Short Shawl Poems
Short Shawl Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Shawl by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Shawl by length and keyword.
Pure white shawl
In the ravine steeps
Shining snow
Red rose peeps
Crystalline sky greets warmly
Nature of winter
© Mahtab Bangalee
Chattogram
26/01/2023
Fluttering golden
brown leaves dancing on air falls
undressing nature
The wild geese flying
overhead a sign of peace
winter closes in
Throwing the old peat
keeping a fire burning
as cold approaches
Unassuming and natural, many did not notice Heather at first.
Her grandmother knitted her a soft blue shawl the color of her eyes.
Now she stood out, and the boys came running over to be listened to.
Why did she have to make it that color? Asked her son, Heather’s Daddy.
Coverall and A Shawl
Remember when men wore a coverall,
And in fall women will wear a shawl;
Hair had been a bun;
Thought of having fun,
Also an apron are things that I recall.
When the day did end or start and begin,
Was while women would wear an apron
Did cook a lot,
On stove in pot,
Or could crochet, knit and some flax spin.
Jim Horn
May my poems be a downy shawl
That guards against the cold;
As peaceful as the flurries fall
That about the woodlands fold.
And May my words sustain you,
Even as a coat of fur—
Warm the soul and hope renew,
As the images occur.
And should you feel the least alone,
May my rhyme a comfort be—
My words a wrap of quietude;
Of repose and harmony.
Veiled by a misty shawl of raindrops,
a shy sun fails to show its face.
And colored leaves fade fast;
for trampled underground
they morph into mold
as scarecrows sag,
abandoned
at their
posts.
~
Rain
dampens
tinder hopes:
setting a mood
oft fueled by gloom;
summoning depression.
And as Winter approaches,
a melancholy grey sky weeps
for Fall: as it bleeds into the soil.
This old gal is desperate for a new coat
Rust covers her cracked and peeling frame, but
No one seems to notice for
In Winter, an icy lace shawls warmly wraps around her.
In Spring, misty dew drapes her shoulders.
In Summer, variegated greens and blues surround her like a fine silk scarf.
In Autumn, her mottled tones are enveloped within Joseph's arms.
She stands a stately Queen robed in royal array,
Reigning over her domain with
Seasonless grace and grandeur.
There is no moon tonight.
Wine fills me with melancholy.
Movement of boats on the Seine soothe me like choral music.
Illuminated torches excite nostalgia.
The sound of an Aurignacian flute can be heard down the boulevard, or maybe only the glint of a memory.
Worn feet ache.
Tired lines tell the story of a life of curiosity in a weary smile.
An old woman knits.
She wears a faded pink shawl to cover her years.
Flour from the morning’s baking lightly coats her wooden shoes.