Long Charmingly Poems
Long Charmingly Poems. Below are the most popular long Charmingly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Charmingly poems by poem length and keyword.
not in the heart again
for chrissakes it's like Swiss cheese
decoffinated please I'm a yet ambulatory zombie
off his medication as usual
alternatives to logic 101 with Prof. Spike
far too much work for a dead end
saw his only ally the embalmers needle
left his innards spilled in the sand
history in its entirety mocked his comprehension
had the nation in tears and then nausea
several dueling scars graced his genitals
if our perceptions already lie
why shouldn't we
I had to laugh
it was all I could do to keep from smiling
even after a thousand years of AI research
the electronic government was helpless
my Microsoft forehead radiator
absolutely charmingly couldn't get any focus
but the Royal Society of Blind Philosophers
helped me with my little problem
a miracle of recipe repair
because our endorphin soup is a bit thin
the quicksilver cooks ate first and fell asleep
having thrown away their brains long before
in the field kitchen of the gods
after the air raid sirens of postmodernity
can there be too much truth
for an army of blood diamond merchants
now a bit more about para electrics
if only I were at liberty to discuss it
yes imprecision can carry signal
but the place is crawling with dilettantes
wearing their secret butt plugs
it's a guessing game as you can see
petitioning for a visually diagrammatic idiom
although it's a devilish seesaw but let us restart
The Oblivion Ride was the big theme park attraction
my extended family was in the sideshow
justifiably taken for a pack of fools
then the sun went down and never came up again
and we stepped into the stone circle
chanting evidence is preferable
to the moonlit tombstone
good luck with that in your airwaves
broadcast on radio Sarajevo
signal drifting drifting drifting
with minds great and small
and smaller and smaller
the Internet is the yearned for Messiah
there it's done and out and not to be unseen
you wrestle with it while I proceed
dashing among startled commuters
mesmerizing the fact finding committee
their dictatorship of x-ray leeches
tossed him out of several monasteries
apparently the production quotas were relaxed
in a kaleidoscope of normalcy
the style crazed mannerist martinets
howdy do nail in my shoe
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
One day—
The sea will be my backyard
Every morning, standing upon the deck
Of the one called Going Numb
A “Greatest Dad” mug in one hand
My last vice burning orange in the other
I will watch the sun rise like the formidable Phoenix
Warming the blue green sea with her touch
As tender fingers of a salty breeze
Run through my silvery hair
A time worn wharf will serve as my threshold
Warped planks and crusted pilings
Proffering a story of victories against the storms of sea
Aromas of fish and diesel oil
Making promises of resilience yet seen
Seagulls as nameless neighbors
Charmingly silent until beckoned
By day old bread and salty crackers
Perched upon the strakes of the Going Numb
Black eyes praising me as they wait
To devour the next gratis morsel
A galley will greet any wingless visitors
Who happen by
Barstools for three, plus me
Wait obediently before the coffee-stained counter
A toaster and tea kettle from yesteryear
A hidden bottle of rum
Is all this old man will need
With but a few steps, travel with me astern
Over the worn colorless carpet
Past the curtain of puka shells
Hung by stranger before I knew her
A sturdy cot with too many pillows
Serves as my nighttime rest
Where the sea’s gentle waves
Lull away loneliness
And Adele whispers love songs to my soul
Between the galley and my humble nest
A room where I attempt to do my best
A small writing table with pad and pencil
A beige shaded lamp provides the rest
Nostalgic bookshelves of cinder blocks and planks
Against the portside wall
A stage for those who have inspired—
Hemingway, Atwood, Tolkien, and Plath
King James and Lewis as bookends
Hold it all together
Three windows each, port and starboard
To look out
Or in
One with an untold story
I will never know
Or tell
A stained-glass pane
Cracked and old
Beauty in a way
That will never be told
By prose or poem or
By me
One day—
A new chapter in my life will come
Closing the pages of before
My purpose complete
Children grown
Now with ones to call their own
Having moved from a time of needing
To the days of occasionally calling
The old man on the sea
One day—
I will stand alone
On the deck
Of my new home
With seagulls as chaperones
And briny air in my lungs
I will watch the sunset
Through stained-glass pain
HEAVEN'S NATURE WITNESS OUR DREAM
Outstretched maternal skies
bleeding slowly as the sun smiles,
running golden rays
fugue flux flowed by,
frozen bear-shaped clouds
extend their arms to hug the beams.
Charmingly, the light meets
the earth with a tender embrace...
Escaped warmth escalates,
it raise the speed of roses blush,
dew caressing snake-grass dried in flash,
gold-and-black striped wasps kiss---
the red apples chin and oh how sweet
even the nestled mistrels began to sing!
Skirt-lair of violets and lilacs puff
luring scents, it populates the atmosphere.
Finger-tantalized tendrils of hair
stroke repeatedly the whistling wind,
gently I clap my hands:
an accompaniment to thumps and stomps
of the two children laughing, dancing 'round and 'round.
Beside me, I hear his heart, beats! Beats! B-e-a-t...!
Beating like a little butterfly fluttering greet,
he planted a silky kiss atop my head.
Under the windows of gigantic trees,
the heavens witness the fruits,
we long dream.
When Cupids arrow land
finally hitting the right hearts:
"Imperfect but perfectly matched"...
Love mimics the tone of evergreens,
the sadness throbs tearing twang
it will be readily forgotten,
unmindful of the questions: how and why...
_______________________________________________________________
***FREE VERSE - other term "vers libre", a form that doesn't use or follow a specific consistent meter; a regular rhyme and a particular number of lines. It is based on normal pauses and natural rhythmical phrases as compared to the artificial constraints of normal poetry.
***I love this poetry form because it allows me to write artistically; pattern;incorporate;narrate and include a bit of everything about other poetry forms: rhymes, alliteration, personification, metaphor, prose, rhythm, sounds etc. I as well can limit two lines with its syllable count to achieve beat and intensity. I alone can limit my pen.
Lastly, it underlines POETRY FREEDOM and POETRY EXPRESSION not limited by rules.
***For the contest: Poetry Writing #1
Sponsor: Broken Wings***
__Olive Eloisa D. Guillermo__
1:16 pm, December 16, 2015
With her first words she mesmerized his soul,
Of rose water and lavender was her aroma,
Her tip tap of her fairy tale walk was majestic,
A woman of status still in her prime of depth and note,
Wisps of red-hot curls, floating out of control adding
To her appeal, a magnetic touch to the usual
Variety of husband seeking maidens at the ball.
He hurriedly asked her for the opening dance,
She accepted and gracefully took his hand,
He first tested the waters, like a ballerina she danced,
Sadly, the music stopped for an interval, and
So led her back, as her deep smiling hazel brown eyes
Played with his, quizzically asking if she would see him
Again, he bowed and loudly voiced ‘my lady, the next dance
Is mine.’ it was a sweltering July night, she curtsied, and
Walked outside to the patio, attracting every man's attention.
Lord Kingsworth was from Somerset and, the Duchess of York
From Yorkshire, they made a striking couple as they swayed,
Laughed and whirled all night on the dance floor, infatuation
Had certainly crept upon them and the gossip column in
Tomorrow’s Country Times would certainly talk of this romance
And definitely would not let such a juicy piece of scandal escape them.
Lord Edward Kingsworth invited Helen, the duchess of York to a picnic,
Helen, charmingly smiled and accepted, Edward would pick her
Up with his carriage at eleven o`clock the following morning.
He had made up his mind he would ask Helen to become
Betrothed to him, who should he ask for her hand in marriage,
Her eldest brother she explained, as her father had died last
Year of tuberculosis and so it came to pass that after
An engagement of one year which held many ardent nights
And many picnic loving days by the river, which meandered
Close by them, always hurriedly stripping and unashamedly
And joyfully, enjoying the cool water, deliciously naked, finally
Became husband and wife at the beautiful York Cathedral.
What a happy couple they were, and blessed with three
Beautiful little girls who all had their mother’s unruly red hair.
a door stands in my way.
it is charmingly carved, vines curling
around the smooth lacquered edges.
still retaining the original hue of the wood
yet brighter now, gold shines from within
surrounded by the walls of the forest
hidden away from prying eyes, it seems
to flicker more in the shadows of afternoon sun
first cinnamon – then colors ripple across the caramel surface
till it is less like wood and more a faery-touched pool
mahogany, russet red, amber and umber
adorned with a copper knocker of a proud bird
spreading his free wings wide – a vision of who I could be
and I know some magnificent trove of treasure is waiting beyond
knowledge of what I have wanted since I could want
my hand reaches out, longing in every slender finger
the shining handle is so close – everything I yearn for
could be at my command.
but do I even dare? Could I even do it?
indecision burns every bold stroke of confidence
and the whispering sunlit forest burns too
quicker then I can stop it, smoldering fire turns to ash
ash to dust, and dust to darkness, and then –
a door stands in my way.
it is smooth steel, heavyset and towering
almost like stone, no imperfections to be seen
and through the murky darkness swirling around me
it is the only thing I know now.
one single line runs down it, ready to be pried open
and I could. I could push it open, smash it to bits
I could walk straight through it.
but – how could I? what lies beyond?
nothing but uncertainty and falsehood, maybe
a lone silver mirror with the glass in shards
reflecting everything I do not wish to see
reflecting the person I see in the door
who is blocking my path now. but still,
my memories – long since turned to ash – long gone
piece themselves back together
and I, standing there unable to go beyond
am the only one who has chained myself up.
hope peels back the veils of darkness
I could go running through it, heart pounding
and soaring, and dancing, and reaching,
and finally flying free through the glorious sky
I could.
so I do.
Whom the horse is looking for
Every day in the scarlet breeze
It comes and taps at the door
Have you forgotten your blue cheese
Is it the one I dream of
Accompanied by the charged shiver
Especially when I am burnt out
Like the lean exhausted river
The last time I saw it
In blue light it stood
The pink link it signalled me
I was in a restless wood
I tried to recall
Where had I seen it
The tempest and the thunder squall
Then the ocean of the mist
But how come I am morose
I have got nothing to do
With this equine inquiry
Then what for the blues overdose
But the residual pink remains
I have seen it somewhere
Beside the blue Euphrates?
My another mind inquired
A Freudian explained me
Your horse misses you
Your bosom friend of the boyhood
Longs for a hue or two
He reached me a magazine
Inside I came across the faces
Of lovely blonde and black women
In very skimpy dresses
I couldn't remove my eyes
Was in a reverie
What is it, the analyst asked
Is it the equine spree?
Was the horse now inside me?
Something I felt scary
Does Mathew still hold good
Was it the visual adultery?
From above
Dropped a dew
Are you living still
In the age of Mathew
Was it the horse
Yes, said he
Goading you
Into harmless glee
And my thoughts
Went astray
Last night in Paul's house
How charmingly in the sofa she lay
The tremor in the cup of tea
Now the horse again for the infidelity
I knew it for sure
It was the mental adultery
Now Mathew not alone
Beside him glared Mark
I was in a blind cone
This crimson sky how to shirk
Tush tush
Smiled the analyst
Without the child
You can't exist
You are living in the light speed life
It is the child that slows you down
Makes you smile amidst your strife
In the mirror you wear a crown
February 12, 2018
Loss of an Innocent Mind - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
In the office, he smiles so charmingly.
Saying and doing all the right things,
he puts all his female patients completely at ease.
Even the women hard to please return to him,
for he is famous for his bedside manner.
He surrounds himself with a staff of beautiful nurses
who rush eagerly to his aid when he needs them.
Each of them, whether single or not,
imagines herself with him and how it would be
to be alone with him, aboard his fancy yacht
submerged in the mesmerizing gaze
of his warm hazel eyes.
In the evening he goes home to his wife,
a lovely though docile woman, fragile like a flower.
Immediately on seeing her, he starts in
with his usual barrage of complaints,
belittling her and poking fun at her homemaking skills,
the dinners she has waiting for him, her style of dress,
and every minor physical flaw she might possess.
She accepts it all with her pretty blonde head bowed
like that of a wilted lily,
for she knows that to oppose him
will only result in a more tangible type of abuse,
and he is always careful when he hurts her.
Doctor that he is, he knows well to leave no marks.
She retires quietly to bed,
worried little about any sexual advances toward her.
Although she longs for the touch of a man,
she is grateful to be left alone by her spouse.
Meanwhile, with liquor in hand,
he’s gone into the den, shutting the door behind himself.
Logged on as Mr. Hyde at his favorite website,
he peruses the myriads of Adonises available,
peering salaciously at each nude explicit photo
with wide hungry hazel eyes taking in every little detail
as he plans his next big adventure out of town
and fantasizes trysts on his fancy private yacht
with the sexiest of the men that he can solicit.
posted 2/21/12
Submitted 9/23/22 For One From The Dark Side Poetry Contest
Sponsor: John Lawless
THE LIPS
Oh! what a world of sin I created?
Looking around humanities, I saw the beautiful lust in their heart towards me.
All big teeth, considered me important.
I cover the teeth nomatter how big it may be or the decay particles that hangs on;
Women painted me to lure men into destruction and say good bye to their senses.
With me in colours, men lose their heart for women;
Yes, once contacted me; contract is signed, feelings rains.
Without me, men will not have women's heart or look at their ugly but charmingly faces.
I make faces more beautiful;mostly when in colours. No face can shine without me.
Iam the spice of beauty; catch a glimspse of me, emotion, pleasure, feelings will smile back at you.
Iam the bridge of love, you can't destroy or ignore me; and still climb into full atmosphere of lust and deceptive.
The women knows my important in schooling men around;
plug-in into each other; is likes poles, my attraction is confusion.
Throw a finger across me, disagreement will be silent; and contract will be signed.
In my world of deceptive, decent life is a mirage.
I can make good, I can kill. rushing your mouth into me; risk of deceptive, pains and weeping is high.
Iam the sepulchre of souls, no matter how you painted me with colours,
I change not but many souls lust after my colours.
I appeared good to sinful eyes that would't let me be, wisdom of knowing my nature is total abstain from using me to kiss.
what do we kiss with or eat with?
Nomatter how worse is your nature, Lips, stay on my face.
and make my monring and bed time like rose -garden where faces forget their identity in God.
Until you stop painting me to achieve your evil desires, I will remain only tools of confusion in this world.
I will allow humanities to use me to break each other's heart.
Pastor Emmanuel .A.Brown
Stupid flowers,
Eaten by a stupid sheep.
It’s all so ignorant,
My efforts wasted away.
Blind little lamb,
Eating flowers so absentmindedly,
Flowers like the ones I found on the hill,
Where we would watch clouds pass by.
And the clouds would show the future,
Or so you would claim.
Because around you,
My mind would rest.
Why do you like her better then,
Better than me?
Is it her kind soul, warm laugh, or something even more?
Why can’t I just be picked for once…
Although I do understand.
No, really I do.
Because I would choose her any day,
Choose her over me.
Because that bubbly, airy personality,
Would beat my reserved self in every way.
From her charmingly chatting away your ears,
Into my cold, calculating silence.
My judgmental gazes come from caution,
Unlike a lamb to the slaughter.
Because I was raised to be a quiet daughter,
A daughter full of honor.
My parents would warn me about life’s dangers;
“Look both ways before you cross”,
“Don’t talk to strangers”,
Their signs of love choked me.
Signs pointed to more signs,
Ones that read “Approach with caution!”,
And so I would listen,
Like a good daughter.
I am filled with pride,
Ego will bare its teeth to others,
My wits claw them away,
Away into nothingness.
I won’t graze on the grass like some helpless sheep,
Nor will I ask for assistance whilst I hunt,
Because only weaklings do that,
And I am not her.
But you prefer sheep over fox don’t you,
The harmless versus the violent,
Because something so friendly,
Will never hurt the way I do.
With my delicate face,
And bushy hair,
I do possess sharp eyes, sharp features.
But do I scare you to death?
In your eyes, she’s an angel,
Flying, airy, and bright.
And I am the air to her,
The space no one cares about.
The sun withdraws gently, a charmingly shy figure,
Upon the eyelashes of the expanse, a longing rests.
The clouds, abandoned poets with dreams dry on their temples,
Fall, like leaves of the sky, on the cheeks of turned silence.
The muted wind, trickles into views of twilight,
A silent spectator to the day's caprices that extend grimly.
And the rain, locked slowly in sluggish silver chains,
Remains a prisoner of the nights, in a hidden stable without a word.
The dream deserved lifts me over time, over ancestral portals,
My journey begins beneath archways of celestial stories,
The wings given to me, I believe, are as white as the first snow,
And it suits me so well, to tread on the tracks of the earth that breathes in the morning.
Among the droplets of sun trickling down, sky's demiurges dance,
In flight through the ether, where life and death, drawing, caress, embrace.
The world's book wide open, with letters parted into words and signs,
Stands like a fountain of meanings, all noble, all proud.
With that essence of being that screams and calls for me,
To forget life, for it has all been like a vagrant ray,
Dawn emerges from the dense night, weaving treasures of whispers,
Misunderstandings lost in words, of a mystery too often dreamed.
From sleep I awake, in the folds of a new day I wrap,
My temples clenched by mysteries, by thoughts and by clouds.
The sun pours the last ray on the ashening page abandoned,
In the faded light, iron beats on hearts, on words, and on unwritten myths.
And the grass lets its dew dry, from the skin of the rich nights,
The pages of life become cobwebbed with memories warmed in gold and silver.
Madness, the beautiful gatekeeper of stone dreams that lurk,
Watches as the rain of the world, in leaden shackles, awaits its sentence to overturn.