breath will take the last smell and go
Along with it your memories will flow.
Let me once more touch your wrinkled fingers
Once so soft like a wet rose petal
Smothered in roses under the grave
Those rubbing fingers alone will stay.
Let my heart again melt on your heat
The heat once covered me in vile winter colds
The warmth of your hugs and kisses of dew
Will fly with me to the heaven high.
While last slanting rays glaring my eyes
Sit beside my bed...
Sit beside my bed...
Tears,
a Language that God Understands
Written: by Tom Wright
10/29/01
Lord,
As tracks of Angels
you've made our tears,
Permanently tattooed
on our countenance for years.
We reminisce of those
for whom they were shed,
For those numberless souls,
appearing to us, unfed.
In their wetness,
we oft feel your embrace,
As tears
stream silently down a wrinkled face.
"Face Ruts",
having seen their share of briny flow,
Over some lost soul,
whom they perhaps don't know.
Like leaf clinging dew,
tears fall amid our sorrow,
For family and friend
without hope of tomorrow.
For awakened thoughts
once put fast asleep,
God alone, knows our heart's,
and why they give occasion for eyes to weep.
Continued from Part 1....
I ran downstairs to catch a glimpse of his face,
Just as he came down, out of the fireplace,
He was cloaked in red with a fur trimmed suit,
And covered in soot from his hat to his boot,
A large sack full of presents he carried along,
He opened it up as he hummed a Christmas song,
With much merriment his blue eyes twinkled,
His face was joyful, and yet somewhat wrinkled,
His cheeks were blushed like the berries in holly,
His snow white beard was long and quite jolly,
From his pipe came out a great puff of smoke,
He began his work and not a word he spoke,
Santa Claus was tall, with a belly quite round,
And his laughter was a most glorious sound,
I looked on with glee as a smile crossed my face,
When he approached and gave me a warm embrace,
Then, Santa placed several gifts beneath our tree,
Something for the children, and Father, and me,
He filled the stockings with sugarplums and a toy,
Which I know will delight my little girl and boy,
The midnight hour on the mantel clock chimed,
He turned, then back up the chimney he climbed,
With a whistle he signaled for his reindeer to go,
And away they flew with a hearty, "Ho, ho, ho!",
Before disappearing Santa exclaimed from his sleigh,
"To all a good night and a Happy Christmas Day!".
This was going to be an entry for Debbie Guzzi's "Santa Claus" contest.
Unfortunately, it was too long to fit all into one poem. So, I am posting it as two parts.
I will never be the girl your heart cries for.
I will never be enough for a soul that wants more
than what I can offer.
My beauty can’t be seen, only felt
by hearts that look with emotional eyes.
But you are at an age where “beautiful”
is still built on the approval of others.
I am at an age where I’ve stopped looking for acceptance.
Sometimes what we’re looking for is beyond
what the naked eye can see.
And just maybe, we are looking for two different things:
what the eyes can see, and what the heart can touch.
At your youthful age, beauty means more to you.
At my age, maturity smiles at wisdom
and acknowledges the innocence of your youth.
When you grow old, you need more
than wrinkled skin. You need what’s beneath the flesh -
a beating heart that loves you till death parts you.
So I will go my way and wish you well,
hoping you find what you’re searching for.
Metal, blood, and mascara
Half sunk a shattered visage lies,
A wrinkled lip, a sneer of cold command,
Of boundless and bare
Along the level, sands stretch far away.
the imagery of night, snow, virginity,
lipstick on cigarettes,
cars trapped in the snow,
dingy white sheets, and the chosen few ….
I still drink cider and black
Metal and blood and mascara
Of sackcloth and ashes
Black eyelashes
Blood and hot metal
Half sunk a shattered visage lies,
The ruins of a half-god
Eyes stare wide all along the sands
In a White House on a foreign shore.
Metal, mascara, and methedrine
A half shattered visage die
A wrinkled lip, a sneer of teeth
and leering eyes
Of boundless bare thighs
a hollow sun flares
Along the level,
as the sands stretch far away.
Ode to Ramesses in Poseidon depths lie…