Long Camouflaging Poems
Long Camouflaging Poems. Below are the most popular long Camouflaging by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Camouflaging poems by poem length and keyword.
Castaway :-
Long day…longer it gets…
with no hand at a distance,
grey skies, with glimpses of clouds
that traverse together, like a bound existence.
far off, in the sultry fields
a raw sight, of a damsel,
a women…or a helpless maiden
hardly could anyone tell.
dry eyes, with a wry smile,
and a piece of black drape,
it was all, that she wore..
to hide her visage, from people’s gape..
thin frame, and ghastly feet,
copper-like rough strands,
but face, with a rare angelic cut,
wearing paleness, she walked, in a trance..
barely there, but starkly felt,
from within a distance, of her feet
her riches…that she firmly held,
some rags…and a piece of paper…old but neat.
Wandering, in those, smothered lands…
She trailed on…over miles of sights...
a faith, in someone, and the words he spoke,
kept her going…through days and nights…
as the fiery sun, with the glistening moon,
And the melting snow of the glaciers,
Months came…and passed…like a blink
And our lady was seen…lesser and lesser...
Winter ushered, with its full vigor,
Painting those parched lands, with its charm,
Untainted and pure it looked, as a sacred hymn,
Sung by a preacher, like a soulful psalm.
One such misty morn, as it was to be…
Blades of grass…still fresh with dews,
Wrapped in the pall, of countless blossoms,
There she lay, cold and stiff, in the morning hues…
Aged enough, when the day was,
Folks came…with melancholy on minds,
Someone saw, a thing, subtly hidden…
A letter it was, one of her riches, of good ol‘times.
It smelled of nothing, but selfless love,
That she bore, in her bosom, for her man,
Who promised, taking her along, upon his return,
The fateful letter, said it all, in a leaf’s span…
Tears weren’t enough, to mourn her loss,
All who came, knew it too well,
She came with nothing, but left with a lot,
Her memoirs, too poignant, stayed like a witch’s spell.
Buried she was, in heart of the earth,
As a dead log, that rots in the backyard,
Harsh a message, her death did foster,
That, people truly ‘fall’, in love, like a pack of cards…
As Mother Nature, has always had it,
Another long day, came to an end,
The world went on swiftly, on all its fours,
Camouflaging itself, with a blissful ignorance...
That dormant feeling of insecurity arose,
when travel journal got thrust adjacent
to my tattered (holey tattooed) clothes
while I knew with crossed eyes
aroused anger from peaceful doze
my younger sister felt about her
globe trotting exploits, an over expose
jour ever since voyaging out on her own
after graduating top of her class
where mine hatred glows
indirectly snidely sneering
at ma dough less brother hoboes
(a 1979 Methacton High School alumni),
unanimously chosen valedictorian
dressed in Calvin Klein
Harris tweed, couture
and silk panty hose
like me prolonging, promoting
on par with quasi staff sergeant, who knows
artful disciplinarian gingerly launching rules,
asper formerly commanding G.I. Joes
and pronouncing, predilection
exhaling natural highs no lows
traveling solo, with surviving Wilburys,
or just mows
zing nonchalantly
(though a foreigner) with swarthy skin color
easily camouflaging as civilian
all points on the compass,
where minute needle doth nose
upon returning home (being honorably feted
at once glorious estate of Glen Elm,
where she did propose
to the Lord Taylor (swiftly), which location
situated at 324 Level Road, Collegeville,
Pennsylvania 19426),
thence a great huzzah a rose
an immediate nauseousness welled
within from me head tummy smelly toes
I did not want to here, or see any details,
which would accentuate personal woes
popping, snapping, and smarting,
and slapping skin raw tib bits,
ache'n to yanked strings
of mama's heirloom yo-yos!
Poet Script:
trials and tribulations,
visited upon head of young
concocted ("FAKE") gusty and gutsy
kid sister enterprising ingenue,
christened easy on the tongue
Sharodd (not her real name),
to top off talents sung
like a professional opera singer, which rung
a shiver along small hairs of spine did tingle
heard all the way to Lake Woebegone
where bachelor farmers did mingle
every Christmas, a decreasing
number donned Kris Kringle
hit with blitzkrieg of yawping brats
hoof pranced to bell weather jingle!
I absconded with reader rabbit (Peter), to celebrate Saint Patrick's Day
Ah Sheik Hog - Ho!
One "FAKE" Wingman
think Monty Python's
Flying Circus skittering
on thin ice - Skidamarink
a dink, a dink...
hither and yon, to and fro
Via O'hare To Dublin y'know
Cuz, The Leprechaun within
me, no spring chicken bro,
nevertheless oz offer friendship in toto
good day to thee with cheerful adieu.
Though nowhere to be found despite search team
loudly trumpeting thru depleting fresh air
supply terrestrially polluted atmosphere,
asper the unknown whereabouts, regarding
said royally titled quasi legally inherited bare
naked lady loving bastard oven heated affair
son last seen donning Herringbone Wool headwear
supplemented by Irish merrino wool sweater
and custom made Hemp (smoking hot) pants
informing observer with seedy, faux debonair,
and pseudo (reed "FAKE") suave cultured couture
clothing automatically camouflaging to disappear
without a trace, thee alluded to rival to the throne
(Irish to keep ye in the dark) like chocolate eclair
secret recipe (one takes to the grave), unless held
at gunpoint by bonafide Machiavellian consigliere
ruthless if necessary forcing captive to declare
high fidelity, indemnity, loyalty, et cetera to a
life of lawlessness adopting anonymous incognito
guise accepting bewig noggin with long knotty hair
tattoo skin with "FAKE" scars to accentuate fear
factor accepting (cryptic blood bonded) brotherhood till
death do you part loot, pillage, vandalize, et cetera
in a blitzkrieg effort (albeit violently) to repair
evenly distribute disparity between 1% and 99%
grassroots uprising (peopled with migrants) spear
writ ting their exploitation at the (Taj Mahal) bear
sized paws swiping at susceptibility, vulnerability,
inequality, et cetera series of unfortunate events
decreed, instilled, ordained clamped like ironware
shackling one generation after another, an outright
outdated, on par as anachronism, feudalism, stoicism
where stark difference between rich and poor unfair,
especially, cus the latter labor sweat of their brow,
which backbreaking toil essentially endows wealthy
at expense of grunt work signalling ominous nightmare.
I absconded with reader rabbit (Peter), to celebrate Saint Patrick's Day
Ah Sheik Hog - Ho!
One "FAKE" Wingman
think Monty Python's
Flying Circus skittering
on thin ice - Skidamarink
a dink, a dink...
hither and yon, to and fro
Via O'hare To Dublin y'know
Cuz, The Leprechaun within
me, no spring chicken bro,
nevertheless oz offer friendship in toto
good day to thee with cheerful adieu.
Though nowhere to be found despite search team
loudly trumpeting thru depleting fresh air
supply terrestrially polluted atmosphere,
asper the unknown whereabouts, regarding
said royally titled quasi legally inherited bare
naked lady loving bastard oven heated affair
son last seen donning Herringbone Wool headwear
supplemented by Irish merrino wool sweater
and custom made Hemp (smoking hot) pants
informing observer with seedy, faux debonair,
and pseudo (reed "FAKE") suave cultured couture
clothing automatically camouflaging to disappear
without a trace, thee alluded to rival to the throne
(Irish to keep ye in the dark) like chocolate eclair
secret recipe (one takes to the grave), unless held
at gunpoint by bonafide Machiavellian consigliere
ruthless if necessary forcing captive to declare
high fidelity, indemnity, loyalty, et cetera to a
life of lawlessness adopting anonymous incognito
guise accepting bewig noggin with long knotty hair
tattoo skin with "FAKE" scars to accentuate fear
factor accepting (blood bonded) brotherhood till
death do you part loot, pillage, vandalize, et cetera
in a blitzkrieg effort (albeit violently) to repair
evenly distribute disparity between 1% and 99%
grassroots uprising (peopled with migrants) spear
writ ting their exploitation at the (Taj Mahal) bear
sized paws swiping at susceptibility, vulnerability,
inequality, et cetera series of unfortunate events
decreed, instilled, ordained clamped like ironware
shackling one generation after another, an outright
outdated, on par as anachronism, feudalism, stoicism
where stark difference between rich and poor unfair,
especially, cus the latter labor sweat of their brow,
which backbreaking toil essentially endows wealthy
at expense of grunt work signalling ominous nightmare.
I absconded with reader rabbit (Peter), to celebrate Saint Patrick's Day
Ah Sheik Hog - Ho!
One "FAKE" Wingman Flying
Via O'hare To Dublin y'know
Cuz, The Leprechaun within
me, seeks young sprig poe
whet tick friend in toto,
though nowhere to be found despite search team
loudly trumpeting thru depleting fresh air
supply terrestrially polluted atmosphere,
asper the unknown whereabouts, regarding
said royally titled quasi legally inherited bare
naked lady loving bastard oven heated affair
son last seen donning Herringbone Wool headwear
supplemented by Irish merrino wool sweater
and custom made Hemp (smoking hot) pants
informing observer with seedy, faux debonair,
and pseudo (reed "FAKE") suave cultured couture
clothing automatically camouflaging to disappear
without a trace, thee alluded to rival to the throne
(Irish to keep ye in the dark) like chocolate eclair
secret recipe (one takes to the grave), unless held
at gunpoint by bonafide Machiavellian consigliere
ruthless if necessary forcing captive to declare
high fidelity, indemnity, loyalty, et cetera to a
life of lawlessness adopting anonymous incognito
guise accepting bewig noggin with long knotty hair
tattoo skin with "FAKE" scars to accentuate fear
factor accepting (blood bonded) brotherhood till
death do you part loot, pillage, vandalize, et cetera
in a blitzkrieg effort (albeit violently) to repair
evenly distribute disparity between 1% and 99%
grassroots uprising (peopled with migrants) spear
writ ting their exploitation at the (Taj Mahal) bear
sized paws swiping at susceptibility, vulnerability,
inequality, et cetera series of unfortunate events
decreed, instilled, ordained clamped like ironware
shackling one generation after another, an outright
outdated, on par as anachronism, feudalism, stoicism
where stark difference between rich and poor unfair,
especially, cus the latter labor sweat of their brow,
which backbreaking toil essentially endows wealthy
at expense of grunt work signalling ominous nightmare.
Behind the mask there is a frail and fragile me
Enigmas clothed in conundrums; that the naked I can’t see
'Behind the mask is concealed, my authenticity
Examine my history to unravel my perplexing mysteries
Behind the mask it is unseen paralyzing, piercing pain
With arrogance and self-assurance camouflaging the shame
Behind the mask is hidden my true Identity.
Seek and survey the signs of my obscurity
Behind the mask is veiled a heart that’s been broken
Held together by unexpressed resentment and animosity unspoken
Behind the mask is where my insecurity hides,
Like realism wrapped in riddles, you must read between the lines
Behind the mask is where I cover my falling tears
Dig just below the surface and you’ll unearth my crippling fears
Behind the mask there are cloaked secrets unexplained and untold
Decipher the symbols to crack my encrypted codes
Behind the mask you’ll uncover my True expressions
Remove and reveal parodies, and expose the false impressions
Behind the mask, it is hidden, my Individuality.
Not acting out some script of who I’m thought to be
Behind the mask is obscured my, vulnerability
Suppressing the mounting manifestation of the inner me
Behind the mask it is disguised, my true reflection
Underneath open wounds inflected by rejection
Behind the mask rest crushed and shattered dream
Where fear muzzles roaring whispers and screeching silent screams
Behind the mask is buried, my stolen youth
Deception, and cover-ups, masquerading as facts and truth
Behind the mask is where I screen the confusion
Look close and you’ll find, trickery and deception, draped in fantasy and optical
illusions
Behind the mask it’s stifling; it is hard for me to breathe,
The walls of deceit that i have built ,are quickly closing in on me.
I am trapped behind facades of smirks and phony smiles.
So may I please remove this mask just for a little while?
Chiquita Baity
On the one hand, there is a remarkable beauty in watching one entity blend into the environment
of a different entity. On the other hand, there is less
to be appreciated about assimilation if it results in the
destruction, disappearance, or utter annihilation of that entity.
In the world of nature, on one hand, one considers that, of necessity, the sheer
essence of 'survival' is largely at play. On the other hand, in the sociological world of mankind, the blending or assimilation becomes not an 'instinct to survive tool', but rather a remarkable 'melting pot' for advancement in human development.
Whether wall street or boxing ring, we compete and fight to the finish; but we never eat each other; (Well, except for the Holyfield-Tyson fight). On the one hand, there is exhilarating satisfaction to be found when we observe camouflaging in the rain forest or in the kingdom of the wild. But on the other hand, except for the camouflaged soldiers at war, in communities of the civilized, we take exception to those choosing to wear masks or appear to be something they are not.
There is a distinctly different expectation and purpose that require the maintenance and maturity of character. On the one hand, in a civilized society, when such expectancy fails, the lines of demarcation are drawn and defended. On the other hand, in The Serengeti of Tanzania and Kenya,
no one is expected to protect the wildebeests and Zebras from the alligators and crocodiles. There, it is the natural state of things; lines are not drawn and neither required nor desired.
08062017TGPSContest, Late Summer Standard, Brian Strand
The departed, part too, from my cry
Sikandar Abu Zafar
The bloody angered gaze, burnt down history of my barren land
Those years of mine
Today whence a knife I hold strong
Seeker of the precipice bleeding , slit throat
What will be the use to muse along the cuddle?
Of the rattling killer boa? Still in the pandora box?
It is I who am to blame
I own my key to my security
You lift up your veil , indifference
Where lasting silhouettes gather together, remnants
The departed, part too, from my cry
Meticulous a measured fit , among shoes within walkway
Garnished a gift a floral bouquet, handed to your may
A fragrant wishful one
Never traced your truth in fathom in return
The muse and your truest clues
Only to fit the underneath inverse, a muddy constellation
Today, the memory lane
Insulting a pour hemlock door
A bitter soul seeking solace from those clawed nocturnals of the dark.
What is the use of a pleasant gaze
Camouflaging the phantom with the laughter behind
I am bruising with the loaded kind
Exquisitely mine
You , inhaler toxin of my airy dust, dispersing heavily so
Wipe away your first alibi
The departed, part too, from my cry
THe unity when the dreamers dream
Clouds came to soak first
The blisters of the barren
Off and on, the draught brought in
Had me startled in taking preparation
My compassion is your sophism
PLus minus , quite surplused
Decoded sheets with those covetous intricate shares, dusty
Today, I dug my grave
My own
THe shovel of my skull
Had a menacing lightening struck form
What will it be to dwindle unsure
Unresolved hatred in a sleepy volcano
I will make them return the scars
The clawed scar tissue that incurred a lot on me
You shy away from my soil and water , a carpet sitting on green try
The departed, part too, from my cry
In Damascus (Short film)
Listen to the Conga drums speak
Drench my soul with the spirited beat
Break the chains from around my feet
And sprinkle some rum on the street.
Listen to the conga drums speak
Penetrating mystics’ way out in the deep
Electrify the sleeping dead
Exhume innocent bodies and balm them again.
Listen to the conga drums speak
Stand up and dance to the rhythm and beat
Fling your hands way up in the air
And swing your bodies without fear.
Listen to the conga drums speak
Telling legends and tales over the years
Hearts exploding with gladness
When they hear the conga drums beat.
Take off your shoes and Join the circle
And listen to the conga drums agonizing thump
Transcend with me to the top of the mountain
And unload your heavy burden.
The Gods are calling me to unite the spirits
And seek peace in the holy mountains.
Listen to the conga drum’s cry
Lamenting the souls who have gone by
I can feel the tempo gushing through my vein
making land fall at dawn and igniting with
quiet sprits feasting on top of the mountain.
Listen to the conga drums speak
Spread out in the open meadows
Form a big wide circle around the fields
And dance out the turbulence in the pastures.
Listen to the conga drums speak
Observe every car on the busy street
Rolling vans and busy men
Camouflaging dark secrets
in old grave yards and pumpkin farm.
Listen to the conga drums speak
Catapulting rhythm under my feet
Laughter and tear romancing in the air
Mankind is blind yet making life sublime
Listen to the conga drums speak
Dance and submit to its hypnotic beat.
©2015 Christine Phillips
Secrets beneath the skin...
I was beaten down by lust sin
Camouflaging with the resemblance of rejection reflection
If you cared for me, you'd run away with another love...that love you're adorned with with affection and you earned your acception
Your thoughtless talking
Got me running and walking
Our reflection of cyber-sensation is not genuine
You're playing with my feelings and head now...that's mean...
Where have you been?
I have lost you...once again...
How can I forgive you, boo,
When we can't see face to face?
Searching all over for you too
Am I just this overwhelming disgrace?
Oh, What now?
Ah, now what?
You have taken me on levels of frustration...I weep sleep in awake agitation
Watching the process of abuse over the years
Shallow swimmer, shadows out if the closet of velvet hesitation
You and I together drives me in bittersweet tears
In instant return,
I get your rejection reflection
I internally burn
Not involved in your life of successful intervention....
Oh no, not anymore...
Hurt alone to the core...
I shed my blood of hate for our love on my own
And, in your eyes, I'm a pitiful fool and the aftershocks of your actions had made it known and let it be shown...I don't care, I'd rather bleed in the inside alone...
Alone, I will probably be...
Not alone, you're so free...
I will never know
The pain I put your through
You raise a brow
Because the rain of radiance and haven honesty and the mystery of it left us blue
I made it crystal clear...you did too I fear
That I love you, despite your downfalls
Fixated on freefalls up in here, down in here
I admit it...with gritted teeth...you broke me like the Jericho walls