Long Bristling Poems
Long Bristling Poems. Below are the most popular long Bristling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bristling poems by poem length and keyword.
Graceful predator perched on the precipice of woe
Your satin crown, ebony feathers cannot camouflage mision of misery you'll sow
Your balmy wings caress as dark shadows grow
You sharpen your talons lethal grasp your helpless prey to show
But only quicken the hearts of foragers nestled below
Shrill call does not alarm wary prey; only emboldened, novel defenses bestow
Slower prey their extended units disband; bountiful feast now in escrow
Stealthy ears pick up the feigned, stressful calls of dispossessed lying low
The harried remnant recedes into veiled canopy with their cargo
Confident dive bomber, you plunge into the shielded canopy mayhem to strew
Only to have pleated wings torn by thistle, thorn guarding the undertow
Injured, but deadly weapons your armada still doth tow
With sharp beak you shred the stragglers who venture into twilight's afterglow
With bristling talons you scratch and claw causing stiffened backs to bow
But their desire to live trumps marauding havoc laid in stow
Shorn of limb but not of hope, scurrying from nest to nest to and fro
Storm clouds gather over Dover cliffs; thunderous chorus from nest doth bellow
On the sparring range, a docile, prevailing wind no longer doth blow
Wearied from long chase, depleted eagle from bleeding strand doth go
He wears a heavy coat of rusty fur,
hunched and brooding in the coastal scrub.
They painted him a villain in the nursery tales,
a big, bad shadow waiting for the dark.
He has a hundred hollow eyes that never blink,
carved open by the jaws of summer fire.
A crooked spine, a fist of woody knots,
grumbling low curses to the southerly wind.
But who could blame his wicked, jagged grin?
He learned his roughness from the searing drought,
patrolling the ashes of a blackened world
while delicate soft gums slept in the canopy.
He is the grumpy elder of the heath,
bristling, thick-skinned, and unapologetic—
holding his seeds like stolen golden treasure
behind those silent, gaping wooden mouths.
- - - - - - -
I once had an old calico cat
She was born in a barn
On a farm down the road
She would race around the new mown hay
Chasing mice at play
Putting on a wild display
She was known to be a shrew
Several chickens she pursued
Was known to chase an old hound too
A bit of a brat
She thought herself a Super-cat!
My intentions were genuine
Deep with affection…
I had just seen a movie
About a man with the gift
He would whisper to horses…and turn them into bliss
Well, I thought I will do this!
Tame this feral kitty’s angry hiss!
I would whisper ever softly,….
And teach soon her to love me
Domesticated out of nature
She would stretch by the stove
As the tea pot tune's a-whistling
She would put on a pot of bristling
She could not be held
Even by me
She was not for the weak
Or the meek of heart
She would pick and choose
Who would win, who would lose
A limb, an eye, or a piece of her mind
Yet sometimes….even I…was deemed
With the privilege of her esteemed
Company
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Translucent Loft
The girls choir at St. Mary’s still sings there.
Shh, be quiet as we step inside
through these green rectangular doors,
Shh! Listen...
We can hear them up there,
in the translucent loft.
They are still cloistered upstairs in the saintly glow,
of stained glass fortissimos, and bare knees,
dressed in blue sweaters with plaid beanies doffed
upon the three dozen crowns of the virgin sainted;
And now before us, the majesty of the holy sanctuary,
the deep eternity of ever-swallowing horizontal constictions,
upon which the devout might meditate the spirit mysteries,
with blessed rosaries, scapulars, and communion wafers,
bristling miraculously upon flaming tongues of fire.
“Shh! Be quiet here in the church, it is a sin to talk!”
We must fold our hands in silent contrition to an invisible God.
We must say our prayers, memorized from old missals.
We must genuflect on bended leg, making the sign of the cross.
But still, a likeness of our creator, dead and naked,
Nailed and bloody, with sickening thorns and gushing crimson,
hangs before us most ignominiously, a dead creator.
How can this be, Father Flanagan?
Why are we being reminded of this, Monsignor Molthen?
Why dear saints?, all ye there, encrusted immaculately,
in stone cold tableaux, absorbed forever and today,
in emerald stained glass transfigurations, way up there,
high on the upper reaches of this long heavenly nave,
that stretches out like long arms wearing bracelets of infinity.
Why are we to be reminded of this?
The girls choir at St. Mary’s still sings there.
Shh, be quiet as we step outside
through these green rectangular doors.
Shh! Listen...
We can still hear them up there,
in the translucent loft.
The Keeper of Secrets
I sit in a congenial café pulling the morning around me;
sipping a single shot of silked smoothed cappuccino,
two shots would browbeat me!
Different people drift in and out.. differently.
I analyse them…. then wait
for the next biscuit in the packet to arrive.
I’ve learnt that people have secrets
which they think are secret
but they leave clues behind;
in my line of work, it helps if you can read them!
The door swings open; a man prowls in.
A big man, no bigger than a runaway fire engine,
red-faced, straining with pitbull tendencies.
He snarls at me through sharpened shoulders
while his teeth turn sideways and growl.
The arms of my chair tighten around me
while my fortitude hides between my toes
and refuses to come out and play.
He moves towards me in a menacing manner;
experience nestles me, offering a weather warning.
I feel the room shift and shiver
then shrink in size… or perhaps that is me?
I can't speak, I can't even squeak!
My voice appears hospitalized,
recovering from a ……tracheotomy?
But as the man thrusts towards me
a crumbled crumb of an idea cruises by.
I have knowledge of a secret
this man is not enamoured about.
However, no need to be such a concerned citizen
after all, I’m known as The Keeper of Secret,
well I would be if I let anyone know!!
Pitbull mistakes me for a cobweb,
swiping me clean out of my chair
while barking at me in a subterranean rumble,
“Now listen carefully to what I say, mate,
then stir it, understand it and drink it down.”
I was definitely listening, both ears stretched out.
He now offered me a dislocated smile
while continuing in his persuasive manner
“E’er, sometimes the quietest, nicest day,
holds the darkest, sharkest secret
never to be shared, never to be told
unless you want to take it to the… grave?”
I thought he’d bounce me on my head,
spin me round the roundabout
and walk out without even asking me for a dance!
Instead he stomped off brazenly, bristles bristling
in search of another problem to fire fight.
Now, at this point, I could sense
my fortitude was rebel rousing
as I vowed that next time we met
I’d frighten him with a funny look
perhaps even a kick up the pants
…when he wasn’t looking!
But that’s another secret
and yet another poem.
Ian Souter
My mind is euphoric from scenes historic
Assyrian chariots innovative wheels bristling Mesopotamian plains
Paring the ranks of each, dated infantry formation
In Greece, anesthetizing anvil of the Dorian invasion
Glorious bronze relics supplanted by cheaper iron distillation
Persian armies: Greek hoplites, Scythian archers; mercenary aggrandization
Shrinking rebel hordes in Asia Minor's wars of attrition
The venal nature of imperial Rome's persuasion
Crucifying a few, targeted rebels for cultural ingratiation
Devout, gentile Europeans crusading to Biblical heritage's door
Defacing cross with predations in route, arriving uplifting banner 'gainst infidel Moor
Normans in hordes splashing across the chilly, English channel tides
Under William the Conqueror's mantra, bridging the Anglo-Saxon divide
Lost Love
(A lone voice whispers)
Once lost
In love's asylum
Overcome by guilt
As I sat serving unseen emotional titans
In every second,
Sat in silence
Feeling numb and
Bristling with sweet thoughts of violence
Feeling time
Enjoying the rush
Like a blackbird crowing in the bush
A bell always rings
Breaking the spell running up and down my spine
Where memories of you sing
In seductive rhymes
When you were mine
Dressed in white
Wearing our favourite rings
It maybe a cut
Of a thousand deaths
This night
When I remember a real love
I once possessed
In night and day
But like frankincense and Myrrh
Which always flows and sways
To the secret codex linked
To the excesses of sex
And midnight conquests
When libido's pray to play
As I lay in this solitude
With this curse to be endured
And all that may follow
I look to the divine gift of Apollo
And write poetry of you
To rebuild
My inner hollow
As my pitiful sorrow
My soul
Delicately tries in vain
To
Swallow
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
The sun barbequed the skin, raising a tenderized pink glow
to the cheeks of the children in the ramshackle red barn.
The three story hay loft partly empty was bristling with tikes.
Pincushioned with straw, sharp as needles,
in their hair, tee-shirts and socks
an “itch-o-rama” of gross magnitude.
Hoarse screams of “Geronimo!”
propel a girl child out ward over the abyss;
letting go directly over the haystack on the first floor.
Barn boards groan under the weight of her flailing form.
Sweet, so sticky sweet, was the air with sweat, hayseed, and manure.
Red welts form on errant scratches rising up on the her skinny arms.
The boy plops from the thick dangling rope inches from her.
“Hi-Ho Silver!” he hollers; kissing her cheek with a big wet raspberry,
running deer-like from the barn doors toward the pastures awaiting bossy.
Up the stone tossed rock wall he clambers at ankle breaking pace.
Leaping from stone wall to the cow’s back;
“Come on, chicken!” he yells.
The girl follows more timidly watching out for
the broken, blue-bottle, glass shards
that poke out from between the fieldstones.
Reaching cow side, she blows brown hair from her face.
Hands on her tiny hips, she eyes the cow and rider.
The cow evil eye stares at her from one side of its huge head.
He slaps the cows rump. Sneakers wail into cowside
and with an indignant bellow of disgust rider and cow are off, girless,
toward the saltlick, leaving the kiss
and the red barn, but a memory.
Getting of a London bus
On a sweltering day in June
Trying not to swear or cuss -
I knew I’d be home soon.
The shopping bags were heavy
They seemed to weigh a tonne,
But I knew this was the levy,
For my cuppa in the sun.
My senses all were bristling
As I reached up for the pot
When the kettle started whistling,
With the water bubbling hot.
Holding handle and the spout
With a gentle, slow gyration,
I warmed the pot throughout
With expectant jubilation.
That rich and sweet perfume
Of tea leaves as they brew
Fill my senses and the room
With the wonder they imbue.
I set my China cup,
Upon its saucer on the tray,
Eager for that first sweet sup,
I pour without delay.
Tea, deep brown and steaming,
Softened by a splash of milk,
Sends my taste buds reeling
When I sip it’s liquid silk.
For some, it’s like a ritual,
For some just rehydration
For some a joy, habitual,
A wonder of creation.
For me it’s like a refuge
From the storms, the stress and strife
When drowning in life’s deluge
This Elixir of life !
Strikingly crafty logomaniac presents...
what else... his trademark blatherskite!
While sprawled comfortably
numb upon davenport
Iowa daily dose of poetic mishmash,
thus yours truly couches, kneads, sports...
his imponderable matted
swiftly styled balderdash
noah intent to kindle
potential ark enemy, nor abash
please pardon your
garden variety philologos,
preparing himself for backlash
he spouts nonsense words
with chutzpah and brash
his logorrhea affliction begets
meaningless rot i.e. namely ishkabibble,
where scapegoated test dummies crash
inscrutably, dumbly, busily blankly
boxing, blinking, batting... eyelash
hijacking, flouting, disregarding... covenant,
not causing corpus callosum damage
basically self made edict equals hogwash,
within one North American banana republic
predicated upon fiat gnash
trumpets blatantly non subliminal,
subordinate, subtle... ho hum
messages cuz bosh to liberty we smash
with most popular refrain
"send her/him back" cash
hearing purported dispensable
deportee with swash-
buck killing bravado
marquee, where klieg lights
blindingly broadcast in a flash.
"FAKE" mania loosed doth stall
refugees, where desperation witnesses
land of milk and honey,
perhaps some heading to Broomall,
who if necessary crawl
escaping forced sex trafficking poverty,
persecution, violence... downfall,
viz puppet government
tricked out noble (no bull) border wall
configured as demilitarized zone
hostilility spewing noxious,
poisonous, venomous gall
courtesy commander in chief
who essentially hoops to forestall
his impeachment proceedings
bristling, ranting, scathing... twitter feeds
spewing bosh raining hatred filled squall
spouting jingoistic rhetoric
atop anointed hall
of the mountain king
eerily similar to Taj Mahal
firing expletive epithets
assenting military mandating withdrawal
loosing vicious police and/or junkyard dogs
declaring no exemption against marshall
law innocence absolute zero guard
as sharp teeth nsync with flesh maul
cue hideous sinister laughter
welcome to danse macabre ball!