Short Varicose Poems
Short Varicose Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Varicose by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Varicose by length and keyword.
Blue, spiny, varicose veins
years of hard work to appraise
clotted arteries heart's door strains
life's temporal lease instantly frays
You're so varicose vein,
Youth is gone again,
I suppose I'm still lucky,
I found my glasses, you see,
That's as good as it gets today,
Let's hear it for oldies, yah!
After Christmas we both were driven insane,
That could be seen in our each varicose vein;
As we speak,
Body weak,
And forever in both legs will always remain.
Jim Horn
Upright and mobile with the help of a cane
So I still have some years though a lot has changed
When age takes hold
And you see some mold
Maybe time to check out those varicose veins
the cracks and crevices
of varicose veins
and ugly nervous breakdowns
in an impervious facade
of a world
I pretend to belong to
I still want to hold your hand or a part of you
I break rhythm because life does too
My ode to shorts---
We look like fat dorks,
When it's not so cold,
Even if we're so old,
Can't hide varicose veins,
Old age doesn't go away,
We know we look dorby,
We're all well past forty,
Summer's so darn hot,
Heat's a bit of a shock,
We know we're fat dorks,
Has anyone really thought,
We'd look good in these shorts?
I will be with you until the end of our lives,
when we are old and grey and covered in hives,
We will share a cup for our dentures,
and go on day out adventures,
Holding hands in the street,
rubbing talc in each other's feet,
We’ll count each other's varicose veins,
and then we'll go for a walk,
with our matching simmer frames,
Oh what a life it will be,
the things that make us happy,
are what make you and me.
A spider thin calligraphy, a varicose script
upon the shallow sheen of mortality.
Are these the genetics of a divine act
arriving as green stems,
weeds and blooms all in a tangle?
A scratchy nib of doodled ideas?
Behold the dying and the replenishing,
the glory of the shedding.
All this upon a tumbled forest floor
where imagination plods daily.
More marks upon a blank page
developing slow
in the low light of scribbled thoughts.
More night flowerings and late sweepings.