Long Caricatures Poems
Long Caricatures Poems. Below are the most popular long Caricatures by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Caricatures poems by poem length and keyword.
Snatching
straws
falling
tilting
precariously
through
notice
toward
doom
inverted
caricatures
of
marionettes
shine
& community
supports
& grips
divine
stumbling
wild
madness
shaking out
clean
time
& its
witness
upland
coarse.
Written: July 03, 2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Poets dream utopian dreams
Dreams of ideals and perfection
Dreams of places never visited
People never met
Songs never sung
Love stories never written
Passion never experienced
Lives never touched
Hearts never caressed
And so…they dream...
Intensity of emotions
Brilliance of thoughts
Too hard to bear
Too heavy to carry
Inside the soul
Breaking free from within
Bringing exquisite release
From visions on hold
Self-proclaimed artists
Mixing colors on heart pallets
Splashing them on the canvass of the soul
Word colors that bring to life
The ethereal atmosphere,
The very aura of paradise
Paintings of passion’s pleasure and pain
Vivid hues of nature’s finery on display
Humorous caricatures exaggerating life
Holy word pictures revealing mere glimpses of...
The sacred
They write
They paint
Mostly, they just try to live
Vicarious lives
In those lines
Another life
Another time
Another love
Another clime
Another dream
Escape artists from the horrors that surround
Exhibitionists of the naked beauty of truth
Lovers with a prowess that rivals the gods
For isn’t that what love making must be?
The climax of human emotion
In a burst of eternity?
Vicarious lines
Vicarious lives
Yours…and mine…
Eileen Manassian Ghali
CARICATURES
typically
blaze
with light
a centrepiece
shaped
silently
swaddled
oftimes
disquieting
&
intriguing
vivacious&
synthesised
with
much
precise
elements
so remarkably
begins
a portrait
between
the
continuities
of the
shape
to
preserving
evocation
of the mania
of
passing fads
so
unsettling
&
aloof
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
wanting
to title
this
as
.
but certain soup
rule "characters",
butt certainly not
caricatures, are not
allowed
no matter
how proud the
poem speaks but
not ever never sexually
i can't express what i mean
to say about
your special
traits like
rolling
your
tongue and
using your fingers
to make sure your
bellybutton seems
to be speaking to me
oh so
weirdly
me not you
but when i remind
you of the fifteenth
of each month
and usually with
the lunar cycle that
you ride as if a unicycle
the only woman i know that
has what you
call your time of
"nostalgia" but i have
come to know your translator's
meaning then more of what you mean
Form:
~~~~~~~
Pals
Their faces are still there;
caricatures and cameos,
amigo mugs and jug ears.
Cheering, jeering chums
that would phone at four in the morning
to garble drunken thoughts,
make momentous plans,
or borrow ten quid.
The oddball humorist
and part-time suicide,
the drama queen
contesting her own shadow,
the poet who never wrote a poem.
The mon ami that drank for you
when you could drink no more.
Long after the late-night rides,
I see their features pressed against
softly glowing bus windows,
as London transports them
to other decades, even to far Ohio;
their lips silently mouthing –
warnings perhaps, or
maybe just trying
to cadge another ten nicker.
He's running out of Colour.
*eternity eternal mind over matter
*He forms combative images of daffodils and lilac hedges
The Grey Seeps From his Eyes.
* His heart holds abundance, life close, close as a shield
Nature is Turning Black.
* All of the mind intent melds a joyfull palette into an encompassing black
- Can't You Smell Their bitter Entrails?
* Retching he adds fodder to ripen the ground for rebirth.
He Could. He felt them weave
*Balance sought to assert dominance over discord with the Fathers hand.
In and out of His Senses,
*Mesmerizing optiforms presenting themselves
Alienating his Perceptions.
* He strains to hold human concepts dear.
- Count the Bodies, Count the Women
and The New-Borns if You Want?
* From Death, Life, from Life, Death
*the endless circle sustains his weakening heart.
It's Just Math. No longer
*The count down, or up? continues…….
Did Time Stress Relevance.
The Sky was Red: and Empty.
*Empty, yet, the promise of nature abhorrence of a vacuum ..screams.
- If You Wait, They'll Come Back for You
*And you, son of God, child of the Mother will deal……-
He Walked Through Various Flesh
*Seeing the shell for what it was …casing of soul…..
Obscenities, Traveling for Miles.
*Caricatures of Man, insults only to ego long gone.
But The Smell, The Smell Had Followed Him.
- Where's Your God Now?
*………………Now and forever, his soul answers, eternal in the heart of man
*……………………beating with the pulse of the Universe……..
*…………………………Ashes to ashes…..dust to God……….-
*I felt it necessary for my soul to reply, please forgive me Conor? A month of wicked was
too much without a reply.
The woman has no place to be put,
the man is restless; his feet are slipshod,
The child won't eat greens,
he prefers beetroot slices from a sickly can,
The family may once have been human,
now they have been reduced to cartoons,
caricatures tossed into a cardboard box
and left out on the curb in the rain.
Soon enough, but not right away,
a teenager discovers the disintegrating box,
he puts the woman in a safe warm place,
and waits until the night finds him alone.
The restless man and beetroot boy
float away along the gutter,
until they both fall into a drain.
Paper-thin alligators
chew on wet talk-bubbles.
In the woods behind the school,
soft **** magazines
are buried in shallow graves,
so that the priest will not find them.
As darkness gives way to light and day dawns,
the symphony of sweet sounds begins.
First a single chirp from a lone bird,
next a response from a mate in reply.
Then as if on cue from a conductor,
other birds join in the antiphony.
And the entire feathered orchestra
breaks forth in a chorus of praise to God.
Next, it is time for the sun to serenade,
with sounds of praise quite different from the birds.
In its bowels, acoustic waves vibrate
and cause its surface to jiggle.
Though silent, the sun plays its melody
in super deep bass notes like a tuba.
It also provides the lighting effects
for the symphonic sounds that surround us.
The forests of human caricatures,
dressed in their flowing robes of varied green,
need the wind to make them play their music.
As the wind vibrates their stems and leaves
it produces music so soothing and sweet.
At times, the notes are like those of violins,
or mellow like those of the cello.
A change of wind can make them sound like bass.
Sometimes the conductor pulls out the stops,
and nature explodes with loud sounds that pop.
The wind howls, branches snap and the trees sway,
and then the rain joins in the refrain,
turning leaves into tambourines and shakers.
A loud thunderclap and lightning flash,
create a wild symphony that most surely rocks.
As creatures of the Creator’s hand,
we too must add our songs sublime,
through living for his glory now,
we join with birds, sun, wind, and trees,
and stars and mighty oceans wild,
to daily raise our voices loud,
In thanks to God, for life and Son,
as part of nature’s symphony of praise.
Whose “image and likeness”
I ache as my spirit recoils, denies
the truth of what we have become.
…in his image and likeness..
surely there could not be
a “god” so disfigured, so ugly
as to hate its offspring,
send assassins into our midst,
fill our “prayers” with doubt and distress
sicken our spirits with the apathy of acquiescence,
abandon us to our acceptance of evil.
I grieve all death as it depletes
the fullness of our entwined spirits
drains the sap from our tree of life
denies a never formed branch existence
depletes the chorus of its fullness.
I weep in sorrow for the body of man
bleeding slowly from self inflicted wounds
blinded by the horror that it sees
unable to fulfill life’s simplest need
consumed with petty enmity and hate
children the sacrificial lambs of fate.
I am angry with this “disfiguring” god
enraged that he would tar us with this brush
paint caricatures of our souls
default dominion - this worlds debauchery.
I am appalled that men can do to men
such that the soul would favor hell
over living in the squalor of despair
seeking mercy from a god who’s disappeared.
John G. Lawless
6/19/2015
Their faces are still there;
caricatures and cameos,
grinning mugs and jug ears.
Cheering, jeering chums
that would phone at four in the morning
to garble drunken thoughts,
make momentous plans,
or borrow ten quid.
The oddball humorist
and part-time suicide,
the drama queen
contesting her own shadow,
the poet who never wrote a poem.
The mon ami and mon amie
that drank for you
when you could drink no more.
Long after the late-night bus rides,
I see their features pressed against
softly glowing windows,
as London transports them
even to far off Ohio;
their lips silently mouthing –
a last goodbye or maybe just trying
to cadge another tenner.