Long Bivouac Poems
Long Bivouac Poems. Below are the most popular long Bivouac by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bivouac poems by poem length and keyword.
A band donned... Around ring finger of left hand
Yes folks (meaning,
whomever espies these lines) alas and alack
I attest thy spouse located future heirloom -
while tentatively asleep in her bivouac
though far less likely,
(yet near more rewarding)
than finding bullet in gunnysack
and/or locating needle in haystack
constitutes the missus
(thru... worm my going with fluke...?)
She discovered logical whereabouts
concerning whaddya believe
simple 14 carat (ha - just kidding)
no custom made
tooled bejeweled purchased,
but symbol of marriage
originally acquired as prize
within box of crackerjack
and treated as goodluck
which find accompanied with
wife merrily drumming upon me buttucks
an old chestnut nursery rhyme named
knick knack paddy whack.
Emotional moment found
yours truly uttering yippee
while straddled upon rushing limb boughs
verbally punctuated courtesy warranty
said treasured ring kept guarded
by hand sum vigilant trustee
kissing me darling dumpling
as adequate reciprocity
suddenly husband experienced himself
as figurative payee
delivered out his
(mine) emotional melee
courtesy lucky find
more precious than fine spun gold.
Now bonafide marriage signifies
stronger invisible bond,
whereby Western Culture accepts
how wedding band doth correspond
unlikely once philandering quirky poet
will draw attraction, anyway
cuz insinuations he won't respond,
nor at this matrimonial juncture
(approximately two dozen plus years)
will one bard **** troubadour abscond.
How great if woebegone
misfortune could abate
such as obsessive compulsive
mailer daemons that create
psychological distress and chronic depression
whereby suicidal ideations will elevate
impossible mission to oust melancholy
against psyche doth grate,
though chatting (over telephone)
with eldest sister,
who lives within Woodbury, New Jersey
can figuratively illustrate
how solitary existence
encompassing isolated kalifate
only breeds despair within,
emotionally remote bailiwick
therein still stews
emotionally unbridled wordsmith
whose entire being does marinate.
In the bivouac field of life's main
All things are uncertain
From the wide spread of the elms
'Til the motion of the films.
A life's solemn swear
Is not to let the tear
Drop in vainless mortality
Nor fall on cup of insanity.
In the belfries of life
Clangs of pains and joys unite
Through out the coldness of the night
By the reflections of the eyes.
A chaotic world in vain full realms
Announcing its awful psalms
In myriad times it broke
Divinity of peace if took.
Time is fleeting
Things are changing
As the days that closeth at nights
So the harmony within its heights..
Now!
kiss me
when the sun
sleeps under cover
of evening hills. Where
soft sheets shroud our sight,
yet letting our feelings softly in.
Within our blanket bivouac, we are
buffered from the bustling world. Trusting
only touch to slip through the covering cloth,
silencing lying eyes. Eyes surrender gladly, leaving
fingers to trace forgotten pathways. Our skin remembers
what hasty eyes brushed aside in passing. Forgotten now are
smiles, frowns, and doubts once misread by sight. Kiss me now -
while the sun sleeps beneath our veiled skies. Kiss me through cloth-
to feel what eyes forget, forgo, let go, without the joyous sense of touch.
Long arm gendarme
My mistake namaste
Backpack bivouac
On the Road with Kerouac
Brilliant stars, silent nights
Fireflies, Northern Lights
Mountain streams, fresh air
Fall asleep anywhere
Small town, take a chance
Pig roast, barn dance
Allemande left! Do-si-do!
Spontaneity here we go!
Long arm gendarme
My mistake namaste
Backpack bivouac
On the Road with Kerouac
Beat Zen's hey-day
Doing things our own way
Nonconformity, anything goes
Kerouac-Ginsburg-Burroughs
Shot to pieces, picking skin
Benzedrine, adrenaline
Don't forget the Phenergan
Notify our next of kin
Long arm gendarme
My mistake namaste
Backpack bivouac
On the Road with Kerouac
The morning falls from wings of day
beaming light in the fields of hay
and thine smile is now in sight
passions do rise through its heights.
as river runs in the silent brook
so my sentiment in madness soak
and the moonlit on the bay
shines brightly to close the day.
swift as the speed of light
is the sentiment on it's might
and the beaming spark of passion
reminding me the sweet illusion
the whispering of Zephyrus wind
reality to me it sends
and the curtain of ebony
engulf my emotion's tragedy.
as the howling calls of time
the sentient of mine sublime
in the bivouac field of life
within the windshield of the the strife.
Form:
I hardly brew coffee alongside the metaphor of
English mornings blended with summer’s febrile breath.
But, on this occasion, I did....
It was a stifling moment on television.
The social media was abuzz with the hiss of
Integrated journalism. I hated this moment I failed to believe myself
Upon the altar of this recent toponym. BREXIT.
The name plinks with resounding voices, exerting that energy of
Political consciousness.
Lexicographers must hasten it into the dictionary
Before the return of Christ.
Must be cooked in the crucible of NOUN and
Heavily spiced in VERB.... And then, play host to nimieties.
It’s plainly a matter of exiting the circumference of a common, dancing market,
Where freedom of movement spins the web of twinkle-toed arachnids.
My coffee whiffed with the Brazilian hegemony
Upon the Indian scheme of teas and secular drams of rum,
And Iran’s love for green tea.
Summer’s mornings are difficult, I must remind you.
Waking from the posts of work and a bivouac
Stretches the eyelids beyond groggy eyelashes
With the haste of a speeding dawn.
But the TRUTH remained salient and voluble:
BRITAIN HAS VOTED TO LEAVE THE EU.
And it’s not a hypnagogic matter.
It has no business with amphigoric journalism.
It’s a British-fried piece of truth.
Are you kidding me?
I find it totally execrable when people say what they do not know,
Rather than ask what they do not know.
Sunday Times spread its pages to annex some truth.
So did The New York Times and Washington Post and the
Community of tabloids – all tried to
Squeeze out the sprinkles of the matter from collapsing firths.
There was no trace of Churchill in this BREXIT fiesta.
Even de Gaulle exuded remedies of a fractured Europe; he remembered
The WAYWARD WAR, whose frenetic winds blew us no good.
My coffee, black and gold, with the supple bubbles and yellow froths,
Welcomed the degree of weather forecasting.
Will it rain?
Will there be isolated thunderstorms across the EU?
Will BREXIT brew some heat? Slanting showers?
What Celsius does a degree reach before there’s a
Pandemonium?
DID YOU MEAN POUND-EMONIUM?
HAVEN’T YOU HEARD ABOUT THE CRASH OF THE POUND?
I often sit in quiet contemplation of my surroundings. In silent observation I process the changes that nature presents, just for my viewing pleasure. Through the changes of the seasons I watch plants grow, from seedling to blossoming beauty. Tree leaves bud, grow, change their colors and fall. Giant oaks morph from skeletons to splendid sentinels in full dress uniforms, standing watch over the bivouac below. Throughout the day, and the passing seasons, the sun’s torch illuminates different branches and lucky leaves, as I watch. Each night the moon takes a slightly different route above my head, than the one it took the night before. I feel a kinship with the ancient ones, who gazed in wonder at their world and wondered why. For so do I. That, no surprise, for as you know I am one of the ancient ones.
We set up our bivouac of life
by the world's battlefield,
It befits us then
that we live not in peace
nor die free from strife.
There’s got to be more to life
than work, marriage and kids,
Life can’t be there just for tackling tasks
and achieving goals,
It’s got to be more than just
wooing fortune and fame,
It all seems so mundane--
Life can’t be there just for living and dying.
Life cannot only be of love
or of absolute faith,
It’s got to be more than
the trusting heart
or the fanatic fervor,
More than dogged devotion
or persistent prayers.
The idea of heaven and hell
oh, seems too far-fetched,
Life cannot just be the good and the evil,
It cannot just be for lauding the lord
and damning the devil.
Nor it seems is for life
to foray into the unrelenting
realms of the heavens.
There seems something of life
too close to us to seek,
too familiar to identify –
Like our hopes
Like our dreams
Like our thoughts
Like our will to live...
Too precious to own
Too elusive to grasp.
~"How Precious Life Is" contest
by Line Gauthier
Danke Bitte und Mehr
David J Walker
It was a land of foreign thought
And I was the denizen drifter
In uniform that hid my ignorance
and poverty
In an OD Green costume that was
Barely me
Rarely me on weekends
One who could pass for a different class
Of vagabond wandering across
the borders alone
So far from home
That I was thoughtless
And homeless
Eager to be accepted even if it was as
Young and clueless
If not mysterious in my ways
The heady days of youth
Learning truth in a different language
Beginning with three words
Danke Bitte, Und Mehr,
Which opened the door for
Life-changing opportunities
Danke, Bitte, Mehr
Seemed to be the key that
Could open a locked door
Or
A locked heart
For a young man willing to
Accept the path into
Migrants quarters
On the distant borders of
An expatriate's temporary bivouac
Finally
Leaving was leaving a home again
Wondering if I would ever belong again
In my native land
with my adopted tongue
Thick with memories that would
Follow me forever to my grave