Long Billowed Poems
Long Billowed Poems. Below are the most popular long Billowed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Billowed poems by poem length and keyword.
Froggy is croaking
Somewhere where it’s boggy
He’s steering them clearly
A lighthouse, that froggy
Yearlings are frisky
Delightful, these dear things
But dawn is right risky
So fly, flee, you yearlings!
Morning is breaking
It’s sounding a warning
An astounding sunrise
A marvelous morning
Dillo is rooting
She’s billowed the pillow
Oh man, that’s the missus
Sounds darned like a 'dillo
Toady's exploding
A regular roadie
No stopping his hopping
He's touring, this toady
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Irish quatrains with 5x/6a/6x/6a, 2-syllable end rhymes, alliteration, internal and/or cross rhymes, and same start/end word. Seems like they sort of work for children's rhymes...
https://www.writersdigest.com/poetic-asides/breccbairdne-poetic-forms
Pavement cafe, nine fifteen cradling a coffee (as you do)
from my left the china doll with clicking heels strode into view.
Tempting lips kissy-kissed with crimson, cheeks caressed
with blush, and poreless,
painful teasing made those scimitars for eyebrows nigh on flawless.
Hair of sunlit copper billowed like an Eton teacher's gown,
open trench coat followed suit as china hurried into town.
Head turned sideways, in each shop window she looked at her reflection
checking for the slightest hint of any sort of imperfection.
So wrapped up in herself, my my, how deep self worship had bit you
that you didn't see the lamp post until suddenly it hit you-
walked straight into it with quite a clang at such a rapid pace
recoiled, lurched back, bewildered- it was then I saw her face.
The laughter from the passers-by just made it even worse
as, shaking, she sat down near me and fumbled in her purse.
Tearful now,still reeling from her public humiliation
she got the make-up mirror out for damage limitation.
Haughtiness gone, the facade broken sat lovely Amanda,
legs like a flamingo but her right eye like a Panda.
Fire destroyed my childhood home one dark night,
Inside were all my precious girly things;
Raging, devouring gold flames billowed bright,
Everything gone- I wish dolly had wings.
It was a roaring hellish inferno,
The hot searing flames were unquenchable;
Our home was an erupting volcano,
The red sea of fire was insatiable
My father said there was nothing to save,
We wistfully looked at the charred embers;
I was crying and mother said- be brave,
Sadly, my memory still remembers.
Trees and remnants still glowed orange with heat,
And we just stood there- silent on the street.
__________________________
April 19, 2016
Poetry/Sonnet/Fire
Copyright Protected, ID 16-780-598-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Elements Part 4: Fire
sponsor, Brian Davey
First Place
I am the wind-blown falcon hanging high above the bending pines
with olives ranked upon the rocks and crags, deep shadowed in the steep inclines.
Hung high and braced against clear air my quivered pinions hold me there
above the dome and whitewashed walls and bell tower on the Puig de Missa.
And then I swing with windsweep flow to hide from men my mastered show
while summer's midday heat shimmers over billowed sails and distant crystal sea.
And man reposed makes his retreat to dine in lower comfort seat below a wind-flapped canopy, cooler breezed and heavy eyed, at ease, while I again compose my hanging glide with searching eyes that see his close, I see it all below me.
Billowed in black by my schizophrenic ponderings, these personalities are somehow resolute.
Within a matrix of survival; they coincide.
Fractals of quanta and wavelengths that fall from grace, will soon depict a Homunculus face.
Spanning out into oblivion as it gestures it’s courtesy beneath the world sheet.
By Orch OR, my loyalties are reduced to inconceivable amounts of ones or zeros.
When they do reduce, why is it a woman's face I see him seeing?
He watches a holograph of her, looking with a handheld azimuth to turn its view.
Sleeping in a hole of shambles, I see them seeing myself see nothing, but I feel my hadron body shrill.
Shadows like carbon fiber polymers are threaded intraosseously, trimming my astro-man's shins and knuckles with dark armor.
He now stands fortified as a hominid of diamond; surrounded by a phoxonic shield.
He protects her in his holon cocoon of qualia; it cannot be computed by perturbation, heuristics, or algorithmic affronts.
All but to fight back a bad dream, one that could harm the face we saw him seeing.
For better or worse we shall remember the sentiment.
To record this exert of love, he wrote the whole thing down as I thought it up.
Doing right by the left side.
Before I turn the light on, I put his clothes on inside out and tags back.
As if by coincidence, it was an imperfectly perfect fit.
I owned a warm breezed first Spring day
in radiantly refulgent sun
between billowed cumulative clouds
white as sailing sheets
on our vibrating
shaking and tugging cotton clothesline
swaying multi-colored tops
and sun bleached blue jean bottoms.
Like God,
I looked curiously
benignly
warmly down
As industrious ants
with apparently urgent missions
I would never learn how to assign
chewed and sniffed their singular ways
through a forest of shading grass
over dappled shadow soil
Vibrant blades of pointed grass
as tall as trees to ambitious worker ants
sometimes militaristic
but now peacefully recovering
discovering thawed warm roots
of cooperative deep dark Earth.
I could not own a wealthier Spring day
except just now,
at sixes with seven,
often remembering this polished day
and night dreamed moment
under
and beside breeze blown white sailing ships
of sun-scent cotton state
breathing in under first fresh cut lawn
to notice how wee ants live
side-by-side
refurbishing
rubbing up against and with
warm lamped memories
Recreating paths
by imaginatively embodying them
yet again
This first-owned warm Spring breeze
of wistful
divine memory.
As her eyes fell on the fallen bird
From its nest upon the tree down on ground
Her whole soul for some moments was in shards
The little girl lifted the wounded bird and rested it
In the bowl of her joined palms
She then collected some paste of turmeric
Mixed it with a little slaked lime
As she had seen her mother doing at home
When one got an injury from a fall
She gently rubbed the turmeric-lime paste
On the wings and breast
And placed the bird in a bed of straw in a basket
Out of the blue billowed some cloud
Will the young bird come round she wanted to know
Looked for someone to ask
The cloud gradually took the shape of Jesus
She comforted the wounded bird and said
He sees us
____________________________________________
May 27, 2016
For Christian Poems - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Christy Teas
The sky is a gigantic bowl of pink turned upside down,
spilling soft rose petals that peeked out
from beneath snow white billowed clouds
till - fully blossomed - they burst forth.
Growing radiant at the edge of twilight,
they’ve scattered as rubescent streaks falling,
lush and luminescent, as we watch in solitude.
No parade this evening - just you and I aglow,
wishing for an eternity to be like this:
so splendidly in love. . .
in the pink.
Title and first line changed back to original
Submitted Oct. 5, 2021 (#8 word - Rosy)
for '''R'' Contest, New or Old' Contest Info
Sponsor: Constance La France
There, a quaint trattoria was near
We chose some bagels, sharp cheese and beer.
The waitress told us of a fine beach
Indeed it was quite within our reach.
Found the shore, the sea was calm that day.
It won't be easy to go away.
The yellow sand wet and clean, barefoot
We must never stumble nor stay put.
So many seashells adorned this place.
"I'll make you a necklace with true grace."
The sea billowed softly in and out
Should we have a swim or do you doubt?
We'll surf and dive beneath the deep waves
Search for some forgotten coral caves.
At last, we decided to leave for home.
Satisfied of our wandering roam.
As autumn wanes and winter falls,
I always wait for owls' calls
They must not live near me, close by,
so seldom do I hear their cry,
but every winter, once or twice,
they come to my woodlot for mice.
And so I know, on some cold night,
when milky moon spills liquid light,
a muffled wail, a haunting chide
will part the darkness, here, inside.
And I will turn, lie very still
and listen to the hooting— shrill,
and then, again, musky and loud,
enfolded in a billowed cloud.
With fog it fades, as great wings beat
through gauzy gloom, where wild things meet,
and trees and owls and creatures blend
in ancient turns that never end.
As echoed voices wend away,
while morning turns the black to gray,
beyond my lot, their hazy howls
float back to where I wait for owls.
*this poem was featured in my regional newspaper in Feb. 2020