Long Capes Poems
Long Capes Poems. Below are the most popular long Capes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Capes poems by poem length and keyword.
I wish I never grew up.
because mama, this world is ugly.
I wish I lived to see the autumn, but come winter, cut me.
For mama, there is beauty in the dark,
just as there was beauty in my heart.
And had you told me how it goes,
I’d end my story while the ink still flow.
For it’s no longer 2014,
and hopes and dreams are never what they seem.
As once you leave the safety of your mind,
where the only person to let you down is I,
you walk to drown into the sea.
I find it so hard to see,
As if the grass is too tall and my feet can’t reach.
For as I run in time, the world runs faster,
and I broken, greeting defeat.
It’s no longer 2014,
so I take a breath and exhale a breeze.
For the capes we wore, they no longer fit,
and the heroes beneath live to please.
How time has passed.
The years, numbers,
but people change.
It’s no longer 2014.
I was raised on stories of heroes…in Fairy Tales, in books, at the movies and on TV
Heroes slayed the dragons, fought the enemies and helped to keep us safe, happy and free.
Heroes had a special power…drawn from visceral source
They often came dressed in a suit of armor…on the back of a big white horse.
Heroes were tall, dark, handsome and beautiful…not one under six feet three
The heroes from my Fairy Tales didn’t look at all like me!
But when I left the Fairy Tales behind…I realized not all heroes had to wear capes…
That, in fact, I’m surrounded by heroes…and they come in all sizes and shapes.
Yesterday I had a chance to thank a hero…applauding her as she headed for home
and today I get to thank her a second time…In the lines of this little poem.
Let me thank you, and all the other heroes who are slaying this dragon, this invisible enemy
Thank you for all that you do every day…to help keep the rest of us safe, happy and free.
This particular nurse I thanked was not very tall…I’m sure she was under six three
She wore a blue uniform and her face was behind a mask…but she certainly looked beautiful to me.
I applauded her special power…drawn from her visceral source…
and had to smile as she waved driving off toward the sunset
behind the wheel of her Ford Bronco…of course.
Like many poets before, I have tried all which-way
not to measure love – not to price love~
Like a post office puts sentiment to a ruler
meters jewelry purchased, already with the
weight of grief -- a romantically stricken heart;
a summarily discarded lover, hoping to
re-awaken a former partner’s
fond participation, given chance for another poke
at the fond lip, desirable pressure on the fond hip
Large teddy bears and cards
also weighed and measured before ship -- for occasions
missed, when wife, lover, child, having been sore-fully neglected
therefore get rightfully pissed
Even Nature, our Mother, greenly tempts, colorfully invests:
her seasonal erections of flushing, blushing, gushing
scenting blossoms, to entice passionate play
naked torsos
tingling, mingling, aromatic redden complexions,
sharing conjugal hyper confections
titillating beaches along winding capes
surfboard fanatics
attempting copulating acrobatics --
could man be little more than Nature’s
sophisticated, prancing, bathing, basking
swimming, back-paddling, saturated
zoo-like apes?
Does God purchase love
with fear of hell, therefore
man treasures love
like a market placing
calls on highs and lows
winners to shows
nose-bleeds
for pressured ups
while cushions
for the fearful falls --
keeping players
awake nights
for rosy to ripe
the tremulous trigger
the purring calls?
It was the darkest night of the year, and the light was eclipsed but the haunting moon was so near. Lagging
hope faded, and the jading stillness increased my fear. Twas a warm, muggy night with a cool, misty fog drear.
A vixen wind against my jaundiced awning did sheer. All at once, ghostly emanations and visions of black
ravens became so stark so clear. From a nearby church cemetery; gasping, satin-sheathed mummies from their
soiled compartments began to rear. Wispy, veiled goblins in the distant pines started to appear. The nearby
stream gurgled spewing, nauseous vapors that filtered across my warping pier. Gargantuan gargoyles around my
crenelated windows did swerve and veer. White-tipped bats with ebony capes around my porch light did flitter
and fleer. Cringing 'neath my pleated, satin curtians, I heard a knock so *****. Bounding from my cloistered
lair, all my remaining wits did forswear. Flinging open the door, I was confronted by a craggly-clad seer. In a
hurried, modulated rant, he with warnings of pending doom filled each, perched ear. He, then, paused and
glared at me with a bleary-eyed leer. Slamming the door, I began to ponder his doleful, portentous lear, then staggering to my pantry, I grappled for a bottle of cheer. Unbeknownst to me, a pilfering vampire had
spliced a bloody concoction in my satiating beer. Suddenly, the velvet-laced furniture was shrouded with a
crimson verneer. Stumbling along a meandering course to the basement, I located a wooden box that
resembled a bier. Accepting my perilous fate, climbed into my designated tomb, and into my coroded heart
plunged a jagged spear.
The doors are big.' The room has benches.. people hussle
Around, some in suits and a few wear gowns; robes grim
Faces and keen looks, at times the benches are full at
Others less than a quarter full, a room of judgement of
Examination accusation and pleading cases, of drama dry
Of drama moistening eyes; there is fear' also a sense of
Retribution! And power.' There is another room there are
Rows of benches, in the distance a platforn and above the
Curtains where scenes are played, by good or bad or
Average actors, this is a place of people in suits and robes
Gowns with capes, and swords there are teary scenes shouts
And screams, grim faces moist eyes overacting reaction rage
You name it.'
There is another room..In another house normally on a hill.'
There are rows of seats, a raised chair like a court, there are
People in suits with darting eyes some are dressed in gowns
And robes.' There is drama here examination speeches and
Indignation, moist eyes; tears fear cheers' and reputations to
Earn or burn, this place is the seat of government..Does it in
Anyway? Remind you of other places I have written about.?
Somewhere between
stretch marks on my voice
and the lurch of wanting,
I left the comb behind.
Let wind speak.
Let the cowlick rise
as shrine.
Some revolts come hushed—
no banners, no drums.
Only the refusal
to be pressed smooth.
Mine was spiral,
tender.
Unyielding.
In photographs—
always at the edge,
eyes doubting the lens,
halfway posed
between certain
and unsettled.
They named me Alfalfa—
after a rerun on Channel 12,
my crown a stubborn herald,
slanted with knowledge
I was too young to carry.
It whispered
to wind and window alike: go.
Mother’s hands smoothed it—
Blue Magic thick on her palms.
The brush grumbled in the bowl.
“What kind of boy’s hair does that?”
I didn’t answer.
What language holds defiance
that sprouts from the scalp,
a swirl refusing compliance?
No shadow held me.
Not in the barbershop glass,
nor beside the field
where fathers raised their voices
like flags of demand.
Manhood—a thing trimmed,
gripped, endured.
What I recall most:
the pause before questions,
heavy as drapery.
Hands—mine,
uncertain of posture.
Too much wave.
Too much reach.
They warned:
keep your hands plain.
Fists, if needed.
Folded, if God called.
Manhood, they said, came in parts:
a belt’s cold buckle,
a coach’s growl,
a girl’s number smudged
on math-paper margins.
I declined the offering.
Marked my own rituals—
in glances,
in beads of refusal
rolling off strings
never meant for amen.
The barbershop—
each time, a quiet chapel.
Men in capes awaiting
judgment or absolution.
But I kept the tangle.
My minor crown.
The map drawn by refusal.
Each coil: a quiet psalm.
Now—
I walk, not straighter,
just truer.
A boy turned man
by the long arc of detour—
learning joy lives
along roads that curve away
from expectation.
The Cartographer of Maybe
© Ashok Jahagirdar
The map I was given is fading now,
Its borders, drawn in another’s hand,
Are bleeding at the edges.
The roads, so straight and promised,
End abruptly at a cliff
Overlooking a sea of questions.
The legend’s key—a child’s sure script
Of “always,” “never,” “wrong,” and “right”—
Dissolves like mist in morning air,
A topology of borrowed light.
A Dizzying Freedom
I am drawing my own coastlines,
Tracing the capes and inlets of my becoming.
The compass spins, a dizzying freedom,
And north is wherever I plant my feet,
A little lost, a little wild,
Charting the wilderness of maybe.
The Shedding
This new parchment is my own skin,
Stretched taut across the ribs of hope,
The ink, a blend of scar and dream.
I sketch a bay of Solitude,
Where tides of thought can ebb and flow;
I dare to mark a mountain, Failure,
Its height now something I must know.
The Equinox
Let the old chart curl and blacken,
The map I was given is fading now,
Its borders, drawn in another’s hand,
Are bleeding at the edges.
The roads, so straight and promised,
End abruptly at a cliff
Overlooking a sea of questions.
I am drawing my own coastlines,
Tracing the capes and inlets of my becoming.
The compass spins, a dizzying freedom,
And north is wherever I plant my feet,
A little lost, a little wild,
Charting the wilderness of maybe.
fo'c·'sle /'fohksel/ noun deriv: forecastle
1. the forward part of a ship below the deck, traditionally used as the crew's living quarters.
2. historical: a raised deck at the front of a ship.
With the equinox illuminating a fortnight of recovery
On pelts spread like Ionian jars left askew,
My flame-keep sparked alight against the doldrums of
Greed. Stagnant and fetid.
My bark beats out a call stretched
Skin-tight over the sea’s virgin core
And sets trust aflame.
Ashes collected into the collated casks and
Corked with animus, Moon Girl pounded on.
Drumming a dirge on the tanner's own flesh.
Pounding the seed of echoing hope.
Pounding the corpus beat of life anew.
Those echoed my own harmony and emptied my ears.
My tunes would now be true and crisp.
My struggle to syncopate the middle eight
Was like on the saltchuck the time before.
Before we crossed the bar,
Breakers chasing, pounding aft of stern.
Now in the glow of the coal oil lamp
Sat The Dane who came to trade.
He mumbled a Chinookian curse and winced.
He sensed my mariner's cred, how I lit my smoke;
Muscle memory and addiction married in my subconscious.
But His eyes would never sense the venomous flow
Of the seabreak distant,
Like hounds baying to the highway of stars
And up to the dunes ran with phosphorescent faces
Fermenting the blackness.
Hell-hounds bounding.
Lungs pounding.
Driving on.
River may lick Disappointment’s shanks
But Drake’s gold remains unfound.
The cavities carved along the capes
Echo an emptied ethos and sapped spirit
Which salal and sage cannot clense.
Walk with me now Sister Ilchee.
Beat your dirge
Along the pock-marked ports of plunder
Laid before the flattened corpse of
Ebbing freedom found.
Where Has All The Beauty Gone?
There is no time like the now times,
The ever-present blood-swooshing times.
Time again to surrender as a smitten lover surrenders,
To the never-ending rhapsodies of erotic impulses,
Which exhale as a listless leviathan exhales,
Basking in the swishing waters off the windy capes,
Naked, but kept hidden, in the unknown anterior rooms,
Of a hundred dark mansions in the draping hollows,
Encased with ethereal atmospheres and essences,
In stony gold, glittering emeralds, and smooth diamonds,
All dazzling the senses with spurting explosions of light,
Of helpless exaltations and cooing astonishments;
Now they’re seeking the old nights and the old embraces
In the gaping moonlight, amid intense and timid arousals;
Their blinking black eyes squinting from behind the papered walls,
Of dustless airless rooms with drooping statues of dead poets,
Alive still as they rise again in mythic intonations,
Making suave movements with pointing soft fingers,
Upon the moist nape of blond submitting desires.
Watching in spirit now as they once peeped at lovers;
Peeping and prying and peering from behind infinitesimal holes,
Never seen before by the living or the bereaved,
Nor by the delirious or the unjustly defamed;
Now they just bite us, the souls of the dead boys in blue.
And they watch us from behind those bare walls,
Those breathing twitching snarling walls.
So, where has all the beauty gone?
I am many things.
Am
I
the
everything
that i wish to be?
everything
I am,
Is
that
what you see?
the stayer awake
of thirty six hours,
carrier of new borns,
arranger
of
flowers.
And
I
have
super
powers.
I am the fixer of broken,
mender
of
parts.
I
fix
all
the
broken hearts.
I fix all the cuts,
the scrapes,
( The thirty times an hour I attach the capes )
I am the name cried out in the night,
I am the hold that holds you tight.
you are the reason,
my stopper of smoking,
the bright eyes and oxygen,
my
no
longer
choking.
am I all that i could be?
am i the world,
is that what you see?
I
am
everything
you
are
to
me.