Long Carouse Poems
Long Carouse Poems. Below are the most popular long Carouse by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Carouse poems by poem length and keyword.
Stark realization, I harbor sacrilegious objection...
Against merry christmas premature blowout,
(or otherwise) ejaculation galore burnout,
hence I feel like the odd man out
neither yours truly, nor the missus
spends money and/or
time at checkout
avoid madding crowds like the plague
elbowing, hustling, jostling,
pushing, racing, shoving...
seconds before blue
light special closeout,
though neither of us
reformed practicing Jews, nor devout
mass consumerism capitalistic fallout,
we steer clear taking refuge within
our underground (arched)
all in the family bunker hideout
remain hermetically sealed
courtesy NASA tested grout
hunkering inside spatially
roomy subterranean getaway
created viz 3d printing
immediately after rollout
ready to take nesty plunge
steeply, perpendicularly, giddily... south
to go down rabbit hole,
where we carouse, cavort,
thermally heated cavernous redoubt
reaping efforts after donning
(MAGA) hardhats constructing roustabout,
whereby protruding innocuous periscope
allows, enables, and provides
mean ways to scout,
since Marshall Mathers Law
declared, mandated trumpeted
courtesy special ops stakeout
regarding our subversive
passive actions hashtagged illegal
if perchance discovered vis a vis,
we Americans express timeout
before changing role as seekers
playing wargames no matter
suddenly Nor'easter creates whiteout
futile search until spring thaw
melting snow exhumes
mister and missus Santa Claus
thank you climate change
regarding attributed drought.
A marionette to the mind,
Whispering fading schematics,
Deluging the heart and soul, in a
Juxtaposition of good and evil,
Betwixt Heaven and hell, amidst
Snowdrifts that swirl before my eyes, while
Spiritless shadows restlessly carouse;
Discordantly, far from reach,
Vagrantly ambling across
Deadened Arcadias, glimpsing
Floating embers, in wake of
Vivid firestorms, swallowing me whole,
Faltering with every step I take,
Decelerating towards the escape I seek,
As it rhythmically scars my timorous nature,
Awakening the monsters hidden deep within-seeing red-
Bleeding out miasmic toxins, as noxious
Spores erupt, immersed in a haze of austerity,
While it seeps and saturates, throughout
Malignant wounds exposed, undulating between
The storms of push and pull, as daunting
Tasks, of rippling sequences, splits my
Chasmic core.
Soulless footprints are all that remain, as
Moon tides wash ashore, ebbing away
Towards dystopian depths.
A young woman named Meredith
took a cook’s job on a great ship,
raven-haired and dark of eyes,
she stood slender as a whip.
For five years she traveled wide
across the ocean’s of the world,
seeing so many exotic places,
an exciting life for any girl.
Now Meredith, she was no prude,
she had the run of the ship,
and when it came to the crew
she always had her pick…
Then one trip she met a man,
who meant more than a little fun,
they spent many long months together,
she knew that he was the one.
The sailor, he felt much the same,
and they started making plans,
Meredith would have a restaurant,
the sailor would be the barman.
But there was a minor hitch
when it came to their contracts,
the sailor had signed for another year
after which he would come back.
Meredith settled in Providence,
bought an old diner by the quays,
spent money saved over the years,
fixing it up in the right way.
After six months she opened it,
serving good food with no fuss,
the locals came to love the place,
she called it ‘The Wailing Walrus.’
And for the first few months at least
it seemed to play out smooth,
then on a bright, October day
she turned on the network news.
It told of a container ship
that had just gone down,
swamped by a giant, rogue wave,
all crew aboard had drowned.
Meredith fell to the restaurant floor
and screamed out in agony,
her fiancé had been onboard the ship,
their life together would never be…
I met Meredith forty years
after that most tragic of days,
I worked a fishing boat that docked
near the Wailing Walrus’s quay.
We’d all go in after a long trip,
it was a great place to unwind,
Meredith’s chowder was renowned,
both the New York and New England kind...
We’d toss back beers and carouse,
as men like us are wont to do,
I never passed up the chance
for a bowl of her lamb stew.
Behind the bar a photo hung,
framed up in clean plexi-glass,
showing a man, quite tall and young,
dressed from a time long past.
CONCLUDES IN PART II
SERVITUDE TO PRIDE
See,
Our love that once
Like an inferno burnt,
Now, like an ember smolders,
And beyond kindle by pride has become.
Our psyches by pride wreathed, in loneliness
Our hearts writhe and our mirth into myth retracts.
Without,
A serene heart we feign.
But within, our hearts by dusk of pride
Blinded, for each other grope and to the
Melody of the dirge of our fissured
Hearts pride spitefully dance.
For
A faded memory of you
All night i carouse yet for
Your caress I yearn.
Photographs of you and i, my roses
To you, as a sedative into the mire you threw.
But, how come out of your heart you could
Not throw me?
The
Trees of pride, it is palpable,
A fertile soil in our psyches had found,
And under the arbor of their leafy boughs,
Etiolated our hearts berth and for
Sunshine seek.
Poems about Poets V
Edna St. Vincent Millay Has Her Way with a Vassar Professor
by Michael R. Burch
After a night of hard drinking and spreading her legs,
Millay hits the dorm, where the Vassar don begs:
“Please act more chastely, more discretely, more seemly!”
(His name, let’s assume, was, er ... Percival Queemly.)
“Expel me! Expel me!”—She flashes her eyes.
“Oh! Please! No! I couldn’t! That wouldn’t be wise,
for a great banished Shelley would tarnish my name ...
Eek! My game will be lame if I can’t milque your fame!”
“Continue to live here—carouse as you please!”
the beleaguered don sighs as he sags to his knees.
Millay grinds her crotch half an inch from his nose:
“I can live in your hellhole, strange man, I suppose ...
but the price is your firstborn, whom I’ll sacrifice to Moloch.”
(Which explains what became of pale Percy’s son, Enoch.)
Downdraft
by Michael R. Burch
for Dylan Thomas
We feel rather than understand what he meant
as he reveals a shattered firmament
which before him never existed.
Here, there are no images gnarled and twisted
out of too many words,
but only flocks of white birds
wheeling and flying.
Here, as Time spins, reeling and dying,
the voice of a last gull
or perhaps some spirit no longer whole,
echoes its lonely madrigal
and we feel its strange pull
on the astonished soul.
O My Prodigal!
The vents of the sky, ripped asunder,
echo this wild, primal thunder—
now dying into undulations of vanishing wings . . .
and this voice which in haggard bleak rapture still somehow downward sings.
Why the Kid Gloves Came Off
by Michael R. Burch
for Lemuel Ibbotson
It's hard to be a man of taste
in such a waste:
hence the lambaste.
Keywords/Tags: poet, poets, poetry, poems, write, writing, muse, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Dylan Thomas, drink, drinking
Did he come here to drink,
carouse and raise a stink?
To hollar up the town
and shoot our windows out?
Did he come here for trim?
Soiled doves wave at him,
will he pay for the pearl
they sell to the whole world?
He’s a cowboy,
and he’s riding through the snow,
can’t say where he’s gonna go,
but the man sure seems to know.
He’s a cowboy,
and he’s riding through the snow,
folks sayin’ there’s trouble ahead…
Yes, I think there’s trouble ahead.
Maybe he just wants work,
times are tough, people hurt,
will he ride to a ranch,
hire on with a man?
Maybe he wants revenge,
and this is where it ends,
at some foe bullets fly,
as we run for our lives!
He’s a cowboy,
and he’s riding through the snow,
can’t say where he’s gonna go,
but the man sure seems to know.
He’s a cowboy,
and he’s riding through the snow,
folks sayin’ there’s trouble ahead…
Yes, I think there’s trouble ahead.
Perhaps he’s got a squaw,
or wife not bound by law,
and just wants to relax
before he must ride back.
Perhaps he seeks bounty,
hunting men for a fee,
that will cause many fear
for there’s some secrets here…
He’s a cowboy,
and he’s riding through the snow,
can’t say where he’s gonna go,
but the man sure seems to know.
He’s a cowboy,
and he’s riding through the snow,
folks sayin’ there’s trouble ahead…
Yes, I think there’s trouble ahead.
Odin he said,’This was not what fate told.
We were supposed to die on this field.’
I shrugged and said,’There was a change of plans,
So listen up, cause here’s the deal.
The norns, you see, could he hex to whole thing
So I sent my best-looking men down,
To treat the three ladies to dancing and drinks,
A regular old night on the town.’
‘And if know them true, they’re all still in bed,
After keeping those ladies up late.
And the webs the norns cast, they fell to Earth
And to dust they did all melt away.
It’s better this way, we all did agree,
Though mythology might be annoyed.
But we aren’t losing friends to nonsense like ‘fate,’
So we broke it, and gave you back choice.’
‘We do not believe we should lay down and die,
Nor could we let y’all think the same.
So we do what we do, we altered the rules,
And made the dark ones play our game.
And your prophecies knew not our modern tech,
Nor the lessons we learned from the horrors…
To think that a wolf, a snake, and a giant
Could beat a species born into war!’
We turned and headed for the great hall
The gods still far too stunned to relate
They’d come ‘round in time, surely enough
We’d all drink, carouse, and celebrate.
And as we walked off I heard the words spoke
From the Thunderer, still shaking his head
‘It may not be what we thought was in store,
But then again, at least we’re not dead!’
And the Norns settled down with their new loves,
And soon were surrounded by kids.
I went back to the hall, found my Valkyrie,
But can’t tell you the things that we did.
And for centuries more tales with will sung,
Great stories and epics will take stock,
Of the Doom of the Gods that didn’t quite come,
Of the SEALs who stormed Ragnarok.
Take my senses away
Make me crazy,
Stir some memories
Make a story;
Oh, Love me to death,
Give me a life then kill me.
Show me the way
Then lead me astray,
Enrich me with love
Then waylay me;
Be my friend, betray me,
Be my God, bedevil me.
Let's congregate in a tavern
Worship in this safe haven,
Follow no faith
Pander to no priest;
Let's hobnob with the angels,
Befriend the demons on the sly.
Drag my soul through the desert
Then carouse there in an oasis,
Set me ablaze with your passion
Then douse it with your sweat;
Let's sleep on a bed of cactuses
And thumb our noses at the heavens.
Ha, let's grow up
And just kid around,
Lie down in a grave
And wake up in a cradle;
Let's usurp the world from Atlas
And rattle the hell out of its core!
~A Strand (1047) contest
~Sponsor: Brian Strand
Paris isn’t some wondrous far country.
We have noisy trash pickup and there are no Dairy Queens.
Ok, It may be far away but that’s your fault - let’s not dwell on it.
Don’t get me wrong, we’re wondrous enough - we have we have running water - some of it hot, and the other bare necessities of earthly happiness, like wi-fi and pizza.
Paris is like a melon - here’s where you get involved and picture a melon.
If you pictured bananas, those aren’t melons - they’re tropical fruits - try again.
Oranges? GEE-zus, those are Citrus fruits - you are really slowing things down.
Forget it - let’s do some poetry…
When he kisses,
he leaves his impress
and makes me writhe and twist.
We revel and carouse tirelessly,
appetites roar and seethe like lions,
until we lie prone like the dead.
I should have saved that for Halloween.
.
.
Songs for this:
Back to friends by Sobr
DAISIES by Justin Bieber
KISS by Demi Lovato
"Wah-hoo-wah!"
said the 'bro,'
"Let's head toward
Fraternity Row."
The Library bells
toll ding-dong,
Drunken brothers
play beer-pong;
All through the night
play and drink,
By dawn of day,
their breath stinks.
Men of Darmouth,
give a rouse!
Party hearty
and carouse.
From every window
music blasting,
Led Zeppelin screaming
lyrics everlasting.
But, hey, poor freshman, if you feel left out,
Don't hang around your dorm and pout;
Lack of coeds needs a fix, sir?
Here's the recommended elixir:
Tonight's big Freshman Mixer!
So many girls there on parade--
None of whom wants to be an 'Old Maid.'
And so it goes,
all through the year,
Mechanical sex,
fueled by stale beer.
Debauched, promiscuous
four-year journey:
At whose end
you're ready to be,
quite miracululously--
A CPA, CEO, Physician, or Attorney!