Long Callow Poems
Long Callow Poems. Below are the most popular long Callow by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Callow poems by poem length and keyword.
Note: "How can there have been such strife in a Morlde` filled with beautiful Music; &
how could there have been beautiful Music such in a Morlde` filled with strife?" -Soupy
Sales, 2012.
The 12 Panes Of Christmas:
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___
- XMAS' RADOTER -
Yule be Xmas
afore ye know
the pag'an go
for patterned
stamped snowflakes
'bove the
Andy Williams' Shows
DVD Stufftaculate CD,
Away, In A Manger For The Happy Employees,
drivelings (no place like) home
for the Hollydayease
in
a Ford Barricade & SUG Thirsty,
Nay, the new GM Bailout.
Suffer
the little Children
new bornes, infants
what nary see
but a Semi-Claus
ere
semiclaws,
tithes for the celibre-cause craws.
Remembrances
to things past-past, of
natal assemblies
en callow chorale masse
gone
Proustikipped,
to mortitorium's
N'well
& stockings filled
with
the chimney's cold care
yet in hopes
das Geheimnis Viktoria
would
somehow brassiere...
rout despair
the Tree hovers
Cabbage Patch? Nay!,
but the oft'splayed
Perry Como - You Win!,
Get to poke Golgotha pins -
WakeUp, boorros!
Bing-Bing!
WakeUp!, Jokers
to the St. Jack Nihilis...
but ya wanna
bat 'n ball this 'round?
You a'ready donned Santa,
with a semi-
Dear G*d,
(Walsch also asked)
How're You doin' It, &
Your Son?...Tarnished
proof weighdown here, filled
with
vanilla, frozen grins &
Joyburdened smiles...
'neath
pattern-stamped snowflakes &
piney Glade heads
afore the marshed desert
Koyaanisqatsi
Like yearlings'
trotted-out
Saviormusic
whilst the other 333
like
666 -
doubled for toil 'n trouble -
employed
to savaging
One, many, or 'nother...
Christmas partidges'
riffeled feathers family?
pared, unprepaired,
Indeed, vouchsafed
an enemy sans name
on
a horse with no name, save
Internecine
AmeriKa.
For
A kiss 'neath
the mistlesilo
whilst acaroling
of the Bedlamites
(Acts, II: 2-6),
the Psalming 100?,
Screeching
like sleds in pit gravel to
the Silent Night
HeyMen!
There lies
an evergrander Light
at the Dawn, but
Hey!,
who's gonna
tear-away
from
Yawnni,
& the extra-Vaganza
of
Truth?
H.e.m.
12.13.MMviii.
(ST)
* This has become a fave genre for me, as I’ve always been fascinated by metamorphosis and introspection of a shadowy nature … I hope you enjoy it. *
~
ruin of me …
what was once
a bloom of promise
has become a wilderness of horrors
all for the sake
of your pearly light, strewn
that cornflower eye
that you open wide but once a month …
in my wistful youth,
I dreamt of your enchantments -
what dark-edged demon
were you looking for
that needed the bright of your full gaze?
you, a black-skinned cyclops
searching this orb
for the spell might set it free …
was that it, I mused?
each full face of the moon -
were you hoping for your liberty
and occasion to dance with the stars?
how could I have known in
my callow curiosity?
how could I have envisaged such
a diabolical truth?
it was ME you were searching for -
the chance to turn my blood
to molten metal
my teeth to daggers
and my body to a fiend of the moors -
twisted, powerful as an oak
and thirsting for flesh …
you, Luna
are the pearl of night -
the maiden of mysteries and magic, dark
the recreant lover of lycanthropy -
bane of my breath
and sweet salt of my doom
ages-times-ages ago
the vernal lad I was
wandered the high fells, lost -
dropped sleeping under a copse of cedars
and awakened to the gentle bite
of a broad, beautied canid
(your maidservant)
sable, with eyes of fire opal
the blue sheen of your vaulted gaze
daubing her fur like dew …
she had no intent of devouring me
no sense of animus at all
just PURPOSE -
purpose beyond my grasp
but the wait to discover just that,
was not long …
now -
now you stare like a harlot
these rare nights
just to see my monstrosity -
to behold the wonder of your accursed creation -
the genesis of genocide and guilt
that pierced the heart of a
wee boy of chastity
rife with hope and promise
then charred his dreamy aspirations
with veins of fire
and a conflagration of his marrow …
I … am the damned …
in your sight -
your blue-eyed midnight -
is where the man of me ends
and the beast begins
you, passion’s pain
who stirred my stripling soul
robbed me of my god
and flames my
coursings …
even now.
For the “1258 New Poem Only Poetry Contest”, Brian Strand Judge/Sponsor.
Carrying a sleeping baby.
Cleaning after a successful party.
Camping beyond mountains more mountains.
Playing trumpet on the streets of New York City.
Eating although the food supply is deeply compromised.
Flying with Democrats and Republicans, evangelicals and atheists.
Flying like a fruit fly that won’t quit mating.
Cool as a hummingbird in the stream’s wet spray.
Abstaining wholly, absent from worldly life.
Two dogs fighting but not biting hard.
Chanting as if the planet were mending.
Gourmet dining, devout prayer, loving Mary.
Evenings watching tv. Scotch and Star Trek.
Taking off Emily Dickinson’s clothes.
Meeting in the meeting house, arguing and praying.
Planning a legacy as if you knew enough to control events.
Pursuing happiness as a naturalist or humanist.
Spinning with the planet, performing the history that surrounds us.
Killing many Germans, saving many Jews.
Doing less until one thing’s done well.
Fainting from staring at candles through stained glass windows.
Morning, a billion trillion nuclear detonations per second warming your
bones.
Manipulating symbols, solving equations.
Disregarding tweets and facebook persuasions.
Sitting with a tiny Buddha near a rushing stream cutting a gorge.
Running, disciplining myself, making myself healthy.
Ingesting drugs, throwing die, drinking sludge.
Growing varicolored corn.
Participating in the cause because it’s impossible not to participate in
the effect.
Running over a chipmunk, groundhog or a skunk.
Lying face down in the emergency room facing doom.
Waking up Monday thinking Sweet Saturday! but soon remembering your
trick knee.
Turning the towering young thunder of my anger against my sons.
Regretting the callow dispassion with which I met my parents’ quietus.
Lawn mowing, leaf blowing, yapping dogs, napping old people.
No jets but a rooster mornings, cows and goats.
Al is painting an apartment. Sirma is cleaning the floors. Felix is taking
out the garbage.
Deciding tentatively I slightly prefer Heifetz’ to Oistrakh’s Sibelius.
No cedar waxwings, no chickadees, but beautiful moon!
If you’re alone as you get, why are you crying?
hold still, eventide ...
I am a capricious cad among wraiths,
waltzing with a mop in
a Marrakesh courtyard - catching stars
as they drip with waxy and
wild wonder, into the braids of my maudlin
noose, tightening
jangling, dangling ...
rose gold anklets, (wrapped 'round leggy perfection),
shimmer their hammered facets,
kicking smoke into toroidal hoops with
raw regard
while they spin, table-top, to a
Chaabi chant
candles waving their
flames to beckon the darkness close ...
notes from a punji weave
mystery thru the heavy heat, Henna-striped hands
cradling a bottle, jade green, as the
white flowers gush their cold, gold bounty
down a curvy thigh
wetly wrapping an unblemished
capuccino calf, Perrier-Jouët trickles off tender
toes to plop, warm, on my
tantalized tongue
I kiss the fuchsia-daubed nails to
show proper veneration, then spin back to
the murky music, mop-handle
lover in tow
down to the spinning
tie-dyed rugs and pillows, I surrender all to the
callow flesh there, wanting ... willing
her hair and hide and ebon eyes
dark as delirium, while the brass-headed
snake-of-a-hookah waits
for a kiss
long draws bring dizzy
dreams and hypnotic swirls from the lamp,
aromas and an opiate nirvana coiling
around my cares
lost as a lamb, to soft skin ...
and sweet smoke.
( Jemaa el-Fnaa Square in Marrakesh is one of the most active and exciting places on earth, with exotic foods, snake-charmers, clothes and antique vendors, magicians, dancers, haqle or street theater, storytellers, acrobats, musicians, comedians, water sellers, tattoo artists, carnival acts, even organ-grinders with monkeys, and yes, opium and hashish traders. It has remained largely the same for over a thousand years, and is indeed an important part of history, declared by UNESCO as a "Masterpiece of World Heritage" - if you're ever in Morocco, it is a MUST-see! )
(continued)
V
Has it not occurred to you how I sat with you
dear sister, counting the chicking back of the
evening train by the window sill and then
got up to wind my way down the snake infested rail
to shoo shoo the cows home to brood
while you gee gee-d the chicks to coop
and did we not then plan of a farm
a green milking farm to warm the palm
then turned to scratch the itch over in our minds
lay down on the floors, mat aside
our thoughts to cushion heads
whilst dug tapioca roots heaped the dream
and we lay scraping the kernel-less
fiber shelled coconuts
O Bhama, my goatless daughter kid
how I nursed you with the callow calves
those mutual moments forced in these common lives
and then, that day when they sold you
the blistering shirtless sun never flinching
an eye, defiant I stood caressing your creamy coat
and all you could say was a hopeless baaa..a..aa
and then, then, that day as we came over the mountains
two kids you led to the thorny brush, business bent
the eye-balling bharata natyam
VI
O masters of my fading August dream
For should you take this life from me
Know you any better
Than when children we have joyously romped
Down and deep in the August river
Washing on the mountain tin.
Now on the growing granite's precipitous face
In our vigilant wassail
Remember the children downstream playing
Where your own little voices are speechless lingering
Let it not be simply said that a river flows
to flourish a land
More than that he who is high at the source
take heed:
For a river putrid in the cradle is worse
than the plunging flooding rain.
And the eclectic monsoons may have come
Have gathered and may have gone
While the senses still within torrid membranes
thap-pooo-ng
thap-pong-ng-ng
thap-pong
(for "Glossary of Vernacular Terms" see next page)
Woman, woman that I loved uncommonly
Several springs ago
When the weather was good and callow
When the wind whistled swiftly, low and slow
Oh! Woman, you were young, strong and sparkling
Darling, now you're deceased
Lying down and sleeping comatose on your back
Calm and motionless like the water
Of the paralyzed pond, staring at the sky
Eyes hermetically and conveniently closed
Where everything seems supernatural and artificial
I wonder and ponder where I'm diving
If it's an illusion, a nightmare or a dream
I don't feel good: I'm unbalanced and demented
I’m disappearing into the shadows
Where everything is dark and gloomy
Like my blood. I feel that my everything
Is gone and swept away by sadness
I'm drowning in a mercurial lake of inebriety
My God! Yes, I’m in pain indeed
I’ve lost the most beautiful mermaid.
Woman, woman, you were genial and lovely
The voluptuous gal that I loved so much
Do you remember? I frittered a lot of time
Revering you. I found myself on the slippery slope
I, too, will die like you
Woman, woman, heavy and ghastly is the cross
Where I am exposed today
The cold freezes me and the sun bakes me
I'm sad and devastated like wilted flowers
And you, apoplectic, silent and enshrined
I am suffering, weeping and dying too
I don't want to stay here anymore
My heart is weary, sorrowful and besieged
I am crying and suffering. My strength has left me
I am drowning in pain in the lake of boozing
I'm perishing too. I don't want to live anymore.
Woman, woman that I loved so much
We are no longer in springtime
But almost at the infancy of autumn
The bells are ringing and the children are banging
There is no rainbow in the sky
I am alone, in tears and very sorry
In the labyrinth of the necropolis
May the earth be infinitely light to you!
P.S. Translation of ‘Ode À Yseult’ by Hébert Logerie.
Copyright © September 2021, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
it glistens …
can you see?
do you see that little drop -
the tiny streak that
writes your name upon my visage -
that etches it’s damp and
dour reality onto what the mirror
shines back at me each day?
do you grasp all the
wonder and regret that floats there?
do you know the dazzling eyes
represented there as
I know them?
of a green more emerald
than olive - shocked with bolts of
gold, and glimmering
like the sun on the
spires of Oz …
oh, the limitless moments
I have bartered plunging their
dark mysteries -
swimming their exquisite madness
joined to their dreams and
yearnings and crazy, callow craves …
such a wee drip
there, a-cheek -
diminutive and inconsequential
a tiny, briny bead of
ocular insignificance, yet it roils with
the sad sobs of my marrow
and holds the
wonders and wilds of my spirit …
the ache of my
squandered passions ply
its deepest limits
swirling with an id, misunderstood,
and a life of chaotic endeavors
and endless imaginings ...
how many such beads of moisture
have trickled there
for your sake -
dropping to careless insignificance
on a cold surface below?
an ocean could not
hold all the wasted weep
that has dangled there without
name or number
and held the empty promise
of your cares …
the priceless validation of mortality
the crushing agony of deliverance
the haunting terror
of indifference and lack
the sublime sorrows
of sweet passions given to a lie
the awkward fear of a
gift in absence
the sacred apprehension of a hope, held
the wondrous horror that true
love may yet be real
the divine grief that it may NOT be
every minute, moment and mind
each elegant instance and iteration
every tender toil and
touch and temperament
swims to substance there in that drop
and is the liquid legitimacy of
all that I have been and ever shall be
yet all it is to YOU
is an answer …
and one more shining, shimmering
bleakly blessed place for
you to find …
your reflection.
dead end street …
mostly elderly when we came
always quiet …
empty nests side-by-side
aching for spring
but winter came instead
(the winter of life)
friends … good people -
town folk who raised this little
borough with pride
came to this blind alley to wait for God
and He obliged …
one-by-one, this road of
retirement rolled over …
the reap saw these quiet abodes
flipping fast and furious
and the once-aged occupants were
replaced with families -
young professionals and upstarts
fresh-woven nests filled with
chicks and younglings -
little voices and wings to test
upon the breeze
training wheels and swing sets
where lounge chairs once grazed lazily
backboards and rollerblades
and a valid reason for the ice cream
truck to loiter, it’s silly music box
jingling the afternoons with cold, tasty
wonder-in-a-cone …
time - passing like a subway car -
just a flash in the dark …
grain-by-grain the
hourglass steadily sifted
and a once-peaceful lane became
a circus of activity -
giggles and screeches replacing the
silence with the music of life
the rarely-a-car avenue, vibrant and joyous
picnics and lawn parties
birthdays and showers and fireworks
playballs left unattended
bicycles laid at the curbs in a rush
pets being walked
and the commonplace, everyday things
started being … every day …
oh, no mistake -
I loved the quiet when we came
and tho’ I dread the winter months now -
the post-Christmas cold, dead and
long-dark days, grinding on me
like a ragged old dirge -
that quietude and peaceful contemplation
is STILL one of life’s greatest
“little pleasures” to me …
yet … it’s the NOISE that I’ve come to
miss the most this time of year -
those little voices of
youth and vibrancy that sing me
through the warm months,
reminding me what being here is
all about, and making me
yearn more than ever
the sweet, joyous, callow kiss …
of Spring.
(Photo of Maplewood Drive by yours truly)
Brother. O Brother.
O when when we were callow
In days young Shakers of the movement before
gray & silver turned our locks we held in idol
Spree even damned were we
Lessen a very score ’til callous became un-sore
away had you myth into the far-off seeking a northern star
Thus did dim of you re-turn filled
privileged besiege ferrying scripted jots of the novel are
deluged in assure
Brother. O Brother.
Dont forthwith tell to me nor else what I do not
forth I have continued a militant pace
Dont mid uncommon lot tell to me nor else
demur girding resistance rebellious plot
If you must speak a hair tell
of owned stead mid factional fight In the absence
tell of owned gallant march for quality rights
If adapt if no longer a sworn knight
tell of owned rationalism of moralism the plagiarism of
Quisling plight ill-gots Are you not at will zealot
Brother. O Brother.
Here in the brawling depth the course bowl clear
onward the struggle un-stop
You we in pledge had warrant to our brethren aged
to carry the pillars in lift
O out furthest yon you hither re-turn elope dystopia sum utmost grift
—whitewashed literacy alien pensive — these snares gate
earnest mental width so readily turncoat gift
in errand of handmade suits and seasoned goose
be too un-loathed the dandy one who tend the noose
Steady are the angered us of sternly force
undue toil seizing liberty under conquer
Brother. O Brother.
If for reasons untold at sun’s godly will alms’ shine
shalt fetch flicker of brotherly chime
O the left-behind aggrandizing autocrat-kneeler sprawl
as liken wayward owl
cant find luminous in eyes of kinship kind — formed
across absolutist allured far-off whereat darken desert loom
Muse this Steely-dusk rise leap desert’s sandy sweep
to the heavens it seeps to hand the moon its imposing greet
if for reasons untold
Let me……….Let me … Let me in….. Let me in,
I want you, I miss you…… Mum!
Let me... Let me... Let me... Mum Lead me!
As something inside me is burning,
Let me be, let me! Be me,
Face of Stella get in and be with me!
I want you tell me everything is gona be okay,
Now let me write the spectrum between death and life of my mother,
I’m clement about my mum even when deceased and vanished.
I always heed to her spirits even when I know it’s a myth.
Mum without you, no me, no words, I would have transcribed,
Nothing is synonymous to you, mother
Because the love I feel for you is eternal.
I’m one lucky guy, my mum is in heaven, I, am still in haven.
There’re flashes I remember,
I remember talking to my mum when I’m a sleep,
And then, when dawn ruptured, indeed I recollected everything she had told me,
She told me, “When you start from nadir, you can glimpse zenith.”
My mum holds my hand and fills the gaps in between my fingers, when no one else can,
Gad dam it, that was just a hallucination but I fondle it.
My mother played her position,
I’m playing my cards and My numbers are bingo!
I perceive and heed to her voice every nightfall,
My mum whispers to my ears saying, “Cling on to ecstasy my son.” I’m with you.
She may be gone,
But her soul is wiggling with God, mine mingles with hers!
Let me accolade my mum,
Even when evil always wheels from North to south, my aegis is my mum,
My mum is my afflatus in my acreage.
My mum left me callow,
She vanished during my juvenile stint,
But I’m pursuing and so far opened new leaflets and lucrative I am now,
The canons suggest that the dead are not dead,
They just switched to the phantom zone,
So her soul is mythical in my presence,
But In the back of my mind, my mum is animate.
Face of Stella is me.
Mother, these are my words to you.
In loving memory of my Queen Mother #Stella
©Bryan De poet
©Tsi