Long Bolting Poems
Long Bolting Poems. Below are the most popular long Bolting by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bolting poems by poem length and keyword.
I dreamed Svengali came to me by night.
His yellow teeth, which were so revolting
and his black popping eyes gave me such fright,
that from my dream I wished to be bolting.
Yet still he stayed there, and I felt as if
my will was being sucked up out of me.
Night-terrorized and paralyzed – so stiff -
in agony I lay there. I could not flee.
His laugh most hideous was a crow’s caw
deriding me. How could I make him leave?
Was I being choked? Breath I could not draw!
But then I screamed. To this day I believe
the shriek I managed -sharper than a knife -
had jolted me awake and saved my life!
Down the gradient of meandering verdant valley
Draining down the dregs of the fading dusk
Beyond the threshold of the wild woods thick
My white stallion gallops in the emerald prairie.
Gossamer gloss sparkles on the supple skin
Wisps of silky cloud swirl on the satin mane
Tossing on swinging waves of the south wind
The equine beauty canters out of my heart.
Bent blades of jade grass sway in sinuous ruffle
In sync with the rhythm of the bolting ivory grace
The tilted hooves hover in the transfixed air
Panorama of motion captured in sublime silence.
Soaked in twilight glow we cross the last pasture
Floating on cascading spectrum of the setting sun
Beyond the glowing horizon of grandeur I see
The portal of heaven opens for my horse and me.
_______________
July 16, 2022
For A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Contest
High above gray Manhattan’s marge,
‘Midst toothsome towers in the sky,
A construction crane there looms large,
Dwarfing the crowds of passersby.
A new building grows, rising high,
Clouding another patch of sky.
A tower for trade will arrive
Where businesses may fail or thrive.
An unsung Mohawk warrior,
And an iron-ribbed Spartan crane,
Raising stanchions; bolting girders,
Work in harmony on the frame.
Clutching the cables of the crane,
Beam rider goes where most aren’t fain;
Riding angled steel slabs, held tight,
High aloft, nearly out of sight.
In their union, we may marvel:
From out of an architect’s dreams,
Row by row; level by level,
They unfold a right-angled frame.
And when the beam rider has gone,
Who will recall his days bygone?
For those who make real others’ dreams,
That is the way it goes, it seems.
After early fall of winter dusk it was getting dark
I completed the day’s tiring geological field work
In the desolate moor of the Scottish Highland
I was driving fast on the road around wetland
The car got stuck in mud, I couldn’t take it out
I was in for trouble in wilderness, I’d no doubt
But luckily I spotted a Victorian manor not far
Before the nightfall I hurriedly walked up there
Desperately knocked on the wooden door carved
It creaked, opened by an old man looked starved
He let me inside dusty living room dark and stale
Greeted by toxic smoke of dim lantern to inhale
His curled lips quivered, faintly asked, ”you hungry?”
I was glad this kind man was taking good care of me.
He disappeared in the dark bolting the front door
A long while he didn’t return, I decided to explore
Down the hallway out of a room I saw streak of light
I peeked within, saw he was stone still, sitting upright
Arms stretched out clasping a human skeleton close
Not looking at me he said, “your destiny you chose
This one is old, I need a new one for my salvation”
From his tone I knew that was not a false narration
Cold sweat streamed down my jelly spine in shiver
I escaped through the backyard door, ran to the car.
January 22, 2019
“Prairie Storm”
The air turned
Deadly still,
The trees no
Longer swayed,
The horses neighed,
The church bells rang
Rabbits ran
For their caves.
Old men rushed
To close their doors.
Storm on the Rise!
Storm on the Rise!
Twister but a mile!
Be here in a while!
Hurry, grab the kids
To the cellar quick.
We haven’t the time
To worry.
It’s coming with a fury
The clouds grew deadly black
As deadly black can get.
Whipping and churning,
Rumbling and growling,
Twisting and swirling,
A tail was coming
With a vengeance it came:
Bolting and striking,
Snapping and crackling,
Exploding and blasting,
The tail kept churning.
The roof from the
Barn was thrown.
The windows in the
House were blown.
The trees ripped
From their roots.
The horses ran.
The rain
Came pounding.
The hail
Came battering.
The wheat field
Turned to straw.
Up from the cellar
The family rose.
The mother poured tears.
The father fell to his knees.
The little ones clung
To mother’s skirt.
There was little left.
His dreams disappeared.
The neighbors
Came calling.
The storm unkind.
He lost his mind.
The church bells rang.
Wading into the classroom.
Wednesday, 13th June, 2018.
School uniform a bit too tight,
My body pressed against the metal zipper,
Exaggerating my jolly build.
Blasts of crisp, cold air,
Hitting my heat rash-stricken face.
A little discomfort, I felt it.
But not unbearable.
The older kids in my class then,
Not nearly as academically proficient as I was.
They beckoned me to them,
With plastic grins and class notes.
But I could see the assignment.
The one from the day before.
Blank in their books.
It didn't faze me.
I was used to it anyways.
I always believed,
That maybe if I helped them with their work,
They would stop the hurtful gossip at break time.
I may not have been the most adept speaker,
But I wasn't deaf.
I could hear their snarky comments,
Followed by sharing snacks and playing games.
They passed marshmallows at break time,
The awfully sweet scent flicking all the wrong switches,
Nauseating me. I was allergic after all.
I wouldn't dare ask for one. But the SMELL...
I wasn't sure I was going to be able to get through break time,
Inhaling that. One of them snickered, throwing a half eaten one,
To my way. I COULDN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE.
Bolting to the restroom as fast,
As my sub-athletic body could carry me,
I began to throw up in the sink.
The bitter taste of my regurgitated homemade lunch,
Fuelling my dwindling nausea.
More laughter. More taunting words. More isolation.
God, why couldn't I be normal?
Classes ended for that day.
I was finally going home. Happier that way.
Dreading every day in that classroom wasn't really a skill,
When I had tried and tried, and lost my will.
Listen my children
and you shall hear
on our NewMoon ride
with Paul
the Wickedly *****.
Paul, my dear,
beloved muse
conserved his loopy horse
for just GoodNews.
His forest lanes
restored rich in color
resilient and dynamic
yet aging unfortunate duller.
Paul the *****
rode hard his horse
until at last
he reached WiseElder discourse.
All his ***** Allies
and all his ***** Plants
pushed and pulled their GoodNews Conventions
until WinWin cascading gooey Rights
exchanged prickled glancing passes
with PositivEnergy ReStoring Lefts.
They,
creolizing Civil Energy Rights,
left an also right-now mess,
climate pathologies WinLose bruised
became healthy wealth toward blessed.
Paul's ***** cooperative identity
reached a new polypathic order
revoltingly WinWin bolting
restoring a new polyphonic co-arising border.
Paul the NewQueer
rides his WinWin synergetic horse
restoring DNA with RNA Holy Orders
spoken straight
from sacred, yet sometimes wickedly complex, math
of his resiliently polypathic horse discourse,
of course.
Paul the *****'s gay horse
in this day and time of NewMoon night
teaches his deep sacred learning class
on how to retain WinWin commitments
by not overacting
like a Win-some
Lose-some
horse's ass.
The warden’s bewildered, the keeper’s amazed
as the gate gapes behind us, a hole in the haze.
Our steps seem uncertain, the cobblestones crazed,
pearly stars burn above us like pinwheels ablaze.
Though lanterns hang vacant in streets staring blind,
broken paths paved in puzzles compel me to roam,
I’ll not leave you behind.
The cannons keep calling, the piccolos shriek
and the druids drift, drumming, while pale pagans speak.
They’re urging me forward, my senses they’ve mined,
and the trail is erupting, come hie to the hills
I’ll not leave you behind.
The looking glass glistens, a firefly glows,
and the brownies leap lightly on tiny tip toes
for the twilight’s collapsing, which serves to remind
that as dusk turns to dust, with no time for farewells,
I’ll not leave you behind.
The ponies of plunder prance, passing nearby,
as crusaders on stallions cast stones from the sky.
The figments they’re facing have paid them no mind,
but our broncos are bolting. Corral what you need,
I’ll not leave you behind.
My visions are swirling, they flash from the crown,
from the rainbows of summer, the tinsel in town.
While the compass wheel’s spinning, the minutes unwind
inside evening’s auroras – so cling to my cape,
I’ll not leave you behind.
Drooping droplets of wax adorn pinched candle wicks
while the vampire steeple’s cathedral clock ticks
of the terrors in tombs where fagged flames lie reclined
with their flickers fast fading – abandon the glim,
I’ll not leave you behind.
Continued in Part 2
Amidst the tranquil moonlit night, the forest murmured secrets.
The leaves rustled in hushed conversation,
the shadows in exuberance
darting from trunk to trunk,
languishing wherever the moonlight was absent.
Shreds of darkness form an eclectic collection of silhouettes,
dusting the trail with beasts yet to be chartered by man.
The haunting howls of owls enchant the night
sending animals bolting frantically into the undergrowth,
their rough countenances illuminated
by the eerie glow of nocturnal fungi,
ignited by the moon's touch.
In this hostile ambience,
a petal of purity ripens in to fruition.
A figure in a dove white cloak amongst the silvery darkness,
beneath the skies, beneath the trees
dancing and fluttering in a hidden breeze.
Down the gradient of meandering verdant valley
Draining down the dregs of the fading dusk
Beyond the threshold of the wild woods thick
My white stallion gallops in the emerald prairie.
Gossamer gloss sparkles on the supple skin
Wisps of silky cloud swirl on the satin mane
Tossing on swinging waves of the south wind
The equine beauty canters out of my heart.
Bent blades of jade grass sway in sinuous ruffle
In sync with the rhythm of the bolting ivory grace
The tilted hooves hover in the transfixed air
Panorama of motion captured in sublime silence.
Soaked in twilight glow we cross the last pasture
Floating on cascading spectrum of the setting sun
Beyond the glowing horizon of grandeur I see
The portal of heaven opens for my horse and me.
March 30, 2020
Contest : Completely Your Choice (42) Any Form Any Theme
Sponsor : Brian Strand