Long Bedecked Poems
Long Bedecked Poems. Below are the most popular long Bedecked by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bedecked poems by poem length and keyword.
Monah Kaur and Robert Kumar fled from London, came to ‘Hindustan’; tied the knot
The 'Singhs' stopped their songs and 'Kumars at no. 42' burnt their studio; this rebellion; they will forget not
A petite piece of land was gifted by Uncle Prem to mark their freedom
With much thought the newly wed called it Garden of Eden
They cleared the plot from crawling matters and built a woody farm house
Within a year, Monah gave birth to twins; Lisa died; Minnie who survived became quiet as a mouse
The air around still polluted in invasion and many cuffed in iron
The sun and moon fairer than in London but nothing seemed fine
The couple laboured and fostered peaches for Mr. Big Ben; returned home clad in blisters
Minnie cried; and cried; her parents had no time and she desired a couple of sisters
In financial distress the duo approached the heroic Farmer Bachan to assist his flock
Pleased with their dedication he gifted them a Peacock.
Minnie cried louder now, seeing this English present; she wasn’t a fan
Bachan who was fond of the child, sent her way, a young Indian Peahen
Minnie’s tears lost its way in the Ganges as the new birds found their click
Around Christmas added to the family was a cute hybrid Pea-chick
What adorable ‘chana’ like eyes had she!
Without delay, Minnie named her Chick pea
Eden now a 'Rangoli'; 'Ranisas' and 'Nawabs' soothed in ‘Masala’ tea
All engrossed in the lights and sweetness of Diwali; no attention paid to the growth of The Serpent on that Apple tree.
Those daffodils patented to Wordsworth, danced in the air
In its abode, the serpent watched Eden, what a scare!
One morning, Minnie fetched a Brown ladder to reach the tree which dazzled with rounds of juicy red
The ladder attacked and killed; the child returned home badly bitten, almost to eternal slumber she bled
Bachan’s sheep strayed to the road that was not to be taken, decreased from many to few
Eden cried for The Good Shepard; The Foreign Raj ruthlessly bottled native stew
Prayers were answered and on a Tiger came a Flying sheriff called ‘Shroff’
Bedecked in turfy ‘ceps’ and ‘pecs’; this essence fought in ‘huff & puoff’
Over time; in years almost equal to Tendulkar's century; the Serpent grew wicked miles
The gladiator fought till his last breath, excreting the treacherous reptile back to the British Isles
(not that ye wondered,
but simply tubby like totally tubularly clear
The Epic of Gilgamesh will not be extolled here).
Though thoroughly well mapped, parsed,
scrutinized vibrant wonders zoom
plethora, sans newly discovered life forms
cradled with fecund Gaia's womb
abound within unlikely places
such as mossy bearded faces
nestling, pronouncing,
and regaling pharaohs sarcophagus tomb
oceanographers also find organic entities
adorning, kickstarting,
and thriving within extremely
remote temperature zones,
where just enough telly tubby wiggle room
prevails for microscopic
Verizon patronizing Grand Poobah
barking orders unicellular viziers heed,
while latter bedecked
with itty bitty plume
invisible to the naked eye, yet within
subatomic world wide web
bit players air heir loom
appearing larger
then cereal grain re: life,
an arrogant, bumptious, and conceited Don
doth trump his young
unbridled, reprobate, and ornery baron as groom
material to check mate
distracted checkered populace,
where raucous, rebellious, riotous
majority lumpenproletariat fuss and fume
cuz gaudy Mar-a-Lago hiss poe tate
tow headed (faux towering
Taj Mahal doppelganger),
via slow vac didst suck socialist rowdy
bot tinny Rajah,
whose apprenticeship to exhume
(pro bone know) spy bots
miserably condemned from the get go
as president erupted rabidly trying to doom
rousing, scenting, and trawling
non-convincing "witch hunt,"
yet incontrovertible evidence carelessly
swept hurriedly under the rug
(by Russ Shins) via broom,
thus a sudden spike
visa vis master card er...
comeuppance will bring ringleader down
with strep away poison
nano trumps all abloom.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Now in summer re:
this Dom minion doth attest
intention to write
a boot equinox got out best
head, although pleasurable
to loose imagination off chest
so thank you for
letting me be a cerebral guest
and now...no dilly dallying,
cuz another writing assign
requires responding
to Matthew Scott Harris's behest!
Bonanza of shamrocks will soon blanket Green Acres...
where Lassie free to run across petco junction
All across the webbed
wide esse Scott's landed wold
emerald green Trifolium
carpets harbor untold
burrows of tiny Leprechauns clover
(leaf) ways grant trifold
wishes if captured might
divulge pot of gold
at rainbow's end, and e'en mend
yar shoes, whence re: souled,
thence tread softly beneath subthreshold
of audibility, cuz unseen universe
hapts tubby microscopically rolled
with subterranean inhabited by Lilliputian
mischievous impish beings
(about bajillion holed
up could fill the Taj Mahal) even donned with
heavy coat protecting them
(usually men) against cold
yet frolic with reel delight jiggling
with inborn instinct exhibit twofold
talent to dance with modesty
downplaying (while fiddling)
analogous to some roof fiend
averse tubby extolled,
nonetheless, their popular
doth soar, and grievously scold
persistent myth anchored with toehold,
and thus do not indulge
pruriently with pixies considerably dulled,
since libido practically nonexistent told
me (under oath of
confidentiality), one Grunwald
trusted yours truly, the secrete
will not leak out,
nor spread like slime mold,
this descendant of Lemuel Gulliver
who schleps across the webbed wide wold.
Yours truly (an average
height and weight size ways)
nondescript grown
male munching kin
stands a little less than threefold
larger than full grown homunculi.
Rumor monger kickstarter
Matthew Scott Harris
posits nontrue tidbit
regarding rock 'n' roll star
who (name unmentioned)
became the most influential
musicians across the universe,
with estimated record sales
of around 600 million
as of two thousand twenty blank.
Imp possible mission
to see non elfish (pressed) lee
160 years after his Irish ancestor
crossed the Atlantic
curling his left lip,
whereby convalescing, peep ping auld
timers cavorting wax nostalgic with
itty bitty whippersnappers,
averse to any outliers,
whether hirsute or bald
an honest to goodness painstaking effort
initially stymied friendship proffered, a cold
reception eventually bedecked
hall of the mountain king
(while sharing diet of worms)
deep under verdantly
festooned knolls of Eire land.
Before the great golden gates,
in the long ago,
battle was to be waged on Badicha plain,
Soldiers of the Dark Ones come,
to destroy the lands of light,
upon the mighty silver parapet,
many stood and watched,
an angel stood,
sweet womanhood,
in her wondrous prime.
Her soft brown eyes,
they beheld a black sea,
would this be the end of all dreams?
would darkness come upon this scene?
she watched intently,
this Warrior Queen,
as manhood marched from Alahsar,
through golden gates, they marched,
they were a wondrous dream,
the mighty splendour of Alahsar.
Brave the knights that rode away,
regaled in golden finery,
they did shine with golden light,
kissed by Sol's celestial beam,
followed, they were, by infantry,
they did march so bold and strong,
bedecked in summer's brightest colours,
a glorious sea to behold.
Brave indeed, were these soldiers,
with hearts of steel, they marched away,
glory and honour,
within battle's horror,
Upon the plain of Badicha,
before the gates of the golden city,
a battle for the survival of light,
fighting to whatever end would be sung.
Womanhood did watch this day,
forbidden by the king, to fight,
As Fathers, Brothers, Uncles,
Lovers did march away,
Into the light of glories dawn,
the golden glory shining bright,
which, ever did shine,
on the golden glory that was Alahsar.
Our Warrior Queen stood tall,
she stood with the other women,
they longed to be on the field,
atop those bright battlements of silver,
they could but await the outcome,
a fire blazed in her brown eyes,
she stood on the smallest part of the wall,
above the great golden gates.
Both sides now,
light and dark,
they faced each other,
across the emerald sea,
The Dark forces,
their Spiders and Spider Riders on the flanks,
Arlaghs were in the front lines of the centre,
merciless, murderous beasts,
Behind them the Goblin Wolf Riders,
The light force,
there armoured knights on both flanks,
the infantry,
they stood row on row in the centre,
the archers were mostly ranked behind the infantry,
small groups are on the flanks,
both these armies in expectation,
they waited for the command to strike.
To Be Continued..........
Fighting mid the strong and bold,
His eye and blade were keen;
Marching like a thund'ring storm
On foes of Faith, his queen.
Now returned in victory
Upon his mighty bay,
Set he off to Langley Tow'r
Her summons to obey.
"John the Squire," the footman called,
And held the oaken door;
Faith, it seemed, had gleaming eyes
Like never once before.
"John! 'tis good to see thee hale,"
The queen exclaimed, and rose:
Tales have sped to Langley's gates
Of many broken bows."
"God has saved me whole and well,
By prayers, I ween, of thee;
Tell me please, my lady Queen
What service I may be."
Saying thus, the squire bowed
And doffed his burnished helm;
Struck in awe by Faith, his love,
The queen of Arthur's realm.
"Gilbert saith," rehearsed the queen,
"That deeds of thee are done
Greater yet than those of Wat
Or even Henry's son."
Tears bedecked her youthful face,
And glistened in the light;
John the Squire, as she had hoped,
Had done her favour right.
"Nay!" the humble squire cried,
"This word is not so true!
How could I, the meanest squire,
Perform the deeds they do?"
"Hush!" It was a firm command;
"I'll hear these lies no more;
Kneel before me, Squire John,
A knight shall leave the door."
Down before the queen he knelt,
He pledged his knighthood true;
Swore her ev'ry small command
With cheerful heart to do.
From his side she drew his sword,
She struck the accolade;
"Thus the greatest knight," she said,
"Is from a squire made."
From her hand the sword did fall,
It clashed upon a stone:
"John, if battle claimed thy life,
How could I be alone?"
"God has prospered all my ways;
My Queen, I praythee, cease!
Soon these wars shall claim our foes,
And Britain be in peace."
Faith remained there by her throne,
With light upon her hair;
Not one maid of Camelot
Was even half so fair.
"God be with thee evermore,"
She bravely said at last;
"Guard and keep thee from the foe
Until the very last."
John the Knight farewell did bid,
And swiftly rode away:
When the wars were hammered out,
He'd be a king in May.
For the Famous Art contest. Inspired by the painting "The Accolade" -1901 by Edmund Blair Leighton.
The light is coming and I wish you well...
Behind the running, running man the land
Lies silent, fallow, haunted by the cry
Of one lone mourning rook who flies alone
Inscribing solemn circles in the sky
There is no time to take a backward look
Just running, running, running, running blind
He leaves the flowered garlands that she wove
With ribbons bright, with summer’s love, behind
He runs with only hope in empty hands
All faint of heart, with life blood running cold
The chill of winter earth beneath his feet
All water turned to ice in frozen fold
All out of breath with minutes yet to live
He runs, through elder grove and stand of yew
Runs, seeking for the ancient Solstice door
Described in tales the bards and ancients knew
‘Till suddenly he stumbles on a glade
All silent where no wild bird wheels or calls
And in the glade there stands a single stone
And on the ground a moon dark shadow falls
And there, within the shadow’s light he sees
That which before him other men have found
A stairway leading down in to the earth
A dark descending path in to the ground
No way but down now, this the only way
He gathers one last breath, and full of fear
Goes down the old and foot worn ancient steps
That lead towards the portal of the year
How dark the endless steps of winter’s stair
That shadow down, down to the Solstice door
To where, beneath the door a chink of light
Hints soft and bright across the cold stone floor
He sits upon the bottom step to rest
Reflect, and contemplate the year behind
And lo, she comes, bedecked in leaves and fruit
And dancing, dancing, through his weary mind
Forget me not, she sings; I am still here
I wait for you, for life to shift and stir
And through the keyhole and the chink there blows
A fragrant waft of birch and silver fir
Reviving, blessing, soft upon his face
The promise of new life upon her breath
Touched by her grace he weeps upon the step
For she has saved him with her love from death
Another year dies, another lives
He sits and waits; she watches from afar
And as he waits the light in darkness shifts
And creaks the ancient Solstice Door ajar…
by Gail
I can hardly wait reading welter of books...
courtesy Karen Windle a gift horse
ponied up late afternoon May18th, 2020
over roan nay bore lee volition.
Unbeknownst how she raised (cane),
and loudly wrapped outside the door
every ounce of her eighty plus pounds
slip of elderly lady petite bow legged
spry late 60's though older looking gal
argh – I expect unpleasant fallout after
piercing eyes unexpectedly discover
references made regarding aged waif,
who inexplicably signalled presence
in toto i.e. presents to comprehend, a
bounty, nah, not worth causing mutiny
nevertheless heave on lee delight hup
pea zing helter skelter discombobulated
alienation courtesy coronavirus lockdown
concomitantly venues to borrow books
puts serious and perilous bind aggravated
assault upon cerebral cortex regarding a
forced hiatus deprivation to binge read
reduced to peruse the daily toilet paper
no stimulation for imagination to indulge
magical mystery tour thwarted helter skelter
ye silently ask rather infer "what me bored?"
Despite severely circumscribed choices
whiling away hours, who knows lockdown
courtesy coronavirus (COVID-19)
warrants near indefinite closure accessing
literary material buzzfeeding noggin,
an egg gone eye zing torture rankles
healthy predilection to binge osmotically
passion for written word all the while
authors unbeknownst evoke quintessential
pleasant provocation dredging up
10,000 leagues below the jewel bedecked
cease son bewitched (Alder time) tremendous
metaphorical pristine hinterlands
Matthew Scott's vernacular semantic
hodgepodge orientation withered away
figurative gripes wrath and rail against
series of unfortunate events ala defiant
Lemony Snicket, when despair plummeted
to all time low, who should unwittingly
telepathically hear plaintive SOS sent
none other than intrepid Karen Windle,
who's mysteriously rapping announced
dog send appearance bore deliverance
(cue Banjos), where ecstasy didst delve
where still waters run deep, nevertheless
welcome respite when printed material
weekly magazines offered scant respite.
wishing he had sung his prayers last night
from both ends to the middle
fell to the ground in adoration
tore a wake through the ink stains
but not from satisfaction
plastic Jesus hold my head
a round of applause for once
or even just a soft murmur
from those in your employ
parked way out in Kokomo
my interrogator professor Zworykin
said quietly we want information
I knew I was up **** creek
without an assault rifle
with various blunt objects
aimed at what was left of my head
initiations with disfigurement
so have a melodic answer he encouraged
yah well the Third Reich fell from bad music
I spat like a backwards vampire
the swelling is an obstacle
I added for evidence I mean emphasis
the King of the Scarabs was neither mollified
nor inclined to use less aftershave
a great rectum of a situation
which is a poem in itself
I got in a few imaginary hits
before he called in the hockey franchise
with their many novel effects and manifestations
such as hugely distended penises
not at all like the computer club
fart gigglers and Balaam anointed
who sang as they worked
that's how we laugh the day away
in the merry merry Land of Oz
always a help to morale in the trenches
to use a dirty semaphore
for the male power hug
cracking walnuts with hydraulics
the Scarab King was a backhanded guy
strung out on endless platitudes
this is a spit shine day men
do your regimentation proud
they wavered then cheered then wavered
when the going got tough
and it seemed to often
for your present narrator
they allocate security personnel
in my case a comic endorphin gigolo
the hand of a spell upon his brow
good lord not another eccentric botanist
bedecked with the fabled Trinkets of Mouthgate
traffic fines double in poet zone
former servant of the hypno-avatar
with his blemish free goats
and his tunnel vision paparazzi
hI I'm Joe Product family friend
half con half circus half fury
screaming on the rack
my one line in the play
whatever will I do now
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
(presumably still alive
predicated on rumored sightings dive
ving fast as blazing saddles,
her blitzkrieg,
nothing but a blurry beehive.)
Swifter than Usain
(lightening) Bolt
Eden Liat
(thine eldest daughter,
a mixed hybrid breed
greyhound and whippet)
leaves in the dust
topnotch any racehorse
prompting speculation,
she harkens, and begat
from a long line,
sans award
(at trough feed ding),
many a cooly
winning super naturally
infused awk worded Colt
surpassing (with a flash,
plus even sub track ting
considerable handi
capped add halt
ting delay), thine
prestigious, princess,
and prodigious exalt
ting marathon running
smart lee zipping
as a whip lash heiress,
thru no fault
in the stars
of her astrological designs
oft times humbly declines
adulation, benediction, dedication
and deferentially finds
reasons amazingly, gracefully,
and mannerly deflects
self imposed grueling practices,
that she quickly grinds
into pulverized powder,
any high top custom made
high tech lines
brand name
threadbare sneakers saved
with countless
trophies that aligns
storied (and stuffed
animal bedecked)
bookshelf, even gag
me with a spoon
humor tinged competitions,
faux rotten tum ate oh
(John Heinz)
seeded "ketchup with me"
hash-tag game
opened to all kinds
of village people, including
some barenaked ladies,
where flashy Mainliners
dressed to the nines
(essentially for sound
garden variety public,
who generally favor squash),
that crop up during
Indian Summer salad days
punctuates the warm air,
where one after
another lover doth appear
oak kay embracing ephemeral
pseudo sappy romance
spine tingling
as sharp needling pines.
I love to visit the church; to wander in the graveyard…
Flitting fleet-footed amongst the copse of corpses,
The grey stone groves of death –
I love those humble long-suffering tombstones,
They rear their bleak blackened heads towards the eternal sky
And remind me of the redeeming comfort of oblivion
I find it soothing, to wander in their company, to reach out –
And lay a soft white hand upon their immortal chill
Each footstep of mine cushioned in bone-rich moss,
Each breath adorning the air with gauzy veils of fog;
I love too, the churchyard chorus, of robin’s peep
And raven’s haunting harmony
And the audible acrimony of ghosts, sitting amidst the trees,
Watching me with curiosity…
I love to consort with them, the silent silver spirits here,
Those who drift, lachrymose, beneath boughs bedecked with blossom
With the pretty pink buds of May
They seem to embrace me as I wander, seem to hold my hand,
And their cool breath upon the nape of my neck comforts…
Soothes away the stresses and strains of this insufferable mortal life
They understand my pain you see – for they have seen it all before,
They learnt life’s cruelest lessons and took them to the grave,
Where they pondered and reflected upon all the reasons why…
Now their worm-eaten wisdom drenches the soil underfoot,
And hangs from the stones themselves in silver trails of starlight
Waiting for me to pluck them like cherries,
To devour the flesh of their knowledge,
And then swallow the kernel of cunning consolation the dead have left –
The ghosts have left – for me…
And so you see, I hold the graveyard dear, and love to sit there
Among the wakeful dead, my feet cushioned by corpse hands
My heart cradled in a nest of ghostly fists…
Churchyard child I am, at home among the amorphous,
And sometimes it seems to me that when life becomes too much to bear,
And poisons my heart with dread,
Then I can come to the graveyard – and find my cold eternal bed