Long Artful Poems
Long Artful Poems. Below are the most popular long Artful by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Artful poems by poem length and keyword.
Days, Months and Years all reach the end
Time takes them away without suspend
The rivers farewell the banks, head to the bay
Our planet never repeats the old pathway
Man survives by modifying the environments
Glorifying and glooming eras of history events
Beautiful stone cities have been demolished
In the seabed where artful palaces abolished
Day by day we endure the different sufferings
Even wealthy people’s life hangs on the string
Sickness and death shadow our life at anytime
Near dead body, the fresh flowers become dry
Since the breath allows us admiring blue sky
Let us recognize that Time rules our single life
Let us realize the boundary of good and bad acts
And be prepare to admit their inner impacts
Xaysouvanh Phengphong
(laoampilotwriter.blogspot.com)
You are a soligaster of the highest order, held in pristine favor by your court. A wordsmith after Satan’s own heart.
Champion of Doublespeak, a demonstrative firebrand with a MAGA-phone. An artful dodger, complete with chaotic DOGE.
Delusions more grandiose than Bonaparte, crowned King of Deception you be a celebrated charlatan who follies in the scam.
Hats off to the Misleader of the Free World, ‘Trumping’ reality in monolith farce filled fallacies, fabulously flaunting fake.
Protagonists of propaganda. Promoter of pandemonium. You thrive in ‘Mythomania’ unraveling truths with charismatic flare.
Purveyor of provocation.
Pestilence peddling Prince of Calamity. May you find solace amongst the shameless.
As much as I love to watch her undress
and anticipate what her reasons for doing so might be,
I find nothing more erotic than to watch her step out of the morning shower
and begin to prepare herself for the coming day.
I lay in bed, pretending to still sleep,
sans the clothing that encumbers my peaceful rest,
secretly watching her go about the morning rituals.
Wrapping a towel around her wet hair while standing in front of the full length mirror,
taking a sideways glance in my direction to make sure I am still asleep,
which I feign so well,
before twisting and turning her torso to make sure no parts were oddly misshaped in the night.
Wriggling into a pair of undies, of various shapes and colors,
making sure they fit perfectly to flatter her curves
and applying makeup before going on her search for a misplaced brassier.
The faces she makes in the mirror that she flips back and forth
to alternately magnify then reflect her image
highlighted through the artful application of makeup,
make me smile.
I cannot prevent the twitching and rising of the sheet covering my manhood.
Then, the head towel is removed and her hair spills out.
The raised arms brushing and blow-drying her hair
provides the opportunity I needed to feast on her, still bare, supple breasts.
By now, she is pleased by, but pretends not to notice the affect she has on me.
When, finally, she spies a bra that suits her wardrobe selection,
I watch her carefully place each breast in the cup provided,
making the necessary adjustments for comfort,
before she begins ironing those items which she next will don.
The graceful dance she performs around the ironing board,
first with her blouse, then with her pants or skirt,
I openly watch and enjoy,
no longer feeling the need to hide my level of awareness.
Having completed her morning’s preparedness,
she approaches me for a good-bye kiss,
smiles at me,
reaches under the covers to where I have grown,
kisses me lightly on the cheek,
and says,
“Later”.
I love mornings.
When seeking to write
a poem, no need to
descend into deep, dank
mysterious wells of
creation – after great depth
only to come upon
one's ignitable soul-fuel
my muse, for example,
far more accessible, generally
wearing just a glistening
strand of peals, basking
in a warmth of sunlight
for poetry is less the self
making new composition, and
more a process of internal revelation
one's own essence
radiating back the lyrics
of a poet's exclamatory spirit
calling up and out
for conscious reunification
with the Divinity of
All Declarative Being –
the celebration of freeing
that which is already
written – a penetrable
gazing crystal entrancing
artful nature into greater
self-awareness –
hidden truth distilled in
each vein long before
the tea and patterned reading
the poet first learns release
if to learn poetry; begins
by turning those internal whispers
into clear explorable volumes
slicing open, and peeling back
the skins of words, shattering
shells, releasing flocks of
phrases and images, making
yoke-leftovers into omelets
stuffed with eclectic tastes for
sharing
one writes to consume
and be consumed –
poetry, a sacred ceremony of life and death~
the poet his own baptizing priest while cold
handed embalmer.
My beautiful body is another divine creation,
every part, so perfect, is guided by this wisest, most sinless heart,
which will not make it err when temptation
tries to weaken it by making it remember the bitterness of regrets.
Nudity imparts its own beauty when it's considered the temple of purity;
nonetheless, it came from God's thoughts and artful hands;
so why should we be ashamed of it, if it is shown accordingly?
Many have exploited it for monetary gains and this is the plague of our society!
My image is gladly seen in the clearest mirror,
inducing awareness, amazement, and gratefulness,
never thinking of defiling it with unworthy offers;
even Satan is plotting against me and waving war!
Immoral persons won't hesitate to show their lewd interest,
thus taking advantage of someone needing the desperate break;
these people corrupt any soul to rob it of dignity by their kind amenity...
where's your sense of keenness, when it comes to viewing your sexuality?
My beautiful body is another divine creation,
wonderfully and perfectly made to use it adequately;
glances of admiration by others may be full of inequity,
and adulating words will not flatter me, knowing their deception.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Blue diaphane, tobacco smoke
Serpentine on wet film and wood glaze,
Mutes chrome, wreathes velvet drapes,
Dims the cave of mirrors.
Ghost fingers
Comb seaweed hair, stroke acquamarine veins
Of marooned mariners, captives
Of Circe's sultry notes.
The barman
Dispenses igneous potions ?
Somnabulist, the band plays on.
Cocktail mixer, silvery fish
Dances for limpet clients.
Applause is steeped in lassitude,
Tangled in webs of lovers' whispers
And artful eyelash of the androgynous.
The hovering notes caress the night
Mellowed deep indigo ?still they play.
Departures linger.
Absences do not
Deplete the tavern.
They hang over the haze
As exhalations from receded shores.
Soon
, Night repossesses the silence, but till dawn
The notes hold sway, smoky
Epiphanies, possessive of the hours.
This music's plaint forgives, redeems
The deafness of the world.
Night turns
Homewards, sheathed in notes of solace, pleats
The broken silence of the heart.
- Wole Soyinka -
Like a tumbleweed aimlessly blowing in the wind
across infinitely open and wide prairie home companion land
(which wasteland famously epitomized by T.S. Elliot)
a barren vista ravages metaphorical landscape
of one measly mortal malcontent male
bumping and scraping along accursed habiliment
just barely avoiding and dodging diabolical demons
mercilessly and unrelentingly ready
to seduce this somewhat sanguine Simian
who finds himself amidst the pitfalls
of a tortured and twisted existence
racked with pinions describe bing
a demonic dragon filled dungeon
damp, dark, demented domains –
a veritable no man’s land
impossible to escape no matter how fast I -
as a foo fighter flee
from the fearful, fierce-some phantasmagoric forms
figments of my imagination seemingly real
tangible as bone and flesh
who haunt sacred crowded house of slumber
transmogrify me into a loathsome madman
ranting raving senseless gibberish and sic gobbledygook
perceived as metaphysically n philosophically insane
as soundgarden syllabification
from one womanly World Wide Web wayfarer
which virtual vagabond venerates vowels
and possesses means and tees to till verse
akin to a sorceress who waves a magic wand
to produce supreme sentences
weaves tantalizing terrific tweed topographic tundra’s
that this admirer of her artful and colorful poetic endeavors
prompts me to accompany my mindscape
as a thought-provoking troubadour
amidst the information super byways and highways
along winding labyrinths of critical thinking
or simply stepping o'er rolling stones
of silly rhymes without wing less reason
all the while giving subtle egress
into that chamber of secrets
long kept shut tight to maintain
that sure footed stance of solitude
whose only entities happened
to constitute trappings of literary lugubriousness
those tombs of largesse identified
as great works and masterpieces of literature
yet careful to avoid complete intimacy
lest that cherished solitude shattered
and a heart rent asunder
twin tower ring inferno imp perils of loss that provide
an understandable cautionary tale
to the author of this rambling missive
a most profoundly perceptive acute Ape man
touched to the quick with a bit of angel dust
aware that this agonized and angst riddled arboreal beast
contents himself with the confines of cyberspace!
You are a soligaster of the highest order, held in pristine favor by your court. A wordsmith after Satan’s own heart.
Champion of Doublespeak, a demonstrative firebrand with a MAGA-phone. An artful dodger, complete with chaotic DOGE.
Delusions more grandiose than Bonaparte, crowned King of Deception you be a celebrated charlatan who follies in the scam.
Hats off to the Misleader of the Free World, ‘Trumping’ reality in monolith farce filled fallacies, fabulously flaunting fake.
Protagonists of propaganda. Promoter of pandemonium. You thrive in ‘Mythomania’ unraveling truths with charismatic flare.
Purveyor of provocation.
Pestilence peddling Prince of Calamity. May you find solace amongst the shameless.
The Historical Museum*
Has a wonderful collection
Of the drawings done by Hirschfeld,**
Waiting there for your inspection.
As you view his work you’ll realize
He’s the Caricature King;
From his sketchpad and his pencils,
Magic images would spring.
He could capture a celebrity
With just a few quick strokes.
Most were honored to be subjects
Of his playful, artful pokes.
But the fun in all his sketches,
Once his daughter was alive,
Lies in looking for the Nina’s,
(Starting 1945).
For her name was always hidden
In the lines upon the page,
Giving viewers quite a challenge,
In which many would engage.
Sometimes there’d be many Nina’s
In which case he’d let you know
By a number written next to
His cool signature below.
If you visit the exhibit,
You can sit in Hirschfeld’s chair
And pretend you’re hiding Nina’s,
With his humor and his flair.
*New York Historical Society
**Al Hirschfeld
oh, let me tell you a twisted tale . . .
of robin hood and a merry band of followers
but my story does not take place in folklore but in reality
todays story is of an archer, a person skilled with swords and words
skilled in disguise, taking many false faces
and like robin hood of ancient tales, draped in green but this green is jealousy
like the saying goes, birds of a feather flock together
blanketed in secrecy, having no moral compass to guide the evil
oh the hate is a cancer on my poems and beautiful words
my poetry a garden ravaged by this outlaw with a sharp arrow
devious, crafty, sly, calculating, deceitful, fake, scheming, shifty
we know each false disguise you hide behind
every fraudulent name and game
oh, back to the story . .
lets raise the curtain to this ancient tale
this robin hood and a merry band of followers
pretend to be good and kind but shoot arrows
trying to murder my words
from dark hidden places, mingling joyfully
shifty and crooked, shady but quite artful in ways of destruction
a shining star shaped shield of silliness
the way is dangerous in this spider web of lies
bloods seeps from my broken heart like red tears
leaf-strewn gales utter low wails like violins on my murdered poems
robin hood and the merry band of followers
spit them out like stones
and when I read their words, the words squirm like snakes
robin hood of ancient lore stole from the rich to give to the poor
this robin hood steals our poetic muse
not quite the hero of old
but be assured your swords and sharp arrows are nothing to me
because my poems will sail like swans on quiet waters long after you
are burning down below for your deceitful ways
______________________________
January 21, 2016
Poetry/Free Verse/twisted
Copyright Protected, ID 16-747-746-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Twisted Robin Hood
Sponsor, C.T.
Third Place