Long Befriends Poems
Long Befriends Poems. Below are the most popular long Befriends by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Befriends poems by poem length and keyword.
On the wings of winter the polar winds sigh and depart,
the frost-fastened barren boughs hear their harsh whisper…
“you’ll listen to the sweet spring music soon, don’t fall apart,
the singing southern breeze will caress you, you won’t whimper”.
The misty mask melts away, the blue sky smiles again bright,
as the ambrosia of spring dances in the diaphanous air,
cheerful cloud befriends the luring waft, takes the fairy flight,
embraced by the amorous sunbeam the buds bloom with flair.
The defoliated sad trees spring to life after verdant resurrection,
the glow of sunburst sky paints lively motif on merry meadow.
On rippling flow of zephyr the floral fragrance designs attraction
for the butterflies to perform ballet in the spring time show.
_______________
February 21, 2023
Contest : In Bloom
Sponsored by : Joseph May
Florence has warm blood
and cowrie teeth that seldom clatter,
even in the chilled, fluttering dance of July rain.
She’s an element of Shiloh
in weeping quest of a promising Samuel,
and for this,
walks through long and clammy paths in July rain.
July, a month of sacred yams,
with breast tubers and milk tendrils,
befriends Florence,
an eloquent lamenter,
the quintessence of languor,
this day of streaming showers.
I have often had her tears
on my palms —
tears that sob gently, lest the temple yonder
hears her and pronounces them FAITHLESS.
Florence, battered in the rain,
frazzled by extreme caution,
with ambiance of July
and naivete of the grey ewe,
has prayed for her breasts, for her milk
and for the growth of her stunted soul.
I, too, have prayed —
for the rebirth of the seventh moon,
for Florence and her bedraggled sorrows,
and for strength on behalf of our weakened village.
Can you not hear the rising tide?
(The soul of music deep inside)
It beckons loud from deep within,
And on your dull ears soon sinks in
Can you not feel the rhythm bold
As it surrounds you taking hold,
And moves your dormant heart to speak,
Erupting rivers down your cheek?
Can you not see the smiling eyes
Of Music’s victims opened wide,
When suddenly its mystic tone
Befriends a stranger still alone?
Can you not sense the sculptor’s hand
As he carves out another land,
And takes you to a hidden place
To share with you a special grace?
Can you not feel the fire of sound?
It burns so brightly all around;
Its constant flame cannot subside,
For soul of music never dies.
Ecotone
I did not plant the prairie tickseed that appeared among
The cultivated flowers of my garden and quickly dominated.
It seemed to say, “We live, still!
My house sits in a tension zone, an ecological “no man’s land” where
Tall Grass Prairie and the Cross Timbers, vie for control.
Here the vagaries of weather assure that all who enter are mistreated.
Seasons turn through the Zone as Fall, Winter, Spring,
And the Heat. The moisture-prickling Heat, like a visit from
The in-laws, comes early, stays long and wearies the endurance.
Rainfall is the fickle arbiter of the Zone. It befriends the trees
Almost; the grass too much. Legions of plants, playthings
Of climate, contending over millennia for land suitable to neither.
They were not untended. Cultivation by wild fires, twisting winds, floods
And drought, performed acts of purification and renewal; encroachers purged,
Minerals recycled, seeds scattered, and the arena reset for the endless contest.
But gone now are blades of Blue Stem and pickets of Post Oak.
Red subsoil overlaid with Bermuda sod is my “Sooner” system;
An inanity to the Zone kept on life support by irrigation and fertilizer.
Bermuda minders are hungry yet grow heavy with time
And plenty. They seek order amid uncertainty, and
Shelter from risk, yet cast their lot in a tension zone.
Their dis-ease stems from attempted breakouts of the Cultivators
Struggling to wrest free of human controls. (They who are said to have
Ears to hear a wildfire in its death throes claim it hisses, “We live, still!”)
They are not alone. Homes of the coastal naïf become
Mere tender for Chaparral fires as those of a floodplain
Are flotsam for the river.
Like mallards returning to the same pond
After each thinning by hunters, the unwitting
Rebuild as the Cultivators whisper, ”We live still”
Copyright Paul Thomson 2017
Silence whispers beside my empty bed,
Even loneliness whimpers to flee my side.
The darkness deepens the starkness of my fear,
Yet my mind is made — I won’t beg heartache back.
Of what use is a marriage in which love exists
Only in my mind, never in my home?
Whines and nags were the only music~
the winds played when my soul begged for rest.
Today I met your footsteps that went outdoors
And begged never to be allowed back in —
Even if your knocks dent my door with persistence.
My mind finds peace where you have hidden it.
So long as life befriends my soul and mind,
So loneliness finds peace within its depth,
So I can sleep and close my eyes without~
the fear that a knife might pierce a hole in my heart,
So emptiness can bring back my sanity.
Please—never reply to the plea of my loneliness,
To fill it with the trouble twelve years taught it to love.
And never mind emptiness begging you
to stock it with your figure filled with hatred, not love.
We Danced written by Poet John Heck
I penned a couplet for you today.
Rather, a quill manipulated
my hand and scrawled mendacity.
The misanthrope's who read the ode
applauded with flippers on.
Such insight. Such depth.
Mussolini meets Monet and
the Mephistopheles Mambo mounts.
Call me a scribe and I murder myself.
Call me a liar and I impregnate your charm.
I purposely dislocated my arm today.
Rather, your tongue severed bone
and flesh was torn from my shoulder;
a needed braised boomerang
to stimulate my poetic prowess.
Such clarity. Such wisdom.
Lenin leads Lichtenstein and
the Lucifer Lindy is launched.
Call me a poet and I gnarl my fingers.
Call me a fabulist and I bow to a crooked smile.
A jellyfish swam through my veins today.
Rather, the tentacles of a tyrant
triggered a fabricated Tanka.
Maudlin stumbles when I laugh alone -
more comedic when we cackle together.
Such simplicity. Such compassion.
Bundy befriends Berchtold and
the Beelzebub Bossa Nova begins.
Call me a dramatist and I gag upon reflection.
Call me a simpleton and your wishes are granted.
I solemnly yearn to expire today.
Rather, a fool fires in a fury
and a mannequin lies in his casket.
The curse you've driven towards me -
a combination menu
when a lone Woolf inconspicously
devours a battered Browning.
Such diversity. Such nothingness.
Stalin seduces Seurat and
the Satanic Samba softly swoons.
Call me a parodist and I choke upon perfection.
Call me a realist when I'm sleeping on nails.
Disclaimer:" We Danced" poem written in the year 2009
by Mr.John Heck,a wonderful poet to be known who is no longer in our P.S family.
Being new to this site ,very sad to know few of them
have already demised.
Let's explore the treasure box by reading their works.
I am sure we can gain lots of knowledge and in fact
improve our writing skills too.
May the demised soul's RIP.
We can keep them alive through posting
and re-reading their dedications.
1-7-2020
Note: Submitting in "The Uncontest" Poetry Contest.
Sponsored by Anthony Biaanco.
Champion of Creative Freedom
The mind is a boundless realm, where thoughts take flight,
Craves the open sky, bathed in freedom's light.
Confine it with rules, a cage for the soul,
And stifle the spark that makes humanity whole.
Creativity's flame, a beacon so bright,
Burns with innovation, banishing night.
Art, music, and verse, a symphony bold,
Challenge the stagnant, stories yet untold.
Think of the sculptor's dream, etched in lasting stone,
Or the poet's fierce quill, where injustice is overthrown.
From unfettered minds, revolutions take wing,
A vibrant tapestry, progress' joyful ring.
Advocate for Boundaries
Untamed freedom, a stormy sea,
Can drown reason's voice, a chaotic decree.
Without boundaries clear, a compass to guide,
Art descends to chaos, where meaning can't reside.
Vulgarity rampant, a cacophony loud,
Erodes decency's ground, a shroud for the proud.
Should creativity trample on all that's held dear,
Traditions and values, held sacred for many a year?
Imagine a sculptor's chisel, carving hate with each blow,
Or a poet's warped verse, where seeds of discord grow.
Freedom needs guidance, a gentle hand to hold,
To channel its power, stories are wisely told.
Champion of Creative Freedom
Boundaries, yes, but not with an iron fist,
Let them guide, not suppress, where true genius exists.
From the clash of ideas, new truths come to light,
Diversity's chorus, a symphony bright.
Let dissent be heard, a questioning tongue,
For progress thrives where challenges are sung.
Censorship's shadow, a chilling embrace,
Stifles the garden, where innovation finds its place.
Advocate for Boundaries
But freedom unchecked, a garden choked with weeds,
Where potential withers, on the fertile ground it feeds.
Let responsibility guide, a filter refined,
For the power to create, a gift for humankind.
So let us find balance, a harmonious blend,
Where freedom ignites, and guidance befriends.
For creativity's flame, a force ever vast,
It needs a channel, a purpose, to last forever.
Both Champion of Creative Freedom and Advocate for Boundaries in Unison
The unfettered mind, a treasure to hold,
A canvas for stories, both brave and untold.
Let us nurture its power, with wisdom as a guide,
And create a future, where humanity may truly confide.
Descending,
I manipulate and manoeuvre for the updraft
Spluttering,
I spiral down, then briefly up again, to glimpse a glowing sky
Flapping,
I fall forever faster, flat-eagled
Plunging,
I watch the unwelcome gloom envelope my horizon
Tumbling,
I twist, turn and turbulate, ... then the thudding thump
Gasping,
I groan and exhale, a noiseless moan
Curling,
I recoil as innards become outward form
Emerging,
a base inside-out creature crawls and creeps
Tasting,
the tongue-tied intestines and the unseeing socket eyes
Groping,
a gruesome grub befriends the worm and slurps the slug-slime
Engorging,
as flaunted members flail blood and flick licky, sticky fluid
Reforming,
dim visions populate carnal shapes with awful movement
Gaping,
a fearful half-formed and startled face averts its gaze
Residing,
in deep gutter niches... these are my companion dwellers
Wallowing,
I sniff a redolent upswell of dank fissured earth
Disturbing,
I scrape, cleave and wipe away a smear of covering soil
Trembling,
I sense a warmth of body, a stretching of exotic wings
Enquiring,
I mutter clumsy overtures and crude enticements
Retreating,
I hear unmistaken rebuke and a sigh of disappointment
Imploring,
I elevate my utterances and seek a further hearing
Caressing,
I feel a welcoming and forgiving response
Pulsing,
the creature's cocoon gives way to nebulous female form
Ascending,
at first a cherub woman smiles playfully down on me
Transforming,
a stimulating and sensuous siren cavorts and teases
Uplifting,
wings gather me in for a swooping flight of fancy
Revealing,
from above, her intimate view of dwellers in the hinterland
Coaxing,
she fills me now with empathy and understanding
Alighting,
my body-mind lies prone beneath her
Tingling,
I feel her form and thoughts slowly enter and encompass me
Exploring,
I arouse and we gently probe between lips and sphincter
Delving,
I follow our rhythm of kiss, taste, touch and thrust
Wandering,
I experience our ambiguous male and female desire
Playing,
I laugh at how we tickle our innocence and sophistication
Loving,
I know for delirious moments what it is to be another
Consumed,
lost in coexistence with a like- but more extraordinary- mind
It falls with grace.
Metallic bawls hail the strength of zinc roofs.
At the mercy of the thatch,
Drops drip from needle points of skeletal
Palm fronds.
Particles of rain descend on thresholds
Among dewed terrains.
The petrichor befriends the atmosphere,
Caressing limpid warmth with floating cold.
Lightning, a white dancing Anaconda, races with speed,
Filling the tenebrous plains with lights of hope.
Troubled skies ululate through the power of thunder.
I always recline on that liquid voice!
Rainmakers cream their palms
And roast fresh leaves of
Epochal petals
Plucked from somnolent trees.
Bubbles, green and full of life, puke,
Filling up the mouths of burning woods.
Grey darkness suggests the pleasant wars of
May through October,
When distant wayward drops
Trickle before the deafening deluge.
I hail the blandishments of July
For the society of fattened yams and the
Worthy tendrils —festooned confetti of ceremonial
Harvests.
Droughts yawn in vain when the attitude of
Wet seasons befriends the skies,
Yielding fecund grimes that grace the soil.
For Timothy Lee
Halloween, candy and trick-or-treat,
everyone is joyous, primed to sneak.
Kid’s chatter bubbles up to fill the streets.
They bounce buckets of goodies to eat.
For some these good times will last all week.
Desires to play, romp and pretend
are all things I pray my age never ends.
Halloween, Mother and newborn child,
everyone is joyous, primed to smile.
Infant grows up and fills his known world
with emotional zeal for this lucky girl.
So I double adore Halloween;
the day my love arrived on the scene
to become the man of my sweet dreams.
His birthday and Halloween combine
to grow adored memories love well shines.
Costumes, cake, presents and love most fine
make welcomed joys my gratitude rewinds.
The day may start cranky, needing coffee,
but soon affectionate smiles brim emotion.
I enjoy my indulgent, chocolate devotion
as joy befriends our two-fold celebration.