Long Bashfulness Poems
Long Bashfulness Poems. Below are the most popular long Bashfulness by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bashfulness poems by poem length and keyword.
The limb elongates in the bodies flayed attempt at survival.
Internal struggle, intelligently struggling in the maintaining of oxygen in a Bold yet desperate display. Feeble gravities
Lunging, Lurching behind from within where wheels turn till a grasp,
grips a palm heavy & ten digits stick.
Heaven sent on Godspeed Hell-bound down to stand dim-witted, in await on the Devils' wing.
War-torn legless soldiers tip-toe down the shadow of death.
Then 'Battle Panthers' pounce sunk down well past dawn,
Commence the plan, sharp with a thin edge.
Approach them cold, except.
Accept, Blood flow in the shade of an Assault Machine.
Dust, sleep in those eyes.
Bloodshot and eyesores alike,
litter the land to become paint to my landscapes elicit bashfulness banished to the whitens life behind snowcapped eyes of the irrevocably blind.
Boulders retained locked in pain staking strain.
bare shoulders maintain Bolder in a crushing composure.
In the embrace of enemies,
On the eve' of deceit.
Decompress in a vacuum space, tight, beneath a new peak
a Zizith thread, a Zenith thread.
Found a home where the avalanches' onslaught shifts before rest.
"It's Murder on the Knees".
Got to try it sometime.
If not us then who?
If not now then soon.
Bold Favors; Bold Flavors.
Written: October 26, 2023
____________________________________
Solace reached through alienation and wisdom
An oasis of calm in a harsh nature seldom
Money and power, as well as sex and death,
Now is a time of opposite frailty and wealth.
Divine and modest, human and synthetic
Painstaking, stressful, poor, and pathetic.
Stress and primal ideas in the civic sphere
And amid those, I cherished them and fled in tear.
Once, I was clasped by their tenderness.
In a bed of swollen truth and senile tendinous
After waking up many times, I believe I foresee
Release of the shackles that utterly tied me.
Swollen, overworked womb and genitalia
Beaten by seasons until coming to Saturnalia
Dreaming and conscious, reticent and cheerful
Death and resurrection induce heed to be dull.
Laughter and bashfulness, kindness and gentleness
Sitting alone by my worth, I am feeling pensileness.
Standing on the water's edge, I may ultimately relax.
Inward, trying to find alternate exits with impacts
Indeed, to "be" is to exist at this exact time.
Cast off the constraints of history to be sublime.
Finally, live a life that fulfills your inner desires.
A soul stood dumbfounded by the bluntness of fire!
A Warped Tree
Today, when not arguing with Walter the Jew on Facebook
the ambiance in the house was surprisingly calm since
I got a key to my study in peace to read my latest collection
and found, at times, the poems had an internal rhyme and
were little stories
The pity is that I have to write without a publisher
can't afford to hire one; those I dare to ask run a thousand miles
one of them, a poor man, is a lecturer at Udevalla
Last year, I visited a crooked tree so shy its roots curled
in bashfulness, and its leaves took an autumnal color
I wanted to know if there was a way for me to help get
her more gracious and straight
She took offense and said she was 105.
I felt like pointing out the tree by the drive into our village -
an olive tree is so old there is a possibility
Jesus sat under it, writing protest notes to the priests
in the service of the Roman church
One day the came, the uncouth people from the traffic division
chopped down ancient history and threw the remains
down a drain
Angrily, I protested to my doctor about the vandals
with my fist hit the table so hard a stethoscope fell to the floor
then the porter came, and I was made to leave.
When I came to Portugal, the natural thing was to study
and learn the language, but at the time, I was wrapped up
learning English
The Portuguese language is superbly fitted to Fado, but as a "lingo" for conversation, I failed,
I knew enough to get married.
The Norwegian vocality sounds like a Dane trying to talk Swedish
and is like wet cement being poured down a ditch dug by Lusitanos
spitting tobacco.
Ach, mein lieber Gott, I have lost many friends in the last sixty years.
The missus brings me high test coffee...
A cold wintry January 53rd, 2021
at Highland Manor apartments
picturesque snow covered landscape
safely ensconced within Unit B44,
we (yours truly and wife)
occupy bedroom and
television room respectively
comfortably numb and toasty warm
at sixty degrees Fahrenheit
courtesy climate controlled environment.
I practice crafting poetry
(seeking posthumous fame)
while the spouse busies herself
channel surfing putting
down remote control
after espying satisfactory movie
(Fatal Attractions),
about which she knows
every single detail,
and can rattle offer personal tidbits
about cast of actors and actresses.
Aforementioned regular routine
predictable until
onset rites of spring,
where warm weather perfect balm
to allow, enable and provide
antidote to existential woes
coping with being quarantined,
though sensing optimism
regarding president Joe Biden
green lighting living social pursuits
possibly revisiting
following favorite pastime.
Recalling contra dancing
as palliative against bashfulness
life as high school wallflower served me
without any budding female friendships
until lo… agent tulle nudge, yes
my mother over mollycoddled
then uprooted me
mein kampf familiar
bedrock level road terrain,
which venue offered groundswell
to blossom forth into
golden sterling resplendent rod
of natural equipoise,
(an unbiased opinion) and balance
with freestyle improvisational swinging motions
unchained from moors of formality
lit figurative saint elmo’s
Sesame Street Big Bird
winging fiery dance
allowing, enabling and
providing shy awkward self
during his young adulthood
to cast away four ever
self embroidered handsome
straight as an arrow
naturally high as a kite young guy
buzzfeeding like yellow jacket
liberating spontaneity
that je ne sais quoi joie vivre
clamoring headlong toward pollination
healthy packing heat overflowing
testosterone bin laden well nigh
erupting pistol (stay man)
toward opposite gender,
whereby bravado donned as key
to hoe field of whet dreams
fostering initial albeit late blooming
roll in the hay hormonally
rooted rutting squeal!
Modesty is the graceful, calm virtue of maturity; bashfulness the charm of vivacious youth: Quote by Mary Wollstonecraft
______________________________________________________________
In a world of modesty and grace,
We find our unique space,
Where calmness and virtue reside,
And vivacious souls cannot be denied.
Bashfulness—a trait so dear,
Adds to the charm without fear.
Of vivacious youth, so bright and bold,
A beauty that never grows old.
Without books, we would not have known,
The knowledge that has truly shown
That in this world, so vast and wide,
A vivacious reader finds their stride.
With words and tales that mesmerize,
They journey through the lows and highs.
Immersed in stories—they explore
The depths of wisdom, to their core.
But let us not forget, my friend,
That vivacity has no gender trend.
Women, too, can be vivacious.
Allowing endless expression, gracious,
With gestures and faces that speak,
A language of passion—strong and unique.
While men ought to be unyielding.
Women openly put up their chins wielding.
She dreams of dimples, yet understands,
That life's charm lies in its demands
To love, to hate, to feel it all,
To let emotions rise and fall.
For it is through our modesty,
And graceful ways that we can foresee,
The beauty in every passing day
As maturity guides our way.
So let us embrace our bashfulness.
And cherish the charm of vivaciousness.
For in these traits, we find our worth.
And the essence of a life well lived on Earth.
First place contest winner
Tattered clobbered thoughts streaming to winged dusts,
spiral spasms tremble amid weary sounds.
The festal moods swing dreary interludes,
visions ache release with defloration--
throaty cries heightens the greedy man's lust.
He longs to possess the murmur of blood
from naked images throbbing desires,
it surges -- tinged to his cerebellum.
Dark libertine drained his desirous juice--
madness stings deep-- displayed to his ardor.
Boorish bashfulness etched into each itch
cracking unto his left to right onslaught.
Finitude fair Venus choked with disgust
as she wriggles, wriggles to free herself!
Her wriggles useless from black libertine...
Pristine Venus fallen-- now wanting death.
©O. E. Guillermo
5:15pm December 05, 2014
Sponsor Giorgio A. V.
Contest Name Structured forms - Iambic verse - Sketch a fictitious character - (Top Gun Poetry)
Placed 6th
I feel for gentle hearts in this loud world,
Ever suspect, dismissed and derided,
For long has been the shy a songless bird,
That Darwin dismissed as ‘odd state of head’,
Jane Austin gave shyness a broader scope,
Calling it a ‘moral, mental disease’,
And Freud, his fame fending for men no rope,
With sub-conscious cladding, a twist of his
That smelt of ‘displaced love of self-scored goals’,
A simple disposition framed as law,
Oh poking fun and scoring birdie holes,
In matters straight, cobwebs of gauze he saw,
And sensitive violets were on blame,
Poor things, shrunk with self-deprecating shame.
Violets shrunk with disparaging shame,
And shyness drawn from society’s unease,
Scarce unto standard mould can ever squeeze,
O get condemned— a jade that could be gem.
Though sensitive nigh to a gawking gaze,
Here am I basking still in benign bliss—
A shy soul, they say, more inventive is,
And tolerant the more to worldly ways
That mistake plane shyness as being cold,
Aloof, and worse still, somewhat arrogant,
And value those that be loud, neddless bold,
I’m happy now that they were ignorant.
Let critics bask under ill-informed bliss,
I marvel, how creative this bird is.
Creative, this touch-me-not kind of bird,
Or call it a flower called violet,
An introvert of an easy mind-set,
One blessed with fecund skills, a bit absurd—
Skills lacked by too talkatively inclined,
While some greats confess to ‘fainting with fears’
Ere giving speech to some so-called speakers,
Some loners lack the skills called social kind.
I know, shyness has no one ever hurt,
But self that feels cosy under own skin.
Let shyness stay forever verdant green,
Let it never make me an extrovert,
That I live in my own solitude proud,
Innovative, gentle in world so loud.
_________________________________
Two recent books set my thinking bird brooding over bashfulness: The Man who mistook his Wife for a Hat, by Oliver Sacks; and Shrinking Violets: The Secret Life of Shyness, by Joe Moran. These books advocate that the shy should get a better deal, for they tend to be more creative. Here is the why: musing over, these three sonnets (crown of…) materialized that made me feel a bit elated.
Crown of Sonnets | 01.03.2017 |
______________
The heroine dresses herself with pleasure,
makes bed, and awaits her beloved
_________________
Wearing bashfulness, concealed joy,
Nigh impatient, blushing, no less coy,
Lips quivering in excitement
To embrace ultimate moment,
Feet ready to break into dance,
Bed to door and back O to prance,
Her bosom pulsating to be one
With beau in climaxing union,
Spread hast she a bed sheet of silk,
And prepared some saffron-mixed milk,
The bouquet of her keen body
For long more than ready
To be cherished by her Love
Longs to get too moist to move,
Ready, rain of seed to receive
O on this long-awaited eve.
_______________________
Natya Shastra| 03.02.2025 | Free verse, emotions, romance, awaiting
Note: This is third of Ashta-Nayikas, eight heroine types, as classified in a Sanskrit treatise on performing arts in Bharata’s Natya-Shastra. The state (avastha) of the eight romantic heroines widely themed in Indian paintings, literature, sculpture, classical dance forms and music. Vasaka-sajja is the third of the eight such heroines depicted here in poetic form.
Warped tree, kinked man
Today, I will not argue with Walter on Facebook or Twitter.
I was reading poems from my last collection and was surprised
to find an internal rhythm.
To my horror, I find Walter has unfriended me my friendly thoughts
burned into insignificance.
When I had a motorbike, I often visited the crooked tree
I said:” you look better today, my friend.”
The roots of the tree curled in bashfulness.
At the entrance of the village, an old olive tree they came with an axe
wanted to cut it down, replace it with a signpost.
I protested, so did the other villagers.
The tree is perhaps 500 years old, and we are not
brutish settlers.
But someday, people with no sense of beauty will axe it.
I am so tired and so unspeakably old
I have been bearing about me for centuries, this grief, this disappointment
Your covetousness, vanity, ambitions
Blurred the glow of the sun, the moon,
Your selfishness, greed
Stop the divine flight of birds
You don`t see the fawn`s bashfulness and loveliness
You don`t feel the sweet scent of lime trees in June
Have you ever admired grass weaving, flowers
And asked yourself what they want to say to you
While you were watching their modesty and beauty
Have you ever thought that hills and valleys hold something of your own in them
And sometimes, when your eyes drink in a sky of stars,
Do you see the compassion of my friends,
Because I am loaded with factories, garbage,
And shrouded in smoke, while my sea is boiling and weeping
I can`t condone your wickedness
My dreams are shattered
But I am here, because of the poets
Thousands and thousands of poets are singing about me
They are saying::- Fear no more
Fear no more, we are here!-
And while they are repeating these comforting words,
They are giving all my sorrows to the universe,
Which cries for this huge burden,
Renews, makes a fresh start
Forgives and forgets
But I am still here, because of the poets
fear