Long Wrist watch Poems
Long Wrist watch Poems. Below are the most popular long Wrist watch by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wrist watch poems by poem length and keyword.
Paternal Grandfather Aaron Harris...
Lovely bones long since disintegrated
into dustbin of genealogical history,
if still alive would rank as oldest person
clocking another one incremental increase
asper in chronological number
anniversary of his birth occurring within July
year unknown, but within
latter decades nineteenth century
obviously conceived nine months prior
perhaps after raucous Thanksgiving feast,
where biological exuberance
induced natural throbs activating
indomitable rutting boisterous merriment.
Nary handy dandy scant blues clue known
about biography of aforementioned
long departed grandpa
only smidgen smudged details recalled
vague nebulous memories, these predicated
upon his every now and again visits, oft
times after he relocated to Florida
sporting tanned leathery
toughened crocodile hide
predictably, invariably, delicately donning
name brand signature
wrist watch, (albeit analog)
affixed loosely dangling
from his well weathered
lobster like bony south claw,
this singularly enigmatic
eye catching jewelry
captivating, fascinating, intriguing
glittering name brand trademark timepiece
affecting myself and siblings, especially youngest
asserting, contesting, vouchsafing...,
who would occupy coveted seat
closest to simple mechanical contraption.
After supper, he would regale
us three Harris grandchildren
(offspring begat in part courtesy
his favorite native son named Boyce
thee father to yours truly)
illustrating multifarious adept skill
folding sheets of outdated newspapers
creating cut out dolls strung together,
and/or the knack whereby
with few brisk
(i.e. Jewish version of origami),
he quickly styled boats, chairs, hats
none of which survived our rambunctious
severe tests of durability,
nor could any of us kids
reproduce with any remote success,
those deceptively
seemingly easy to craft
paper dolls linkedin with joined hands.
Imagine they find your bones
in a boggy field -
it happens all the time,
speaking of which,
time is your pocket handkerchief,
your wristwatch,
and your best evening pants
all reduced to insect dust.
Only a fragment
(a rust-addled skimpy second hand)
remains to be picked up
by the pale flesh
of a much more efficient brain
than you or your many cousins
ever had.
The rest of you is much scattered,
much distributed among the small
bog dwelling children of lesser gods.
Ten or a hundred years later they may find
a distant tooth with its crown intact,
later still, a being reports your broken jaw
unearthed by the sludging rain.
Will they then have enough of your head
to commence a plaster likeness of your
drunken grin after a cocktail party,
or will they find the rest of your skull
in a deeper layer of dirt
with an old crack across its dome.
Perhaps they will assume you died
at the hands of an axe wielding foe,
never guessing
you fell heavily off your girlfriends Honda
practicing one last incautious wheelie
on a minor road in darkest Derbyshire?
Will the few decimated parts of that Honda
be thought to be a primitive metallic skeleton
of an ancient sacrificial temple?
When the elements finally reveal
more fractured bits of you
will an artificial intelligence
reassemble your last moments
while misinterpreting
the age and time of your mediocre your life?
Will they solidify your that life
the way we reconstruct diorama’s
of mastodon herds grazing in tall grass,
while illustrating for dramatic effect,
menacingly concealed packs
of saber tooth tigers lying in wait.
Be very sure to care of your wrist watch,
for they who excavate your posterity
will probably misplace your existence
by at least ten thousand years,
not that you, like the mastodons, will care,
but they might.
Maybe you thought of bluebells
Proudly displayed in a little hand
Maybe you thought of a pocket watch
Given as a gift upon conformation
Maybe you thought of an alarm clock
Bought when you moved out
Maybe you thought of a sister clock
A sister clock; straight from the box
Maybe you thought of a childrens watch
A watch with a name; given
Maybe you thought of a wrist watch
The watch you have looked at; for so long
Maybe you thought of a watch; in a value bag
Returned to next of kind
I heard the church bells toll
They called out as a reminder
There will be sorrow
There will be joy
She wakes from a dream, dripping with tears of sweat pouring down her face. Her long blonde hair is pasted to her forehead as she sits up in her bed. The clock reads 3:03am. Her heart is pounding rhythmically to the ticking of her wrist watch. Her long legs that are wrapped in her white down comforter are extremely cold, and she realizes that a harsh draft is seeping through the window sill beside her bed. As she pulls back the curtains to check the window for cracks in the ledge, her eyes grow wide with amazement. The street lights reveal swirls of frosted confetti which overwhelm the pitch blackness of the night. It has not snowed this hard since she was a little girl and suddenly the terror of her dream dissipates. She jumps out of bed, slips on her purple fuzzy slippers, along with her matching robe and runs down the stairs.
The stars glisten
Illuminating shadows-
Icicles hang still
Her front door swings open from the harsh embrace of the wind and she manages to drift on to her porch. Her foot prints smear the freshly painted deck but they are quickly filled up again by the urgency of heavens winter release. Her eyes begin to spill like water falls and her rosy face along with the rest of her body goes numb. However, the arctic chill was worth it to her. The last time she had seen her father was on a night like this. He loved the snow and every part of its splendor reminded her of him. The howling in the air, the cold that cut through her pajama pants like a knife, the snowflakes the size of marshmallows and the cars that look like giant igloos. Even the smell of the wood burning across the street in her neighbor’s fireplace all made her feel like her father was near. It was like heaven had stopped by to visit her this night.
By: Sabina Nicole
Contest: winter
I invented a new season for life because I got tired of the winter spring summer fall pattern
My paisley doesn't like to conform to the depression of polka dots only on the pocket square and not the entire outfit
Where's the art in the plain white t?
I see the aesthetic, but I want the screaming art to argue with my calm voice
It's the beauty in the pain that you can't see until the scars have enough time to grow wings
I used to feel most at peace listening to music on my bed as a haunting sleep would close my eyes
I used to feel most at peace under the dim lights of cinema pumping hope into my veins where I had blood run free
I used to feel most at peace on the solidarity of solo ventures between the court and I
It would hum deathly echoes like lullaby's to my heart
This trinity became my medical addiction as pride got in the way of God
Then over the years my coffee finally became cold, and I missed the warmth of summer
I could smell my own toxicity deeply rooted and swallowing my faith
So, I questioned myself through the tears, I marked the points of pain with my pen, and dug up the weeds I planted and reaped
This time I will sow truth within the uncomfortable moments
Because in this season until forever I'm most at peace on the grounds of the earthquake
Knowing that I can't move forward unless I shake things up
Staying in a comfortable pattern only leads to a broken record repeating the line you hate to hear
You are meant to break records
p.s. peace is born in the growth of pain...
7.
the leaf of jack-fruit is luxuriant
i can’t remember whether i ever notice
the portrait of your face on it
there are so many words
that are slippery
how much rustic is the dust of the legs
of the young person is known to the road of the city
daubing green on both palms
i call for rain …oh rain ..oh rain
and into that rain i let my wrist-watch float
thus the great rainbow unfolds its wise mirror
on the scaffold of bottle-gourd
from the bright cloth-end falling down
the odour of detergent
thus the applied mathematics of the diesel
is learnt to a greater extent
8.
behind the change of colour of the swelled wind
the samovar plays no role
though you know it you tear off tears
from your eyes
and the merry biscuits that are kept in the jar
raise a joint demand to serve them
after wrapping with new banana-leaves
and the funny thing is that no accounts is found out
of the expenditure on the lip-stick that was used
by the fishes in the aquarium at the time of illness
of the antenna
by the hands of the clock stretching their shanks apart
is it possible to know the actual age of a comb
either it’s costly or cheap
Although I was retired and full of energy,
My heartbeat was irregular and slow.
They would beat slow, pause, and restart.
I never saw it coming, but I was slowly dying.
I passed out several times, but still was clueless.
I quickly awaken after each pass-out, but there
Was one occasion when I passed out in the kitchen.
I was all alone and asleep on the kitchen floor, and my
Son awakened me. Had I been home alone, I would have
Surely died. Sometime after that incident and after turning
65, I went in for a physical exam. My primary doctor, among
Other things, checked my heart and referred me to a cardiologist.
The heart specialist spoke plain language to me with great analogy.
The cardiologist informed me that our hearts come with a pacemaker,
But mine was like a 6-cylinder engine with 2 or 3 spark plugs malfunctioning.
Their solution was the insertion of a pacemaker that would greatly assist my
Heart. With an 8-year life span, the pacemaker would interact with the heart. It would set the pace for the rate and number of beats per minute normally
Required for me. I was reluctant to their remedy, but 6 months later, I was Provided a pacemaker. I tell you, she's the size of a wrist watch, and sitting
Just below my left shoulder is a warrior, a tropper, a pace-setter who has been Fighting for me and my heart for 7 years, keeping us alive. With one pill and
An aspirin a day, my pacemaker, expected to serve me for 8 years, is doing Just fine. God, the love of my life, is GOOD, and His Grace is sufficient.
051422PSCtest, How you live or have been healed from a difficult and challenging health condition, Angela Tune
One’s Lesser Twin
by Odin Roark
Everyone’s got one
The hand that uses a mitt
To catch the ball
You know
That other fingered appendage
Whose achievements
Claim to fame
Is without celebration
Save the privilege
Of wearing the wrist watch
And of course
Saving the game…occasionally
Comparison with its double
Hampers its best effort
Knowing full well
Writing
Affixing a signature
Opens many doors
Locked to the minor assistant
Yet
Hope knows reward
For in Homer’s Elysian Fields
Located on Earth’s western edge
By the stream of Okeanos
Shortcomings will find solace
Short straws
Becoming the long
Affording privilege
While the once favored
Will provide support
Dream of such moments
My lesser twin
For time rushes forward
Even as I pen this thought
And your shielding hand
Holds at bay
The cheating eyes of our school days
Now grown adult
They remain anxious
Ready to continue
Their cheating and stealing
Forget not
As our shadows eventually merge
Into the underworld
Fate’s right hand too
Will sigh its relief
No longer to carry
Expectation’s burden
The baton will have passed
To the lessor twin
Carpe Diem
The guy she hired to do me in,
unbeknownst to her,
was one of the blokes on Friday nights
with whom I played poker.
All this time she thought I lied
and was having a sordid affair,
because I didn’t tell her with whom I played
or even let her know where.
My secret was, they were all convicts
from an earlier part of my life;
back when I was a different sort
than the one now known by my wife.
He said he ‘bout laughed when first he learned
the identity of the guy she wanted to kill;
“Imagine”, he said, “She thought a turd like you,
could even find another dumb girl!”
“Well, if she wants me dead
who am I, to stop her from getting her wish?
Just tell her that you did me in
and now I sleep with the fish.”
I gave him my wallet and my wrist watch
to give to her as proof;
Then I laid low and stayed out of sight
not telling anyone the truth.
The police case closed; the insurance settled –
a service was held for me;
The would be killer collected his fee
and we split it fifty-fifty.
Then late one night I snuck in her room
to even up the score;
a noise woke her up; she caught a glimpse of me
and fainted to the floor.
The suicide note was full of pain
and sorrow for her husband who died;
I swear I wrote it so passionately
it nearly made me cry.
You can’t be murdered by a man who is dead
so no one suspected my crime;
and now I live in the Florida Keys
having a wonderful time.
by Joe Flach, written and posted on 10/6/11 for the "Getting Away With Murder" contest.
Technological marvel:
who’d have ever guessed?
They went to the moon,
powered by less.
The thing receives phone calls,
it’s got GPS,
a mindfulness app
for when you are stressed.
It monitors heart rate,
can produce EKGs,
prompts you when it’s time:
take your medicine, please.
Blood-oxygen levels,
hours of REM sleep;
If you’re under the water,
it knows just how deep.
If you’re lost in the woods,
it will help get you back,
or blast a loud siren
if you’re under attack.
The steps that you took,
the stairs that you climbed,
record a voice memo
to capture a rhyme.
Listening to music,
or receiving a text,
keep up with your groceries,
so your wife won’t be vexed.
For the gals, tracking cycles,
and for all, track your phone,
keeps up with the NASDAQ,
and the stocks that you own.
But it doesn’t record
all the things that you missed -
Life in arrest,
watching your wrist.