Long Bluing Poems
Long Bluing Poems. Below are the most popular long Bluing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bluing poems by poem length and keyword.
As she lays down her blue brush
in a blue-trimmed cream
dream stone basin
of darkening water rush
She realizes
inside voice has been thinking
about double negative paradox
as -x/-y
can't win pathology knots
Of way too much Patriarchal Capitalist
dogmatic Business As Usual,
monochromatic
monopolistic
monocultural
monotheistic
Describing just punishments
for being not enough
and prescribing her
hot BusyMess
is cruel
cold
calculating dismissal
disregard...
don't matter
Let her splatter!
while he eats
his white supremely whipped up cake
without kindness
without courage
without curiosity
without over-frosted happiness
Mindlessly unwoke
to future predative
desecration issues
promoting and marketing
trauma-inflation corporations
inviting frequent-flyer
evangelically missioned Narcissists
Who probably don't think much
of a universal peak salvation experience
yet do feel deeply united,
maybe even energetically synergetic,
about their own sacred memories
of EarthMother's original Win/Win
multi-colored co-invested
warm wet unconditionally cooperative
wombed sense receptive co-relationships
Through time's changing
hue and culture and cry
LeftBrain verbally emerging
too dominant
Thereby, curiosity remains difficult to contain
to deeply listen for feelings to explain
this sound and sight for blue brushes
tinting her slowly turning
now churning rushing water
going
bluing
flowing madly
then again sadly
back through paternalistic
capital growing
anthroprivileged time
Emerging blue
and grey
darkening ecocide
reaching for red
as dead.
Few are blessed with albatross wings
to glide high above the toothy surf
to soothe the cliffs that yearn to sing
in granite tones of golden destiny.
Some are born with burning stumps,
prone to dream... never to shadow suns.
They cling to icy crags and siren tones,
stumbling on drunken cliffs above bloody shoals.
Others are born void of most everything...
say for pearled hearts and hungry beaks.
Gazing out toward indifferent skies,
awaiting silver miracles that drift on by...on by.
A few are never meant to breathe at all.
Briefly tumbling in the throat of violent squall.
wee flakes on glacial lakes of bluing memory
few are charmed with albatross wings.
these were adorable snow boots but they leaked
my socks are wet now and I think I’m getting frostbite
It is at least a hundred yards back to the house
why did I have to buy beauty instead of sturdy?
each step in this deep snow is miserable
My teeth are chattering now
Why does anyone live in Minnesota in January?
I cannot wait to get inside
I made it alive, my icy cold socks are plastered to my toes
I have difficulty pulling them off
I put two socks on each of my feet
Put on my cozy pajamas and start a fire in the fire place
Out the window I can see the snow
It is gloriously pretty from inside.
Twinkles and glistens, sparkles with bluing.
Maybe everyone should live in Minnesota.
Saving memories about Mom
(Rub Boards, Bluing & Homemade Lye Soap)
By: Tom Wright
1/2/02
My half century old recollections
of a #2 galvanized tub,
When in use
it covered all four burners on the fire.
With homemade lye soap and a brass ridged board,
the household's clothes she'd scrub.
Doing laundry most every day
sure must have made Mom tire.
We lacked hot water in the house
for use by day or night,
So from this tub's steaming water,
boys bathed, and dad shaved.
A bluing bottle on a shelf nearby,
kept things smelling fresh, and color, white;
so with bleached white "punching stick" in hand,
Mom slaved.
Then, as for the time for ironing
she seemed to find no halt,
Always accomplished with a low tech iron,
referred to as "sad".
It too, was heated on the fire,
and she would periodically rub with salt.
Making this chore time consuming,
and for mom, equally bad.
If you're a woman who don't understand this,
chances are you didn't experience this.
For this, thank God.
Three misfits sought mischief along serenity shore
when a boatman slashed through the bluing mist
with driftwood oars honed by a river called Styx.
They were wild and naive and looked quite aghast
for boatmen usually gather the worn and the weak
but the misfits were young and strong as teak trees.
The boatman anchored a skull and clawed up the bank
three clocks ridden by ravens appeared in the sky
the misfits ran amok when their time finally arrived.
The boatman sat in a dark crag and fingered them near
the mischievous three pleaded in gossamer tongues
but death is beyond stone deaf and heard not a one.
The boatman did show his heart, but of Sulphur it smelled
gently placing each misfit in a boat made of flesh and bone
vultures hopped the damned in their new dead water home.
Snowflakes adorn blurry morn, gently, gently trickling down
As salted streets are turning brown across this weary town
While tilting trees blow wheeze of breeze in throe of snow
In aerial dance of wintry woe, as tips of twigs sun rays glow.
Driving slowly, traffic is moving, blinkers brightly turning on
As somber day, bearing yawn, is awakening bleak and drawn
When kids thrilled, frolic and build, a snowman on their lawn
Celebrating school closings on this messy, dampened dawn.
Peering scenes tinted gold, hushed romantic gazes behold
Fixating on meadows bold, where pristine paintings unfold
Delighting in the glowing blaze that brightens daze of malaise
Appealing to zeal of morning, blushing haze in emergent rays.
A deer ambles besides her fawn, exiting her quiet hideout
Curious to scout how leisurely strollers are sauntering about,
Ruminating sunshine while darkened clouds are phasing out
As bluing skies, sparkle eyes, illuminating zest of astral clout.
Beyond foothills, tall cliffs sigh, scintillating in sapphire sky
When far from here, climbing up high, cerulean motifs vie
As cobalt imprints horizons amplify, where birds merrily fly
Announcing to the receding storm: it’s time to say goodbye.
When daylight quivers on melting mound of thawing ground
Amidst whispers swirling around, muffled wind’s hissing sound;
Golden glints thrill, glistening hill, tinting the landscapes blue
Refracting puddles in ornate view of glinted beams’ opal hue.
November 16, 2020
Poem of the day on November 18, 2020
Placed 1st: In rhymes sublime poetry contest--by Joseph May
How cold the sun of April
first day playing games
of spring return to winter chills.
Blow ye wild, racing winds
slip thru the stilled and silent trees
hovering between the naked forms
and promised new growth of life.
Hear the cry and howl of the hollow
echoing goodbyes and hellos
waiting for March gusts to die away.
Sing loud and bold old birds of prior years
pretty, pretty, pretty tweetings
of April's spring into May days
as showers fall hard and icy cold.
Young, newly paired wrens and sparrows
begin the staked out housings
gather nesting materials for soon to be laid eggs.
Croci, daffodil, forsythia burst forth
in shaded emerald green starts
soaking in the sunlight warm
ready to glow in bright and brilliant hues.
Others soon to peek thru the earthened ground
breaking grit and graveled clay dirt
in sprigs tendered in their greenery.
Yet comes April in its unpredictability, yellowed sun
teasing life to come forth and be reborn
then sear it chilled within its grip
amidst bluing cloudless skies.
These are the days of every life
enticing and cautionary
hesitating and holding back
all the April fools.
Rosy red rose
Bedded in their Rosy red bed
With the other Rosy roses
And their Rosy red heads
All these Rosy red roses
With their Rosy red petals
And their greenly greened leaves
In natures soil settle
Oh Oh, there are different colours of Roses, humph
Bluest blue rose
Under a bluer blue sky
With their bluing blue petals
Make me want to sigh
Hey stupid, there are more than two colours, sighs
All the lovely coloured Roses
Bedded in their earthy beds
All these lovely Roses
So beautiful, it has to be said
With their greenly greened leaves
And their browning green stems
With their thorny thorns so sharp
So gorgeous all of them
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