Long Catcher Poems
Long Catcher Poems. Below are the most popular long Catcher by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Catcher poems by poem length and keyword.
Listen to the rain. It sings. It whispers.
Listen to the rain. It heals. It covers.
I lay in the grass. Thinking. Wondering. The rain falling, splashing on my cold pail skin. Splashing on my hair. Dancing on my dress.
It's falling all around me. Covering me. Protecting me. My body. My heart. My soul.
Healing the wounds. Covering the scars.
I close my eyes and feel it's cold touch. Drop by drop. Sinking in my skin.
I listen to it fall. I listen to it whisper. I listen to it sing. I listen to the wind. Blowing screeching. Screaming. Pounding the rain against my body. Against the grass. I lesten to the thunder roll. Roar. Growl. I listen to the lightning crack and slash the dark sky.
I'm thinking. Wondering. Hoping. Hurting.
I'm thinking about you. Wondering about you. Hoping for you. Hurting for you.
I miss you. I need you.
The pain is unbarable. I can't stand to be away from ou. I can't stand not feeling your touch. I can't stand not hearing yur voice.
So I lay in the grass. I listen to the rain sing. I listen to it whisper.
I let it heal me. I let it cover me. I let it cover the scars.
I listen to the rain. It hides my tears. Washes them away. The wind carries waya my worries. My doubts. The thunder hides my cries. My sobs.
But the lightning brings you. Brings images of you. Brings memories of you.
I can't help but smile. I hold you dream catcher and tags tight against my chest. I hold our picture.
Another crash, another stike. I get you for one more night.
The sky gets darker and darker. More and more memories of you flash through my mind.
The rain grows harder, the lightning grows longer.
In the grass I lay, smiling, soaked. Clutching our picture. Clutching your tags. Clutching your dream catcher. The last memories with you.
I will meet you again. I will see you again. I will be in you arms again.
We will make it.
The wind dies down and the rain slows. The thunderstops, so does the lightning show. My show of you is over.
Sad once again I lay in the grass. Listening to the rain sing. Listen to the rain whisper.
I look at our picture. A tear escapes my eye.
I miss you. I wish I could be in our arms again. I wish you could hold me. I miss being with you. I miss hearing you.
Another tear added to my growing fear. My growing saddness.
Another tear for you. I miss you. I need you.
The Feather of Love:
I aired a stray feather to see it flying;
I gazed it flowing in the wind;
I loved its whitish tone;
I loved the natural print upon.
I don’t know how it managed to come back,
How it never ceases to make me taken aback!
I only marked its return,
It truly turned me on,
It made my heart adorn,
A bizarre cloak of its own.
I penned my feelings with this feather,
From the ink of my heart.
I caressed my lover with its touch,
I attached it to my dream catcher,
It is suddenly my feather wizard!
I added it to a belle’s headgear,
To make her carnival look sheer,
I loved this feather on gala days,
So, I wish its company on a sad day.
I desire its touch to console myself.
I want it to erase my tears,
If that carnival girl sheds my feather!
I gifted this feather to a tribal boy,
He added this on his necklace,
It adorned his neck with stones and beads,
It gave him a taste of skirmish.
To his tribe, feather means ornament,
Printed feather means totem’s presence,
But he wore the feather in his lover’s absence!
I attached the feather to a whore’s anklet,
She caused murmur in my heart’s Brooklet.
I loved to see the feather flow,
As she walked!
She gave me a yellow feather from her bun,
I loved her hairs flowing auburn,
She was like a new dawn,
Amid the darkness of my own.
I exchanged my feather with her,
She was my true dream catcher,
She made my heart render,
In unknown splendor!!
Now I own her yellow feather,
I will never let it wither,
From the fuliginous dusts of air.
I keep it inside my book,
I accompany it on my bed,
It’s the solo companion on my brood,
It raises ripples on my heart’s brook!!
Then, on a gloomy noon the whore returned,
Once again, ‘I’m rocked.
She discovered her lost feather,
Dangling from my dream catcher,
She immediately hugged me into a kiss,
She melted me into total bliss.
Still, she took out the yellow feather soon,
And called me a ‘goon’
As if I never deserved the feather,
As if I am lover of weather!!
When I demanded my printed feather,
She detached it from her waist-dangler,
I loved the fact, she loved my feather,
And kissed on her hair.
So, she promised to remember me as a familiar stranger,.
She’ll now give the feather to her new lover,
I’ll never let her sweet memory disappear,
By the way, returned my whitish printed feather!!
“You’re not a giddy teenager
So why can’t you act you’re age?”
I looked at him heartbroken
Then my body shook in a rage
“Being passionate about life
Means I am acting like a child?
You demand that I be demure
Does that mean being meek and mild?
No, no, my dear, I want to shout
I want to be crazy and mad
To stick my head out the window
Belt out love songs that make me glad
I want to let my body move
To a belly dance drumming sound
I want to feel young and alive
Make love without hushing the sound
On days when I water the yard
I want to get wet to the core
As I point the hose to the sky
The wetness makes me crave for more
I want to see my sun catcher
Make the rainbows dance on my wall
And have multicolored sweet dreams
I want to wander through them all
When you take me for a long ride
I’ll let the wind dance with my hair
I want the music to be loud
What if people just stop and stare?
I want to laugh till my sides hurt
And the tears are just streaming down
I want people to be happy
So I play the part of the clown
They say life begins at forty
Now I know that it does for me
Don’t you dare try to bring me down
You know this 'girl' needs to feel free
Peter Pan’s not the only one
Who will stay forever this young
He’s got me for good company
You know, we have songs yet unsung
So…please, if I am eccentric
And acting a little insane
Remember that I’m passionate
So please, I beg you, don’t complain
And when I want to be ravished
Or to play a naughty love game
Don’t say that was for way back then
Don’t you dare try to make me tame
I desire to ingest life
At a mad and frenetic pace
I am desperate to feel the rain
Splashing down on my upturned face
You know that I must be sun kissed
And to spray on coconut spray
To do handstands in seawater
And to bask in this sun drenched day
I want to cry when things move me
I want to feel, to taste, to touch
I want to giggle like a girl
When something does please me so much
I’m sorry I disappoint you
Sorry I don’t act forty five
But before this life is over
I want to feel vibrant…alive!
Yet, I will try not to shame you
Try to tone it down just a bit
But my dear, this fact you must know
In your box, I surely don’t fit
Yes, you may think I’m 'immature'
And I may act much like a teen
But I’d rather be wild and free
Than captive to rules like a queen."
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Cut to the chase after tan hat man!
Though reading horror stories
gearing up as strawberry spring fest
full throttle danse (macabre),
an only every now and again predilection
genre crazy wave
washing over me like
a killer tsunami,
harboring pier rill less night surf
(subsequently fueling figurative
hair razing close shave
critical desperation) to save
thine scrawny ****,
(a derriere laughing stock,
and hence cheeky of me to rave),
what you put
in a Margarita,
those rare occasions satiated, when
hung over insomnia heavily bulging,
rheumy myopic blood shot eyes
nonetheless lock into
vital opening sentence determining,
whether adroit kingly author
nimbly setting the stage and pave
ving what thenceforth, pro
misses tubby a cell out ace
in the hole captive audience
skeleton crew exhuming a grave
grim reaper they crave
(me, this apt pupil), doth brace
himself by all counts once
a bad little kid deserving, well...now...
just a bag of bones,
who fiendishly cackles
analogous to screeching
linkedin deafening banshee
when leaning in (Sheryl Sandberg like),
whereat after opening sentence,
an instantaneous big bang
possessive gnarly hand
forcibly grabs my attention
presaging and frightening
yours truly (juiced in case
ye did not know),
where within the bazaar
of bad dreams epic,
which seems like forever,
when I finally erase
and exorcise the bogeyman who,
regally, masterfully, immediately,
dramatically got woven
lady chattery teeth and all
withering wicked warp and woof
establishing (proof positive),
an excellently crafted
Chiral Mad heavily shades
of night are falling
gussying haunting place,
where the color of evil permeates
every cerebral space
with darkness, said
sub rosa prime evil punctuates
the mind of this dream catcher,
whence after four past midnight
the reaper's image appears
sending adrenaline rush,
surreal augmented moving pictures,
viz flight or fight
courtesy third eye blind
did, when firestarter alarm didst grind
passage of time manifesting dark forces
blaze zing atavistic fear itself lined
up battleground formation
from the borderlands of my mind
this even before turning
the first page where the eyes
of drag'n my afterlife
glowed with radiant shining
where suspense didst wind.
It's quiet here - quiet in a way that catches me off guard. The tranquility is almost tangible, something I can touch and hold and wrap around myself. I can hear the pulse of faraway waves, the faint hum of the wind, the nonsensical call of distant seagulls. I can hear my own heartbeat, pounding along with the waves.
As I kick off my sandals, my spirit steps out of my body, leaving behind the material baggage of city life. The sand is soggy beneath my feet and I know my footprints will disappear when the sea rises, as if I were never here at all.
It's low tide, that magical time when the sea recedes to reveal the ocean floor. Grooves of sand catch pockets of water that are half-buried mirrors, reflecting pale blue sky and slices of violet sunlight that glitter like chipped diamond.
a vocal seagull
descends toward liquid skies –
reflections ripple
At low tide, a second beach emerges, stretching all the way across the bay to the opposite shore. I walk slowly, tasting salt on the breeze as it runs invisible fingers through my hair. Strands sweep across my face, catching in my eyelashes before fluttering free once more.
The beach is a dream catcher, snagging small treasures when the sea withdraws. And I am a child again, fascinated by the hermit crab retreating into his shell as I approach. I spot the dimpled surface of an urchin’s shell peeking out from wrinkled sand. Other shells are scattered across the beach, some upside down, exposing smooth, pearly souls.
a tiny starfish
drifts beneath placid water –
lost constellation
When I find a sand dollar, my breath catches. It’s perfectly whole, with smooth, rounded edges and clean, ivory skin. It’s heavy and light all at once, the flawless design at its center subtle and brilliant, like a delicate floral tattoo. How many hours had I spent here as a child, searching for this transitory coin?
My eyes fill with unexpected tears as my vision wavers behind distorted pools of grief. I’m half-blind until I blink, releasing salty rivers down my cheeks. Even then, my sight is murky.
My tears taste like the ocean and I think, suddenly: Whose tears fill the sea?
Written: November 4, 2015
For Charlotte's "Creative Haibuns" Contest
"Both devil and angel on one's shoulders, scenes from yesteryears, little did the public know that it's when one falls, therein, lies the benefits ... for it's when one rises, gives one meaningful purpose, an eye-catcher, a life-changing event, and so on ...," ... by the Poet.
When you have died and know naught why, sitting while you're thinking
perhaps a dream, let out a sigh, go back to your drinking
Got a bottle in your left hand, a baby in your right
you drink the milk, tastes like bourbon, a babe kissed you, "Good night."
You looked underneath the table, you see the battery,
you then checked all of the cables, but can't find the car keys.
You asked the driver parked by you, can he give you a light
flicked his Bic, you said, "Forgot, I'm through--smokes, sorry, and good night ..."
You looked under the hood again, found a glass of bourbon
head up you say, "My dear, sweetheart," she says, "No, it's me, Ben!"
Now you have your drinking buddy, and the fun of your life
until you know you are woozy, caused thoughts, --just like Lot's wife.
You were on top of your bar stool, you slowly lean on Ben
but now there's a smell of car fuel, you try to wake your friend.
You feel Lot's staff hook round your neck, you feel ground rub 'neath you
you look towards the car, a wreck, it explodes from the fuel.
You cry out to the dark for Ben, hears voices all around
"He is right beside you, your friend." "You are both safe and sound."
It's Sunday, two souls in church pews, "Welcome, today's sermon,
Sodom and Gomorrah, Good News," "I hope they're naught Mormons."
"Why, you have a problem with that?" "They don't allow drinking."
"Thought we quit, swept it 'neath the mat." "Say what are you saying?"
"We jumped verses? That makes no sense!" "I thought it was implied."
"Inferred, there is a difference." "Inferred, implied--denied."
"So what, I'm drinking hereafter." "Aha! After--That's it,
afterlife--caught in the rafters, or 'twill be the fire pit."
"Your choice my friend, want to kick it, live and keep on livin',
or, a lifer, --alcoholic, die and keep on dyin'?"
"Eh, H-E-double hockey sticks, (HELL) I'll stay for the sermon,
Christian-like, ex-alcoholics--they may not be Mormons?"
(the following extrapolated
thought thread exercised,
NOT utilized to intimate
how Fats Domino belied,
and wowed a crowded house as-sized).
as a former ace procrastinator, i abhor
putting off doing what best ought
to get immediate attention bar
ring some extenuating dire circumstance,
sans mishap with flying car
pet case in point being unexpected a bomb
bin able crisis necessitating
hypothetical individual impossible
to remain calm
while in the process
(assisted with good ole mom)
to hoist self with one's own petard,
which emergency best warrant a re ward,
otherwise if fate doth NOT
require one to break
from ordinary business as usual
to enlist the "FAKE"
help of a grenadier,
who doth make
his/her livelihood
risking their life,
and limb without quake
king (obviously compensating bravery
as he/she doth stake
out mortal danger with adequate adorn
ing mortal kombat
with ample legal tender and/
or promising first born)
for unstinting mettle,
especially tolerating accompanying
martial baritone horn
player screech (like fingernails
scraping blackboard)
in close proximity - eliciting a scorn
ing glare from soldier spy
tinker tailor with a torn
smile while trained
special ops named Bjorn
incurs deadly hazard from one morn
to the next amidst adversity
shouldering care worn
Marine's motto semper fidelis,
which unnecessary loss of young life
predicated on add
age, viz being at the least,
a day late and dollar short egad
inadvertently dooming
princely valiant warmonger,
a mere stripling lad
whose mourning brings
heavy pallor of sad
ness, which imagined situation - aye
tangentially congruently analogous by
and by to the butterfly effect,
or sparrow's swan song i.e. die
destiny wrought, when one dost espy
a single occurrence no lie,
(the flickr ring, instagram
ming, kickstart ting well nigh
linkedin shutterfly of a butterfly)
say twerks catcher in the rye,
hence no matter how small, thee or thy
can change the course
of the universe forever,
no idea how nor why!
She had a masters degree,
from Trinity Cambridge,
was brokering deals in the city,
with overheard talk re. financial leverage.
Whilst I’d a diploma
from a,
“technical” college.
A photographic memory,
from heart she could recite,
the Shakespeare plays and
the complete periodic table,
and her port and whisky bottles had their own silver labels.
A no mortgage flat, Persian cat and a cleaner,
a holiday retreat on some remote Welsh peninsula.
but despite,
the disparity in background and mental capacity,
we clicked and hooked up and for a while,
lived,
quite lustfullly.
To survive, comfortably,
in her social circles,
I needed to eliminate some of the hurdles.
The barriers that doubtless would have stifled,
my chance of becoming,
economically entitled.
A list was produced, and included employment and personal grooming,
but my care free attitude,
Is what attracted her,
I imagined,
what she found appealing.
But lust is short term and knowing,
knowledge is power I began reading her own books and with time on my hands spent hour upon hour.
I read 1984, so not to be a bore,
at her parties.
I read to Kill a Mockingbird, so I would be heard,
at her parties.
I read The Great Gatsby, because I had to be,
at her parties.
I read Death of a Salesman,
to be life and soul,
at her parties.
I read Great Expectations, to get
me out of situations,
at her parties.
I read The Grapes of Wrath, so they wouldn’t laugh,
at her parties.
I read Pride and Prejudice, to stop them extracting the piss,
at her parties.
I read Catcher in the Rye, so I could look people in the eye,
at her parties.
I read The adventures of Huckleberry Finn, just to fit in,
at her parties.
I read book after book,
but no one gave a flying f*** , about me,
at her parties.
Ironically after reading Gullivers travels,
almost as I closed the cover,
she told me to pack my bags.
It was all over.
I went up North,
got a job,
on a three month trial,
Coincidentally, as a trainee librarian,
at a private school,
near Carlisle.
The acceptance photograph displaying the Chancellor’s handshake,
new wife,village life
and my f*** you smile,
and a perfectly groomed new hair style.
The past is ash, you gotta rise like the phoenix, don’t like it call your mama and ask for a Kleenex. The time is long past due to stop thinkin’ and start doin’, start rootin’ for the man inside and stop all the internal booin’. You sound like everybody else with a story, braggin’ about past glory. What about today? Tomorrow will be today again, are you gonna be your worst enemy or be your best friend? Nobody believes you, you don’t even believe yourself, you need to take that bull*****and put in on the shelf. You can only judge and fix yourself, work on that person, no one else. You need to man up and fill your cup with the nectar that life has to offer. You want to win and be stronger, not lose and be softer. You want the fruit of your labor, to love yourself and your neighbor, to love the fan and the hater, to love what you got cuz you got it and you took it and made it cuz there was no tomorrow or later, only back then, back when, back in the day suffering every which way with your back against the wall that you made with your sorrow and your rage. Do what you do and stop being blue, you need a new blueprint printed out and co-signed by the future you, your future self, the architect and the tenant. You know what you got? A new start and a new shot. A chance to stop being a robot. A new lease on life with no lease payments and at the very least, no leash to stop you from running free in a new lot. Now it’s just you, yourself and the pie in the sky. Become the apple of your own eye, the catcher of your own rye, the ink in your own dye, the voice that will question your feelings inside and shine brightly upon all the lies in your mind. Create your future fate before time flies by and history says it’s too late, these words are your bond and your mind is a clean slate. Carve them out and breathe in each letter, fake it till you’re feeling better. Those who wronged you don’t exist, they are not your enemy, burn that list, of people you think owe you something...no one does, except one person, the hardest to find, and while you’ve been dying and losing your mind, and stressing and flexing on struggle and strife, he was right there in the mirror the whole damn time.
A warm sultry summers night, a silver crystal formed in
the corner of an eye. Trickled and rolled a gentle cheek,
fell to earth where all was dry. Whence it touched the
ground did speak, an Orchid bloomed of vibrant hues,
reds and whites, the palest blues. The Tear catcher dabbed
the bluest eye, a smile pursued a gentle sigh. The catcher
kissed is favourite friend, his purses full to the night did
blend..
Eerk, eerk the frog he croaked, help us Flora the pool is
choked, eerk, eerk and off he hopped, Flora followed
her duties swapped. By the pool, eyes in moonbeams
danced, their love of Flora is well romanced. Flora, Flora
help us please, the pool is choked by a blue disease. The
fish gasped and gulped for air, wildfowl preened their
feathers fair, otters, voles in a sticky mass, frogs and
toads could not pass. The sedge, the reed, heads did fall,
marigolds and lily's, threatened by this seedy sprawl.
With her hands she ceased the breeze, asked for quiet
from the trees. Beckoned all the spiders to the waters
edge, north to south along the sedge. Said to the spiders
cross your legs, spin, spin with all your might, those
silver threads strong and tight. To the Water Boatmen
she said pull, pull, until your net is full. Water Beatles
heaved and toiled, with insect life the water broiled.
Dragonflies with smaller nets collected dregs, Toads
and Frogs flipped with longer legs. The Newts and
Fowl came to assist, where once was dark the moon
it kissed. Across the pool the Voles and Otters pulled
away, most did work but some did play. To the sticky
web the Algae clings, behind a bright blue water sings.
The silver net was dragged well clear, all had helped
from far and near.
Flora asked the breeze to bring the clouds, left a message
for the sun to hide his head, but to keep her friends warm
in the shade. For without the rays the Algae would die,
and all would be peace and beauty before the eye. Dawn
was close, time for Flora to pat, stroke and kiss her pals
goodbye. She must return to the safety of the glade and
to the shade of the magic willow, her bed of moss and
Lavender for a pillow.
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