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.
In an unfolding poetic hymn of yours,
I will be the poet, with zealous zeal,
A Sky, unwrapped the horizon of yours,
while, I was a lonely, soaring seagull
Running brook of yours had a murmuring sound,
though, tranquil water touched mine
Within the rainy season,and your riverine landscape,
I will be the estuary, rushing to a shrine.
The mountainous high of your beauty
will be ever, an epic greenery of mine
In a pacing mayhem, in your controlling high,
I will be thy resurrection.
Be a forest in the deep, I will be the chirping bird,
in the camouflaging nature.
Salty tears of yours will be an anecdote
in these eyes, too, of mine, in pairing venture.
Wider outskirt of life and love of mine,
may it rush to yours, in prime time..
In an embroidered quilted story of yours,
I may be found, often in a silence of chime.
Na re na.. na.. na..
On a night, as dense as a silence, I will be thy color
On a moment of unfolding nature and bliss,
I will bring a surging silent uproar.
In a poem, singing bold and loud, I will be thy poet.
Wider outskirt of life and love of mine, may it rush to yours ,
in prime time..
In an embroidered quilted story of yours,
I may be found, often in a silence of chime.
Na re na.. na.. na..
May 26, 2023
For years I wore
your shame as my own
and lived unknown
in terror of being seen
like a leper
self-quarantined
intrinsically unclean
Your neglect
became to me
my insignificance
undeserving of your glance
Your abuse
became to me
my fault and utter blame
my soiled but rightful name
Your abandonment
to me
was my unworthiness
unfit and valueless
'Til this layered shame became
a camouflaging cloak
wrapped about with care
disguising me as if
I wasn't even there
How I avoided them
my friends so true
for they could plainly see
the agony in me
and I couldn't control
it radiating through
Yet butterflies won't stay bound
in crippling cocoons
integrity impugned
by wings that cannot fly-
and I at last have found
the answer to my wounds
in exposing you
and all your lies
You were cruel-
I do matter
You were guilty-
I am not to blame
You were unfit-
I am worthy
You nearly destroyed me-
But I overcame
Now my only dread is
of leaving this world
as un-notably as I came
as invisibly as I lived
to be known only
by others
as unredeemed as
you thought me to be-
No! the truth
will set me free...
I humbly give
this cloak to you
it was yours to wear
not mine to share
I'm through
I'm through
I'm through.
I'm an emerald
echo of earth's
caterpillar, a
camouflaging
hiatus of muse
midst karmic rainstorms.
Enslaved to jealous
stars flaming within
infernal wings,
I yearn to spellbind
sacred heaven's throne,
chasing subconscious
liberty in crowned
soul of marine eyes.
Tracing saffron
fingertips in
silent smokes of
Venus, willingly,
I've scarred tuscan shine
of Aphrodite
with pearl's thermal ache.
So now, when new year's
first sunflower sings ~
breathing ambrosia
in gemstones of
bejeweled healing,
a poet shall be
reborn as a
ruby-amethyst,
snowtail butterfly.
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.
This hymn which is achingly beautiful,
reminds me of you.
Indication of love and it reminds me of you.
It's been quite long,
and exhausted I am, of camouflaging my feelings for you.
Never realized when I slipped in love with you.
Perturbed I am not,
I am fine.
This heart now a lunatic,
slowly slipping down to the oblivion.
Evocative thoughts of your scent,
swells up my eyes with tears.
Perturbed I am not,
I am fine,
resonance of your voice still lingers in my ears.
Evening's I ignite the lamps around your scented memory,
eyelids turn moist which once used to drench,
thinking of you.
Mutilated I am,
just left to be scattered away.
With few debris of your feel,
that still remains to quit.
Perturbed I am not,
I am fine.
©Chitra Arun Sept2021
When accidental
auroras stroll along
the pale highlights of
camouflaging corpses
and death blossoms
in vulturous hearts of
dreadful puppets,
she always holds
pixie dusts of
strawberry seeds within
october's obsidian quartz.
Gaze beyond those
glass-stitched horizons,
as she cracks the
carmine cocoon of
judgemental juxtapositions
and transforms
carbon-coated
milliseconds to
magenta-gold
pronunciation of
peaceful phrases.
She is a silken
cream-dove,
floating above
murky musings of
redolent rhinestone-
reveries.
As prismatic primroses
shall cleanse every
sin from the witching
spellbook, she will waltz
in whispering lulls of liberty,
emancipating from
chloroform-stained
chains of blood-
scented blames.
Her sunflower-shield
and aurous
summer-sword of
amber poesy
can slice spicy
silhouettes of
graphite goblins,
she will never
surrender to those
misinterpreting
megalomaniac minds,
who twirl along
masquerading rivulets
of manipulative
assumptions.
She is the shiniest roar
above grimoires of grief,
like an 'unassailable purity',
washing away
emerald exhales of pain,
who mutes each cosmic
raven's lament and
distils russet-white-lilies with
her alchemical aroma.
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!
It's already hard enough to say anything accurately
without further obfuscating and camouflaging the soul.
The faces in the funeral pews are impassive, impatient
and the dead woman cares not what's said, isn't even present.
The poet gets innumerable do-overs, it's one of man's wonders,
revises his vision of his mother and plays her piano, posthumously.
Why not say it simply? Hers was a comity and a tragedy.
As are ours. And perform the history that surrounds us.
Are caskets boats? The ship of death rides Charon's waves
or perhaps on that solitary day you happily kayak to the huckleberries.
Is the deeper sadness incomplete achievement or never to have tried?
Any attempt to decide this question for others is to badly behave.
The pablum of Christianity, esp. the Catholics, re the after life
must be rejected. It's necessary. To be replaced by community,
perfection of the human project, nature's intelligent partner.
Dusty, sadly habitable houses along the funeral route, shapeless
people crossing themselves when ambulances or hearses pass.
I wanted to describe the sweetness of her life, how she was part
of the problem and part of the solution. How love and evolution
are passed like loaves from person to person down the generations.
Find the humor in the cholera. When my father died
he waved like a surfer riding a wave or a clown riding
an elephant out the circus tent. Mom follows the same law.
The many ways a spear can pierce a brave warrior's jawbone or armor.
Oblivion's needles and lines
camouflaging an ugly truth.
By using dope to escape life,
your addiction drains you of youth.
Drugs synthesize reality,
magically banishing pain.
And you live lies disguised as bliss,
seduced by the lure of cocaine.
On the road to self-destruction,
you tread upon the hearts of friends.
For, in worlds of your creation,
everyone hustles and pretends.
When highs morph into misery,
resistance drowns within your tears.
But you don't try to get away,
for hope's been denied you for years.
You're trapped in a web of deceit,
delusion's shackled to greed.
And you've strayed beyond salvation,
living only to feed your need.
(Quatrain)
8/10/2015
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.