Short Peelings Poems
Short Peelings Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Peelings by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Peelings by length and keyword.
Watermelons as
Roses bloom, while these peelings;
Leaves make room for drops
Within flesh of such redness,
Dyed with the purest juices.
power
dreaming
leads to
warlords
scheming
leads to
tempers
steaming
leads to
weapons
teeming
leads to
children
screaming
leads to
shattered
feelings
leads to
revenge
peelings
leads to
slowly
healing
and then
we hope
peaceful
dealings
Cat speaks to me
Bloodless meows
And tranquil purrs —
We share a bond of trust
Though no common language
No prose, no poetry;
No organs or bells yet
Clearly sensed a collective chant —
Spirit knows our true cappella
Dialect skins, and beneath the Peelings —
Pines, my native line and birth
From you I came without a dearth
Pines, I shall call you with mirth
To you I return with my vision to unearth
Returning with unearthly wealth
Simple works I offer, not burn
Honor is yours, over my urn.
Toils are not made to harden one's feelings
Or break a heart of stone that churn
Rather to soften outer peelings.
We walked over the rough soil
previously churned by machine,
exposing potatoes to open air.
Mechanized harvesting
sheds debris
like careless love hands
whose only aim is gain.
We picked up those potatoes
scattered like rubbish,
floating on ocean waves.
Peelings pitched as casually
as the unwanted debris of our lives,
left a freezer stocked
for an entire winter.
There's an old cliché,
One man's trash . . .
Straight-up the arrows,
hard-pressed the doors
to all the rooms
in all the houses
on Clark Street.
Father Coughlin brought blessings
thinned with broth
from potato peelings.
Women poured tears
into fringed shawls,
and buried their dead
above Dublin’s seashore,
along the banks
of the river Liffey.
Through the years,
the ghost of James Clark,
Bugsy’s brother-in-law,
pursued Al Capone
all the way to his grave.
Drenched in Red, with St. Valentine
Straight-up the arrows,
hard-pressed the doors
to all the rooms
in all the houses
on Clark Street.
Father Coughlin brought blessings
thinned with broth
from potato peelings.
Women poured tears
into fringed shawls,
and buried their dead
above Dublin’s seashore,
along the banks
of the river Liffey.
Through the years,
the ghost of James Clark,
Bugsy’s brother-in-law,
pursued Al Capone
all the way to his grave.
I fall in love,
why do i love others?
why do i waste time brothers?
imagine, without love,
what ‘ll be the face of this world?
could you survive in hate withheld?
Love is only to care someone’s feelings.
a natural process for nerves heelings.
everyone’s likes a sweet voice for fair dealings.
or would you like to blow up peelings?
never mind, you can live as human,
to enjoy friendship with children and a woman.
or you can live as a beast,
to kill, rape others to spread criminal dust.