Long Awry Poems
Long Awry Poems. Below are the most popular long Awry by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Awry poems by poem length and keyword.
I am the keeper of the cauldron,
Where a potion I do make.
A potion of wisdom and knowledge
For my son, Afgddu, to take.
My daughter Crearwy, born of light,
Fair and lovely is she.
My son, so dark and malevolent,
Was offensive for the eye to see
For one year I have been preparing a brew
To give wisdom and prophecy
As a gift to my son to compensate
For the ugliness that is he.
My powers of wisdom and prophecy
I would, with my son, share.
To give to him when the moon is full,
From the cauldron waiting there.
My servant, Gwion, was stirring the pot
And best laid plans went awry.
On himself he spilled the potion
And with his new found wisdom, did fly.
For Gwion has fled, he knows I give chase
And he hides in many forms.
But I change as well as I hunt him down
And I've become the hen, to his corn.
The lamb of March morphs into a lion,
and with a roar, Winter asserts its might.
As the Pleiades flee from Orion,
the lamb of March morphs into a lion.
Late flurries bury the dandelion,
denying shoots warmth and essential light.
The lamb of March morphs into a lion,
and with a roar, Winter asserts its might.
Denying shoots warmth and essential light:
Spring's earliest blooms may wither and die.
Winter's reign is almost through, but not quite;
denying shoots warmth and essential light.
Red-breasted Robins are a welcome sight,
as tepid breezes summon them to fly.
Denying shoots warmth and essential light;
Spring's earliest blooms may wither and die.
As tepid breezes summon them to fly;
flocks of migrating songbirds head back home.
Yes, they're coming, not a word of a lie,
as tepid breezes summon them to fly.
Unaware that March tends to go awry,
they arrive in a land of monochrome.
As tepid breezes summon them to fly;
flocks of migrating songbirds head back home.
This thick mucous essentially
the defense mechanism of a healthy
body electric to restore biz zee nose
as usual, which for this mild mannered
liberal leitmotif from the chronicle of one
matted nattering nabob of nativity attests
congested mob functioning like
a well lubricated machine, yet
for the life of me, nary a handy dandy
blues clues evident as per, how
the human entity empowered
to steamroll over
any reasonably annoying bugaboo.
Ah, now if only a similar innate
defense mechanism arose
within the mental health,
that would be a supreme testament
to thine atheistic tasty mints of miracles
minus the attendant pharmacopeia
of this, that or some other drug to aright
skewered psyche (of this contemplative,
emotive and intuitive literate outlier),
whose sixty two plus eight shades
of gray matter went awry and skewed
toward tipping point (to cope with ordinary
cares and concerns of an uncertain
whirled wide web) found the bulk
of his life riddled with a joe king,
gun slinging tub back ha chew win,
bard **** wordsmith,
who doth newt like to utter any
cryptographic crossword.
There was a loud explosion, followed by shouts of glee
The rat-a-tat-tat of gunshot, was suddenly surrounding me
It was much to my horror that my husband bought the game
And to watch my boys playing it, nearly drove me insane.
They blew things up, they shot at them, and they loved every shot
“But it will warp their minds” I said, my husband said “It will not.”
He promised he would sit with them, but that’s cos he wanted to play
And he said he could drum into them that it is just a game that day.
I peered round the doorway, I watched him guide them through
They cheered, and laughed at gruesome bits, my husband cringed a bit too
But as they grew they learned, but I know this is not true of all
Mine are both big wimps, and even husband on seeing blood will fall.
They cannot stand needles, a paper cut makes them cry
They cannot watch the news, when there is death and destruction awry
So in all honesty I don’t agree with violence in video games at all
But I think it’s up to the parents to make the final call.
Children in days of old, shot each other with a home made stick gun
They made swords out of anything, and always fought to the death in fun.
Play has changed they are safer inside, the trouble now I think this is it
Is when they are left to their own devices and the videos are used just to baby-sit.
©3/01/2013
~GG~
Contest Entry
Every four years and it seems that every year in between,
Politicians prey upon the masses venting their usual spleen,
Promising this and promising that saying they will deliver!
The scatological babble flows like a flooding tidewater river!
Candidates and their pals prowl about the nation to promote,
Anything they think we ought to hear, anything to get our vote!
They vow to build a local dam and provide universal medical care,
Lower the national debt and clean up the smog polluted air!
They promise never to raise taxes, looking us dead in the eye.
We've heard that one before - they'll increase 'em bye and bye!
When they proclaim, "I have a plan!" we become very suspicious.
They expound on grand schemes - most of which turn out to be fictitious!
Farmers are assured they'll get top prices for beef, corn and wheat,
While promising consumers they'll pay less for what they eat!
They promise new roads, bridges, sewers, schools and such,
But once in office they seem so remote and out of touch!
Regardless of their party affiliation, politicians are all the same.
When things go awry, they take no responsibility nor any blame.
And when at last that exalted office they at last attain,
Alas, it seems all those great promises were made to us in vain!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
COUPLET
After a couple of Tequila Sunrise
so I swap my drink that'll keep open my eyes
so I had a glass of Kahlua and cream
that's a blunder as I fell into a dream
INNER RHYME
I awoke that felt like a cape of good dope
morning sun I think of myself as undone
but what finds me amiss is what all of this
all awry the land slants slights but not the sky
END RHYME
No matter where I roam sand sea smells like home
glad I be if it's true but sad though I knew
a place that's all new naught a place where I grew
I walk and I moan knowing I am alone
RHYME
Flowers of blinding beauty scents that steal souls
sandy beaches where surf surges and tides ebb
eddibles and delectables island naturals
but minus the faces I know ease my schlep.
No, no, no~ the human race is far from going away.
Some of our brightest days, ever...are definitely headed our way.
Don't let rabble rousers in the streets acting like fools and clowns.
Dampen the human spirit of you, your family or your hometown.
Fools and anger, a horrendous mix, like a cocktail gone awry.
You watch them poured on you, alas, by satellite shakers in the sky.
That's their job, to cause you to worry and to fret.
Do not listen to these cynical, high priced fools, whom you have never met.
Make your plans, dream your dreams, there always is a tomorrow.
Alas, if you have none, alas , you might face emptiness and sorrow.
June 15, 2020.
2pm PST
Poem # 1,244
The crashing waves hit the bow, as we cut through waters deep.
Clasped in irons that cut the skin; forged in the fires that never sleep.
The desert was dry, the sun beat down, I am free as a bird
The breeze tickled through the oasis, near the camel herd
Now my love is fading, like the burnt embers of those flames.
I am now branded a thief and prisoner, amongst some other names.
The hate I felt for the whore that tried to give his love to me.
Was so strong I felt I could kill him, my love he will never see.
I stole for her a flower, a simple heart felt gift.
The perfume now a memory, on this prison galleon adrift.
I am traveling to my wedding, across the desert so hot and dry.
Perfumed flower petals along the way, by slaves are scattered awry.
Seven years the price for my gift of love it did gain.
Hard labour I endure, to avoid the leather cat pain.
My arms are full of bracelets, and pearls hang round my neck.
I never think of him, now shackled on that deck.
Her kisses sublime, a memory fading, the perfume of her skin and hair
The price is high but I will pay, I took her from him to be fair.
To think I could have kissed. him makes my skin fairly crawl.
But the plan worked well, for my new rich lover, it managed to enthrall.
Slaves to love, there is no choice, when our hearts lead us astray.
I stand here windswept and tear stained, with seven years to pay.
How dry my eyes now he has gone, freedom is beckoning me.
So easy it was to frame him, now he has seven years before he is free.
I stand in the wind, rope in hand, waves crashing all around.
My ankles are bleeding with the chains, and the cat makes a whistling sound.
I lay on cushions with rings on my fingers the slaves are fanning me.
My wrists are bathed in rose oil, and kissed perpetually.
My love is strong, my heart is given, and I know I will endure.
My love will wait for me, my beauty, my life, my own sweet amour.
Thank goodness I kept my heart for me, and for me alone.
This thing called love is foolish, my heart it has never known.
In collaboration with Declan Fitzgerald who started the story off which made it easy to alternate my side of the story as a femme fatale between his couplets.
There was a painting offered as inspiration for this contest. I'm sorry I'm not able to include it for lack of a premium membership, but I hope I've managed, just a little, to set the scene with imagery.
Moonlight was diffused by a shadowed sky
Thunder hammered with the power of Thor
Sullen clouds released a deluge in downpour
Something about the night had gone awry
There was a flash of lightning; a blaring scream
With heart wrenching sobs, a woman wept
Her raven tresses billowed, wild and windswept
She appeared before me as a specter in a dream
I hesitated to call out, in fear she'd run away
but I could not ignore another mournful wail
Her arms were thin and she was ghostly pale
She shivered, trembled, and began to sway
She was frightened as though chased by death
Words were mumbled, but none of them clear
Her eyes searched the night, panicked with fear
I spoke calmly until she regained her breath
Her last memory was that she had gone to bed
and was having a nightmare about being stalked
Quite a distance from her home, she had walked
when lightning's crackle woke her from dread
I helped her home, sidestepping puddles of mud
She still trembled, not interested in conversation
She thanked me, but I had a moment of hesitation...
The porch light revealed she was covered in blood
August 6, 2020
Be Inspired Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Regina McIntosh
(alternately titled: impossible mission goes awry
probably mortal enemy cast spell binding jinx)
Both mental versus
physical tasks necessitate
laser sharp attentiveness
triggered within blinks
similarly on par when people toast
momentary instance utter silence
before more'n one
wine glass simultaneously clinks
cheering hurray, especially
if delicate circumstance
incorporates telecommunications downlinks
critical vital communique transmitted courtesy
think outlier (christened
Saint Matthew Scott Harris)
with acute instincts
held hostage between warp,
and woof fifth of dimension
far away beyond where
outer limits exhibits kinks
nsync with twilight zone
dwell alienated ratfinks
resembling authentic animated
Doctor Seuss characters
where one after another
third eye blind winks.
Lame excuse told cosmic speck (me)
sending yours truly on wild goose chase
an underhanded way to rub
inept feeble poetaster punster
out webbed wide world existence
purportedly great eats boasted
deep inside black hole sun pub
must make posthaste
to nearest galactic grubhub
mission control haint made no flub
boot deliberately thought
ineffectual doling out futile drub
cuz mister flibbertigibbet (me)
ostracized from highly selective club.
The aforementioned synopsis and
ultimate banishment cheered with big bang
decreed courtesy kangaroo court
constituting beastie boy gang
think star wars movie,
where farcical charges trumped
offering accused two choices,
either to hang
suspended (think piñata) and beat
to (fictional) pulp
torturers obviously ignoring pang
of utter emasculation, but rather sang
a song of sixpence*
while downing flasks of vintage tang
crafty entrepreneur William A. Mitchell in 1957
phallic drinking vessels
resembling Chewbacca's oversize wang.
---------------------------------------------------
*Lyrics
Sing a Song of Sixpence
BY MOTHER GOOSE
Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye,
Four and twenty blackbirds
Baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened
The birds began to sing—
Wasn't that a dainty dish
To set before the king?
The king was in the counting-house
Counting out his money,
The queen was in the parlor
Eating bread and honey,
The maid was in the garden
Hanging out the clothes.
Along came a blackbird
And snipped off her nose.