Long Charring Poems
Long Charring Poems. Below are the most popular long Charring by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Charring poems by poem length and keyword.
Damp dark day out there
while the world in here is shining warm
as flames lick charring logs
and kettle sounds of glub glub glub arise from my kitchen
all comfort shrouded in terrycloth robe
the morning paper becons
with news about elections
news about rejections
news about confections
news about recollections....
and in this mystical world there is still peace and the enjoyment
of damp dark day mornings
Damp dark day out there
not going to work today and don't need an alibi
there is this tenderness with my canine companion who snuffles
against my shoulder
her long white fur smells air fresh
as my partner bursts into laughter that lifts our hearts up
we share the little beastie
much like parents do with their progeny-
and as she laughs
this damp dark day turns into a dry bright day
within me
so that even when it rains
rainbows can still be painted over the sunshine
of being human.
Unseen is the dark sky midst the pitch darkness. Owls howl-hoot.
Vampire bats fly around. I sit, staring at the red moon.
What has happened to me? What brute has made my lute mute?
I'm mortified. Am I going to be crucified soon?
Anxiety, like charring wildfire, within me blazes.
Depression, like termites, is eating up my cells and veins.
Strains, like storms and gales, erase my inner spaces.
Why is this insomnia? Why are these brain fogs and pains?
I should get out of these, I thought. I should choose life, not death.
How merry are these birds, bees, butterflies, leaves, and flowers?
How, the divine, in each creature, like the breeze, spread its breath?
How could I ignore the blossoming of the cosmic powers?
Optimism, like clear streams, should flow within me flawlessly.
I should nourish the noble nurture of nature noiselessly.
Themed distractions, affairs a boulevard,
as elbowed are divided from their minds.
Aloof, queues succeed a ship calling card,
as untrained get on, moons all exit signs.
The General Slocum, dressed to the nines
--churchgoers being passengers adorned.
Petite girls, bulky boots-dresses confines,
a spark burning as the captain is warned.
Crew-covered ears as the shrieking arose,
clung rails ... faith enables those disabled,
backing from charring ensue panic throes,
river rips donning death ... apt tests fatal.
Swimmers valueless o'er a thousand died.
Lifeboats? Vest hopeless; the firm denied.
Draw the embers into the wood
Stroke it like it's a three-legged stool
Blacken the charcoal of a dying fire
Fasten it to a sun swelling brighter
The object is to lick the smoking flame
Soberly thoughtful to call out His name
Should a flash shine brilliantly
With a radiant outburst of joy hotly
All about warming the frigid darkness
The ocean in which stars are as jellyfish
Will appear to the seers as Lumiere
Clearly my dear it's an Austral Hell
Toss another log into the house of Hades
Balance it on your heaven party gate
Strum the drum to conjure up the worship
The song that worms the hawthorn brush
Into its strip tease yank along
Moon moss to heavy metal music loudly
Pound the ditty along to His shouting
The anthem of a wench's wrenching
The diddly of concerted celestial voicings
Heard charring with a fire from within
The product of an incandescent spell
See that which is bright always rises twice
Conditions darken before they go black
Then Hell behaves with new eyes
And the story is told in pantomime
About a joy and how it lingered a lifetime
.
Take this, this poem
with torn, tattered edges
Stuff it in pockets
of jeans faded blue
Tell all the people
who teeter on ledges
Nothing is worse
if you have not a clue
Shatter this pen
flowing ink made of fire
Charring the castles
where dragon wings fly
Fanning the flames
that a sad heart has started
When every stanza
now ends in goodbye
Fracture the vase
that once sat in the window
Emerald green
with a chardonnay shine
Toss me the shards
till you see I am bleeding
Now have some cheesecake,
a nice glass of wine
Bury these dreams
so they fade in the morning
Hidden from sunlight
and coated in dew
Roll out the leaves
in the cover of autumn
Springtime for me
is now long overdue
Our lamb has finally flashed his mane.
Crashing through the Bush.
Into the Armageddon plane.
Tail twitching, slashing fangs.
He's going to liberate a people shrouded in our blood.
Clean up those weapons of mass destruction.
Make an oasis out of glass, an oasis theology.
That open palm has turned into a fist...on a dime...on a dollar.
Over the top of a barrel of sweet crude oil.
To prove you're not a ***** like those tea partiers think you are.
You're the lion president, feeding our enemies.
While our children go hungry.
It's been a long, hot summer.
Did you know our schools don't have air conditioning?
But I'm getting off topic....
Fruitless war
your biggest blunder...to date
leaky intelligence
trigger finger
eagle-eyed bombs
charring children
lamb to lion
on a dime
on a dollar.
Over the soul of a barrel of bittersweet crude...
Now I'm probably censored for speaking against your wishes.
I could give a $hit.
Let the truth clear your opaque transparencies...
The pinkies are laughing hysterically.
Tea party, anybody?
Summertime is finally fleeting
and oddly, though, I am not sad.
Yes, the fields will soon be emptied
of pastel-colored flowers and buzzing bees
and wading knee-deep in tall, wild grass
as the sun takes its time in setting,
late into the warm-breeze nights
that cause one to linger
and gaze up into a sky
transforming from azure to cobalt
with stars in infinite millions
bringing on a sense of wonder
that never ceases to delight.
However, Autumn is waiting
quietly beyond Summer's bend
and now and then you can hear it,
see it, feel it as it approaches.
Just little touches here and there.
But sure enough, it will break free
of Summer's green and yellow dreamy hold
to announce itself in snippets
of orange, red, russet and gold.
Yes, the days are still warm and sunny
but the darker early mornings
and darker early evenings
are tell-tale as to what
Autumn is really up to.
So this is the time that I relish most,
that in-between moment
when we'll soon have
a new seasonal host
that will require of us to put away
the shorts, the sandals,
the beach towels and lotions
that made our Summer
a sensuous journey
peppered with sunshowers,
thunderclouds, swims in the lake,
collecting shells on the shoreline
and charring vegetables on grills
and catching up on novels
for requisite lounge chair readings
and picking flowers in the garden
awash in scents and ladybugs
as iced drinks are sipped and savored
under umbrellas striped and wide.
Yes, this is the time
when flannel, quilts and nippy nights
become the wardrobe,
the bedcoverings,
the almost-black frosty evenings
that draw us to lighting candles,
tending firesides,
brewing up extra coffee or tea
or reaching for cups of hot chocolate
or perhaps sifting through cookbooks
in search of something soothing to bake
that'll taste even better while
wrapped in a blanket or thick fuzzy robe
for requisite armchair readings
of long-held books, old letters, old photos
or just recalling beautiful memories
of golden Summers past
that now bring comfort and peace
to our yearning Autumnal souls.
Dark clouds loom beyond battered mountains,
cracking sounds seep through broken walls
and murmuring voices echo near and far.
We did not know where to begin,
but I had a strong feeling that we would win.
We leaped through block doors,
trampling on broken glasses,
tearing down make shift barricades,
busting wires fences,
bulldozing fortified doors,
and chiseling sealed up walls.
Our stricken faces dented with anguish,
broken voices crackle with fear,
spilling unbridled emotions in the atmosphere.
Smoldering petrol engulfed the air
charring corruption,
cleansing hearts,
purifying souls,
while tears of joy flow without control.
We journey through dark tunnels,
broken bridges and rocky mountains,
cutting and clearing the bushy path,
until we finally made the mark.
One chance, one dip
we broke the glass ceiling with a mystical pick.
©2013 Christine Phillips
It is in fire
that each of us is born.
Fires ignited in consuming passion
to embrace the pleasures of the heart and flesh;
fires
rising from the smoldered embers within
unquenched, indestructible burning of the heart;
lips pursed to reveal
the sensual enticing
opening to come forth, give in;
touch the candle flames and burn
endure the torch within,
set the blaze afire
scorch the mind of thought
and melt in the all-consuming charring
of love;
be the slave, the tormented martyr
the agonized hunger satisfied
by the consummation of love
beyond all dreams, beyond imagination;
give in, submit, succumb
there is no escape, you are forever captive,
the slave of love forever
seared in the passionate blazing glow
of the fire burning unceasingly.
Slave to Love Poetry Contest
John Hamilton
July 3, 2019
"I'd ride on the current of the Wayfarer Wind,
not caring where his breath would take me."
~ by poet
I hear his echoed thrumming when nights are clear
His wistful voice floating across meadow and range
Softly, urging me to follow, he whispers in my ear
and then flies off. I wonder, why does he disappear?
I find the hide and seek game he plays, a bit strange.
He's a will-o'-the-wisp, moving from place to place
not knowing where he'll blow, unrouted on a chart
This Wayfarer is the wind, a drifter without a face
To far reaches of foreign lands he chooses to race
Obeying Nature's desire, he takes the task to heart.
He wanders swiftly upon an evening's chilled breeze
Ruffling blades of sawgrass where his fingers tread
Through hanging branches of weeping willow trees
He's the reason waves crash across turbulent seas
Wayfarer rambles where he pleases, it's been said.
Yet, he'll whimsically lift a kite to delight a child
Blustering, he teases without chagrin, all day long
Or he can blaze trails of fire that rapidly run wild
through vales, charring trees until they're defiled
He sings without guilt, howling a braggartly song
A tempest traveler flutters through limbs of pines
The game he plays can be wicked or full of mirth
He doesn't abide by rules and ignores guidelines
As a friend or a villain, the Wayfarer has designs
on roaming his way on currents across the Earth.