Long Baying Poems
Long Baying Poems. Below are the most popular long Baying by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Baying poems by poem length and keyword.
Tinting crimson-colored clouds;
a blood-red sun sinks from sight.
And Luna slowly ascends,
sculpting shadows with Her light.
Luna's majestic rise can
induce a hypnotic trance.
For, She is a sassy sprite;
and muse to both song and dance.
She adorns the black of space;
like an orchid in the sky.
And when She is in full bloom;
Her beauty warrants a sigh.
Baying wolves pay Her homage;
howling their melodic tune.
And regale the Queen of Night;
celebrating the full moon.
Despite pitting skin and scars,
She evokes wishes and dreams.
And on enchanted evenings;
dances upon sparkling streams.
Blemishes
My body’s mistakes
My wounds of disgrace
Injected by faith
In science and progress
Flogging myself with second-guesses
I have given myself away.
to uncaring men, pressed jackets
white jackets, packets of sympathy
baskets of fruit set upon the writing desk
in solitary confinement, padded walls.
haunted halls, bathroom stalls with locked doors.
Linoleum floors
Poor, poor pitiful me
Cherry pick my favourite reasons,
depending on the season
Why do the patterns keep repeating?
serve them up on a platter!
for delicate devouring
and just desserts
some things are generational.
inherited
bestowed
I cradle my worth.
In my own wretched hands
Once delicate
Here I stand.
Not stolid
Nor stoic
I am not put together.
Not sorted
I am apart.
Electrical currents running through the pieces,
stringing them together
Making a woman out of angst and energy
The sheer will of being.
I have nothing to live for
Only these words
Hospital gown flowing in my rage.
Windswept, like a mage
In the middle of casting a spell
A sorceress in distress, in peril
Fighting to remain
In the moment, present and tame
But wild fear presents itself at my feet.
The wolf is ready to eat.
I stay indoors to hide from the chase.
But at the end of the day
When night falls to the ground
I heard the call.
I wish to respond.
To howl back at the crack of dawn
Rolling in the sun with my wild baying, panting, praying
But I stay put.
I hold it back.
Inside my skin that cannot contain
My ancestral blood
This is the flood.
The flood
I drowned in the flood.
The wolf is not only animal.
But avatar
for gods too abstract to see
with the naked eye
It growls it snarls.
It bites my legs.
It promises peace.
as it gnaws on my pride
the alure of freedom,
teasing me to leave my comfort zones
knowing it will crunch my bones.
the first chance it gets.
when I trip over my intentions
into mud
face first
ruining my escape
I do not outrun the wolf.
I do not outsmart the gods.
I do not escape the flood.
I fall—
not like a heroine,
but like a relic dropped mid-ritual
mud in my mouth,
bones in the wolf’s grin
the spell unfinished
The door still locked.
the howl still inside me
rotting sweetly
like fruit on the desk
Embarkation upon meditation...
Believe me you upon manifestation
regarding Das godaddy bing linkedin
with avast cosmic consciousness
self induced light hypnotic trance
I become enthralled
unless wife disrupts intent concentration
calling out "Matt...Matt...Matt"
bajillion times Googleplex
(slight hyperbole for literary effect),
subsequently courtesy
disembodied voices
deliver poetic inspiration
without forcefully summoned,
rather gently coax (zeal lust lee)
amidst Smokey and Bandits spiritus mundi
plethora of discordant
indistinct jabbering murmurs
requiring exacting golong strategy
kickstarting coalescence regarding
faintest hint analogously harboring
shipping news a boat
reeling in catch of the day
thus, fingers snakishly
slither skitter, sidle
at greased lightning pace
across Macbook Pro laptop keyboard
feverishly unleashing
unexpected brainstorming tsunami
recalling steely apothegm
strike while the iron iz hot,
thus such epiphany occurred
moments ago - in case
ye heard "Eureka" shouted
loud, free and clear
without moment to lose
yours truly brooked
stream of consciousness
ignoring flash flood warnings
slapped down one after another
figurative pontoon bridge
all the while skirting
eddies, whirlpools, fierce whitecaps
fortunately hauling unexpected
magnificent linkedin kindled
sense and sensibility
yours truly rendered speechless
(most time non verbal when writing),
additionally hodgepodge mashup
offers no rhyme nor reason,
yet burst of pooled
imponderable gushing silent spring
(courtesy ghost of Rachel Carson)
currently did flickr
demanding immediate typing
though poetic license expired
please don't tell commission,
nor chief word den
these unpredictable eruptions
(most likely indistinguishable
turkey in the straw gobbledygook
to the untrained eye),
rather good n plenti
camouflaged indecipherable creativity
(nope, not even practiced experts
keen on esoteric etymological arts)
stymied to understand)
mine swiftly styled harry tailored
gibberish oh baying avant
(to assign long sentence
upon Matthew Scott),
which "FAKE" premature ejaculation
incorporating poppycock mishmash
screened for your viewing discomfort
unbelievably came to this homeless tramp,
while he plodded across no man's land
with hud door hubble mojo risin.
There are many painful pitfalls to happiness,
and no one is immune to misery's tragic tune.
We cry in the night like a wolf baying at the moon,
sullen, soulful songs of heartbreak and despair,
drifting upon air. Of those memories; beware.
My emotions may seem as dormant as a volcano~
Silent but molten, setting fire to my dreams.
In ashes they lie, beyond the reach of my heart.
I try to write the plight of my life, but the light
turns dark, leaving me with tormented thoughts.
Expressing the bane of lost love in poetic refrain
is a rueful score of what once was but is no more.
I've written hundreds of poems of being smitten.
Bitten and wounded by Cupid's arrow, was I.
How I wish he'd missed his target, and yet,
never would I have known love's tender touch
or the gentle caresses as he stroked my tresses,
nor the taste of his lips sealing love's vow.
My protective muse refuses to let me forget
the memories of romance, the good and bittersweet,
so, I continue to write although I stumble,
suffering while penning another grief-stricken Sonnet.
Then more, still more, I write in lamenting encore,
a sequence of denouements that will tear me apart
each time I write and lay bare my wounded heart.
Awoken at 3:30 a.m.
On Mackinac Island at the Grand Hotel
By a freighter blowing its foghorn
Like a calf half separated
From its mother
Bellowing out there somewhere
Lost and meandering
In the thick fog
Stunned by the freezing May water.
Up from bed
Out to the balcony
I felt for the iron side of the passing freighter
Only to find
The sticky wool of lamb
Clutched to the fist of my hand.
Every father has this instinct.
Every mother becomes helpless.
The baying fades away over 45 minutes
Its cry shrinking through the shroud of cloud
Over the Great Lakes
Under the Mighty Mac
On to Wisconsin perhaps
The story like all stories always unfinished…
I go back to bed and lie wide awake.
If i was a betiing man
I'd go all in and bet my
none exiting inheritance
That just as many people die
On perfect day's
As on the day's
Wishing they we're dead
The only difference, 2 fold being
The dead never get to speak or
tell about it when they get home
and a family member or loved
1 generally does ask
How was your day
Did you have a nice day my love
And surely no one wants to die
on a perfect day but rather when
life has you kneeling baying
for a mercy kill
To a place where everyone now is
equal and has to wait in turn as
no 1 gets to jump the que even those
once deemed rich and famous
and moderately successful
Better to be standing behind them
with nothing to declare but untold
debts and tales of persecution than
with a pocket full of ill gotten gain
and a C.V boasting a multitude of
awards and achievements
Apart from taking and never giving
back anything in return
Awakened by the kiss of dawn
the softness of her morning light
gently nudges the night away
The dew drops twinkle on the lawn
a bird sings sweetly his delight,
his trilling, courteous and gay
The garden flowers seem to spring
amidst the green they gently sway
floral fragrance floats on the breeze
The bayou softly murmuring
wavering shadows still at play,
lost in the depths of cypress trees
A squirrel scampers to the ground
and across the yard he rushes
buries acorns without a sound
In the distance a baying hound
eager to hunt in the bushes
until fox or raccoon is found
A horse gallops over a hill
enjoying freedom and the sun,
he stops, grazing in grassy fields
I follow nature and be still
watching as the day has begun
and early morning beauty yields
© 07/29/2019
Tri-Con Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet
.
A Bloodless Conquest Underway
Armies of the world have United
All the military in common greed
Power- in Weapons is Authority
Baying for blood- quite outdated
Patriots - …They saved their land
Their citizens. …Future of Children
Made final sacrifice. ..They Returned in body bags
Brave and Poignant. …The Heroes - Real Men
Now They have been ….Taken control of
Arms dealers. Weapon …Manufacturers
Technology and MEDIA. …& Bad science
Lots of planning has gone…into all this
They’ve worked out- Every…What IF ?
Replace every working body ..All
With Robots- Central control-AI
Use Humans against Humans
Divide & Confuse
Take over children
Ruin the education
Enforce digitization
Create digital divide
A tad bad calculation
Done on Spread sheet
In language of machines - Thinking in binaries
In Black & White or in 50 shades of gray. BTW
Humans are sparkles of light . Are Multifaceted
Unlike robots- Humans do not wear their bones outside
You can not separate and make humans take on humans
Such experiments might have worked on lab rats and mice
After a while the forces will return to their homes to families
Folks will wash off the colors - Thank God We did not Bleed
Letting Go
By David J Walker
Somewhere in the distance
Angry hounds with my scent
Are baying at words I cannot
Take back
My nerves fray in the fires
Of things I regret
Words that were never meant
as actions
Yet hurt as if a thrown fist
Words I cannot entirely forget
And have not been forgiven
Nor forgotten
I have often offered
my sins to Jesus
and yet cannot quite
let them go
Is it me or He who is the
More skeptical in the
Transaction
Sleep, once natural anywhere
Is now an expensive cross
That I publicly bare
Searching for the right bed
Knowing that the peace I seek
Will only find comfort
within the confines of my head
Hakim. The Gatekeeper from Esagila.
(A lone voice whispers)
In ancient Babylon,
I once stood alone and mixed fire
Iron and clay
All day
Creating a spell
To entice my only light to come my way
Sent merchandise of gold and silver
To her,
The Pythoness of Endor
Hidden in dark woods
Over the deepest of rivers
Bundles of finest fresh linens and purple silk
To satisfy her and her ilk
Citron wood and every kind of object
I could ever find
Made of white ivory and black marble
Whenever I could
No matter the expense
Incense sticks
And scented Egyptian
Candlesticks
Made of expensive Frankincense
Delicious crates of red wine
Bamboo baskets filled with white flour and yellow wheat
Fields of fat cattle and herds of baying sheep
Priceless trained horses and golden inlaid chariots
New slaves of broken souls
Lascivious ladies and ravenous men
To do her bidding
Even acts of depravity
Linked to the forbidden
For the fruit of my soul
And to be joined to her again
A bright light
I once saw
On a seemingly endless night
But in the year 323
When my leader
Alexander the Great
At only 32
Died and was eternally set free
In the opulent palace of Nebuchadnezzar
She
The Lady of the Wild Woods
The Pythoness of Endor
Cursed me to chase her
Forever
The Queen
I once conjured by fire
Iron and clay
So today
In the 21st century
Her I still chase
Since eternal life
Is now my only penitentiary
My only great living version
Of Babylon of Old
When I desired to sire
A queen, I once met
Dancing
The Raqs Sharqi
So fiercely
That her raw beauty
I can never forget
Adorned in soft crimson and glittering purple linen
Clad in silver
Wearing gold and shining diamond stone earrings
Reborn into the likes of
Badiaa Masabni
It's why I still chase her
If I could confess
For underneath
Beneath all things linked to trying to achieve immortal strength
It's why now
To seek her out
Once more
I always choose to break free
From the external grip
Of The Valley of Death
(C)
Copyright John Duffy