Long Careen Poems
Long Careen Poems. Below are the most popular long Careen by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Careen poems by poem length and keyword.
Recumbant redundancy
Came t'coil and careen 'round the rails of goosen flesh heels
Strained the frame of my mortal fallibility
And estranged mine name from the cankering collage of mine colleagues in arms
'ggressively agrieved mine mantled place and mounting crown
That hath e'er now oxidise down the stairs of mine life
Racked mine train and affronted frame of thought
For one was reticent in their regiment
Now, e'er dulled thee t'the dole,
O dewy-doe eye'd,
Such shall surely swallow thee whole
Haunted to pleasantries, t'the gaunt face before thee
None graver than the ashen grave 'fore I
Ghoulishly reposed, to enclose and envelope,
My writing hand loosen'd in a lousy attempt,
To evade, to prolificate, and feed the face of the market rate.
And with a bow, I shall forsake my latent escape
And one shall take their monthly crown, without rebate.
21//12//25
Shuttered birds flutter from balmy bough
Shedding feathery cloak that winter's chill did endow
Fueling grounded wings with solar beams
Pairing together in reconnoitering teams
Scouting hill and dale, Spring's contraband to glean
Garnishing their bunkers with bristling thigs and thatched screen
Prating loudly in fecund court; feathers carefully preen
In rhapsodic chorus their prancing feet to and fro careen
Dancing in harmony; their mating anthem rings
Matriarch's incubating wings over fertile plaster clings
In due course, waddling, furry chicks from each blanched shell springs
Frugal pilots navigate their sparsely furnished compound
Probing each nook; scouring each mound
Pulse and liquids their drills and talons impound
With nutritious cargo in tow homeward bound
Returning to nursery, satiating each bleating sound
Written: September 29, 2025, for contest sponsored by Tom Wood
***********
I) Sojourn of the Alabaster Mind
I careen through a world of chatoyant light,
Each step is a mirror of halcyon lore.
The pavonine sky and a chimera flight,
Projects sage shadows on an Elysian shore.
A clamor of atlas, a ductile tickle
Elixir of wonder, still need to fickle—
To pursue the penumbra, to not be blind,
And a sojourn for the alabaster mind.
II) The Necrotic Hour
I maunder across the clangor of despair,
A stertorous breath in the stygian gloom.
No nepenthe soothes within egregious snare,
Each cough is a pyrrhic echo in my room.
The airhead mocks my once-mellifluous breath
My Oculus dims in sudden fever death.
No eloquence lives in this loathsome abyss—
My nemesis: the sickness can't be sheer bliss.
A cherished world of light and dark and colors in between
delights the eye and heart and mind with sights which make us sigh,
blooms red, to pink, to lavender, to orange, blue, and green.
The forest's filled by morning light in amber and citrine
reveals the white tail doe who leaps, as blackbirds sound the cry.
A cherished world of light and dark and colors in between.
Upon the mossy shore of playful brook the frogs careen
leaping past the level pads of water lilies pink near bye.
Blooms red, to pink, to lavender, to orange, blue, and green.
And men exist to fill a niche from onyx to casein
our skins transformed by natures heat under foreign skies.
A cherished world of light and dark and colors in between
Blooms red, to pink, to lavender, to orange, blue, and green.
With awkward reach
the strike of the pen has tipped the ink well
splattering onto white paper,
vanquishing the lyrics from the poet’s pen,
scribbling vignettes of joy or strife,
little stories-a slice of life.
His pen shall not find its perfect labor
scribed upon this miscued, defaced paper
to define his words of fire or ice
Though in this blot of ink a portrait seen
a mirror of the artist's gaze
where the vision writes the stories
of imaginary words unseen.
The poet’s eye beholds as his heart summons
from the library of memories that phrase
drafting a vignette of this wraith’s meaning
Now the poet speaks while his mind is dreaming:
‘Tis raven’s wings spread to fly on a mystical flight
drawn into a universe of beaming light
‘Tis free falling souls swimming unfurled
in brimming tears drowning in a homeless world
Or, could it be the sweat of a laboring farmer’s pain
falling on the dry, unforgiving soil as he waits for rain
Maybe the blood of perished soldiers who have gone before
fallen in the wastes of war
It could simply be the scribbling of butterflies delight
imprinting beauty on their tenured flight
Or, the glorious colliding of glistening shards that careen
from exploding castaway stars on a palette of gleam
And through his persuasion of free falling thought,
he is challenged by the aspect of black to white-
its perception is what its opposite has wrought
When the light is turned off
When the sun has disappeared
The night weaves our intricacy
The magic of contrast is what we see
Black in its extinction takes its space
in a void of emptiness to embrace
the borderless place that absorbs us
Defining our imperceptible selves
With only the light of understanding that will tell
the glow of purpose inside all of us
The verse is scribed……..
The meaning defined……
The contrast is sublime
April 30, 2022
Flirting with disaster
On this fast-moving highway of life;
Speed demons incurably infected
With the disease of impatience.
I tremble with disgust
When shaken by a fierce gust of wind
Engendered by ill-advised velocity.
Acknowledge me, disrespecting demons.
Don't barrel your way through as if I'm not there,
Lest you recklessly careen off
An approaching curve on the road;
A hefty price paid
For sledgehammer stupidity.
The rules of the road couldn't be
More simple; slow down
And stop for me.
Come to a complete stop
Like everyone else; look sideways,
Then proceed with caution.
Cracker-Barrel Oracle
by Odin Roark
The whittler
Atop the rickety steps,
Shavings piled at ancient feet,
Eyes the blade
Needing attention soon.
The canine,
Head lifted from paws,
Yawns,
Eyes open
Watching chips fall…
Wondering.
Dust swirls gritty remembrance,
Tumbleweeds careen,
History’s weathered saloon sign dangles,
Jailhouse door swings aimlessly,
Both hinged with rust of reborn pasts.
Wind stops.
Gritty remembrances pause.
Silence merges
With airborne carvings
Amidst ghost-like sighs.
Eroded stick now but a sliver
Awaits to discover its purpose
As whetstone awaits the blade.
A foreshadowing gust turns time’s page,
Beckoning next chapter’s revealing.
Prophetic air anxiously anticipates,
As carver laments
Yesterday’s memory
Today’s forever cycle.
A mutt’s whine suggests acceptance.
Few hear the silence or the quiet whimper.
I always feel like a prisoner in the winter, banished from the outside by the jealous wind. As I get older, I continue to make peace with the cold, but I follow the spring. It is a different door, one covered with vines and stars, and to it I am drawn, as if to a beautiful girl.. no other days compare to her.
The flash of a disposable camera, clicked with young fingers, pink-polished nails. A yellow sun dress patterned with orange daisies. The basket on the bike is filled with stuff for lunch, sodas and sandwiches and things. Laughter resounds over the tops of trees as we careen, the children of May, across the sun-spotted road.
The compass points north
You know, this is Saturday
That means we go east
You yell to me that I run too fast, but all I hear is my heartbeat in my ears. I look back, you run faster. The evening begins to cast a spell in our town; the colors purple and orange appear like watercolor in the sky and we both stop to watch. Vapor trails crisscross above us, they're streaks across the fading day, pieces of the memories we've made.
Heat lightning at night
She's reading a magazine
Sarah's rare green eyes
To your door we go, but only you proceed. Your father doesn't trust me yet, but I tell you that I'll try harder. Maybe, one day, he'll give me a pat on the shoulder and a smile. It does hurt, I won't deny, to listen to the screen door wheeze shut and hear your bounding footsteps on the stairs. What comforts me is that I know tomorrow brings you around again, walking through a high archway, lovely enough to steal the sun's attention from the flowers.
These suburban dreams
The pink and yellow houses
Waiting with my thoughts
-For Debbie Guzzi's "Spring Haibun" contest
Seven plus ten adds up to seventeen;
I learned as a teacher with some success.
that charming seven-year olds will express
incidental learning from which I glean.
Take for example, the lush color green.
Ask a seven-year-old – what does green mean?
Green is my mom’s eyes and also her dress.
Seven plus ten.
Ten years hence, those same guys are not so keen.
Their appeal is cars and in them they careen.
Hear the weeping willow cry and confess
green is my limbs and for teens quick access -
escape from the cops, where they can’t be seen.
Seven plus ten.
July 10, 2019
Luloo's contest: 17 is the Lucky Number
I chose the theme, Shelter Me for my rondeau.
( for what its worth. )
-- Instruction: How to know there's nothing left ~ you've over-stayed your visit
I recall the sun of old thoughts seeped under:
~ How to 'Improve the world' ~ leave something useful behind ~ something better.
--Instruction: The first evil act is eating
I see the shocked wine bottles
steak sauce and
jutting ribs of celery bunches
the next shelf
down
but if i eat the stings
of honey bees
claws
of the great bear
follow
these wild-flower trails up
into conspiracies of wood
and whispers
where all else
watching following is santified
by my return
but men weep weed broken
sorrow condemned
See the little beetle there
safe
crouched in a crusted earth church
sleeping in a god circle
only men careen cloudward
wandering into the gray ends of the world
Now the old oil lamp bends
the kitchen dark
the lines dark
forms looming
from the side
I see myself
ablaze in the still hours
before dawn
it doesn't show on my face though
sad like salt or
shadow spent
like ash gone cold
07/06/01