Long Cocooned Poems
Long Cocooned Poems. Below are the most popular long Cocooned by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cocooned poems by poem length and keyword.
Take heed of the roar of the law
There is always a crouching patrol
Safety is on your turf and in your lane
Guard your territory with your claws and fangs
Hunt during the day and by the night
Watch your prey and keep your puppies in sight
Find the beast in you when predators lurk
Don’t beg for liberty, you have the right to take
The taxmen come at you like a park of canines
They ambush your kill with surprise swift runs
The hyenas feast away the worth of your sweat
You retreat to your den with the same blood thirst
In the quiet of the night the pasture is never still
The noise perks up your ears to listen to wild’s hunts and kills
There is chirping of sirens and bellowing from a factory mill
Your cat eyes search and ray through glass, concrete and steel
We hive the skyscrapers to avoid the sting of the economy
We are lionesses at home but at work we are an ant colony
In this Jungle there is no hibernation for us to be cocooned
In this hustle there is no stagnation or else you’ll be marooned
The wild’s abundance yields up to the fittest
The world’s dominant wield much of the slickest
It always dawns on every predator, prey and vulture
In this concrete jungle are you a watcher, runner or catcher?
Written: December 27, 2024 For Contest Sponsored by: Hilo Poet
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At dawn of a place cocooned once in avarice
silver-haired savvy savor sweetness
serene symphony of silliness...
Each echo is adorned
in mirrors of moments whilom
Still, the illness remains a threat
Silhouettes shaped by streetlight gloom.
Luigi Mangione delivers an arcane calix
crestfallen at awe-in junction of cathartic pain,
mark of jeopardy, spirits who stumbled
amid intricate twists of a complex web
where wellness waltzs whimsically as demon
sibylline, errorless, and suave
flimsy fusion of flux and mellifluous maunder.
Let us linger in lurched odds of yeender,
covenant, of concept, and courtesy
firm freedom fetching fairness for all.
seeking serenity in the scripts of statutes.
Yet we wonder, wrapped in a
whirlwind of wearying red tape
frailty of fitness, a puzzling paradox
where reviews reverberate as an epiphany
as doctors and designs decide the merit
yesterday's valiant victors,
confront morrow's troubling disregard.
Oh, the convoluted challenges of continuing!
a clock clicks constantly in the foreground
each tick teases the transience of time
whilst systems swirl swiftly shift and shape
to the tempo of transition, a thrum of turmoil
In a society that shuns, or selects to shun,
figures featuring fervent faces, fates at stake.
We stand strong, side by side, in such a struggle
amid a wave of apathy and regulations
the price of wellness is presented plainly
a burden of broad-based break bears our back
yet, we discover dynamism in togetherness
a steadfast strength of souls have survived storms
in chuckles of cherished seniors, once more liberated.
As we ascend from the abyssal katabatic,
let us linger on the lessons learned
a frailty of life, a grace of guardianship
and let Luigi’s manifesto heard an odyssey
a clarion call for a fairer future
where the weak are warmly welcomed
and the whispers of a wretched world
weave a wondrous wave of wellness.
FEAST OF BEAUTY
I thought humans don't eat humans
and bands don't break bands
But your beauty is eating me up - Cannibalism.
Sheer barbarism and "taboolism",
Not empathic and absolutely no sympathy,
Emotions running high for your posh of beauty
As my own desires are feasting on me - Autocannibalism
Just like a person being consumed by or**sm.
Miss Farhana Sait,
Your charm is a bait
That lures mankind into your paradise gate.
Set me in confinement,
multiplying multiple enjoyment;
Cocooned in your milky endowment.
If beauty were transactions and sold in zillions,
Yours would be priceless and raise common opinions.
Tiger doesn't eat Tiger when famish
Yet your looks feast on this Tiger in ambush.
All these models do is slay, slay & slay
But with the fangs of beauty & your outlay
You feast, feast & feast on your prey.
To survive your allure, this I pray.
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Form: Rhyme.
Copyright © October 1st, 2020.
#OnTheSpotPoetry #inspiredbyFarhana
#inspiredbybeauty
#beautyappreciation
#feastoftheeyes #feastofbeauty
Three blocks away a church bell from my parish always calls
Pleading for my soul as the statues of Mary hang within the church's walls
I visualize the sculptured faces and count the clapper’s swings
I almost hear my name in the rhythm as the bell rings
Lying in my bed the guilt tries to pull down the sheet
My body is warm but my spirit is scorched in the heat
I could literary walk in my sleep to a pew in my church
I can count the footsteps to where my soul wants to perch
I envision the crucifix with the same expression as before
Yet that still gracious face is saying something new to my soul
Through the church bell I sense my hearts palpitations
This mismatch of my mind and soul need salvation
The call of the church bell is getting louder and louder
I am cocooned between these sheets but my soul is outside
Walking to a place around the altar and taking a seat
To a place it can converse with the Paraclete
Last winter, I refilled my blackened quill with
a dose of your sensual sonnets,
allowing your soothing voice to be the maestro
of moaning moonlight,
reawakening a cathartic infatuation.
Drunk on symphonies that you’ve orchestrated,
a throbbing thirst instills
tantalizing tercets into my trembling veins.
I submissively let every ounce of my skin
be stroked by your titillating tongue,
tracing the milky quartz trails of
goosebumps you’ve ignited,
leaving me intoxicated in your
mellifluous world of poetic pulses,
where your honey-dipped fingers strum
the script of my love-struck soul.
Awakening fervent fireflies to flutter,
flickering luscious sparks,
while cocooned in electric feathers,
caressing the internal warmth
of wildfire whispers.
Yet, there is something about
the way the skies burst euphoric writings
on your untold rivers~
never revealed, forever lost
in the silence of sultry suppression~
luring me to follow the magnetic rhythm
of your restless roseate runes.
I will someday kiss you into written poetry,
when I take a breath
to climax as couplets intertwined,
screaming caffeinated stars in hypnotic cadence.
The seeds of your love
will illuminate pining petals,
pressed between velvety sheets
of lunar-glazed pillows,
and the cinnamon sun of a sage dawn,
awaiting drizzling diamonds
with sinful secrets etched from sweat and tears,
teasing the melted twilight
that flows behind periwinkle prose.
So place me on your empty canvas
of nocturnal stanzas.
Paint me with tender rhymes,
flowing like fluorescent ink,
bleeding from your aesthetic baton,
so effortlessly,
forever aligned as soulmates,
tied to the gossamer tunes of timeless harmony.
Old Miss Valerie, years gone by was once a benign lass
Sprinkled dust of shimmering joy o'er kids in her class
Oh blue-eyed kids believed her to be a moonlit fairy
Her honeyed ritual of "Good morning" melody oh so merry
A kid joined the premises one day, his dad had died
Seen off by his detached step mom, smiled teary-eyed
He didn't utter words drowning in his lonely muse
Until Miss Valerie's motherly love healed his bruise
He floated in stories of laughter with dimpled smiles
Drenched in pearls of tranquil solace spread over miles
On Sundays he relished a strawberry cake with a letter
Believed step mom's love, cocooned in a knitted sweater
Silver grace of Almighty showered upon him for years
Until the truth one day drizzled his sweater with tears
Oh Miss Valerie! God's kind angel in disguise of love
Lonely and old waiting to be blessed by him from above
Her rosy kindness to that lonely kid couldn't be repaid
His vow to be kind to others, joyous her last days made
In her aged years God sent her a son's love in showers
Old Miss Valerie at peace now, her grave adorned with flowers
June 8, 2020
BRIAN'S SELECT 9,any form,any theme Poetry Contest
~Winner: First Place
Inside a chrysalis, a pupa clad in logs,
was a home in which to spell and dwell,
for my transformation.
I slept undressed, surrendered to my fate,
as my grubby caterpillar form,
dissolved under the doona down covers,
with me cocooned inside,
a shell within a shell.
Too brittle to face the elements,
without any camouflage,
I sought refuge in a log cabin,
hidden away from it all,
in a deep dark secluded forest,
denuded of evergreen leaves.
Rebuilding while face-down on my pillow,
curled up in the comfy cozy nest,
I put to rest my past-tense thoughts,
collected and written down in braille,
in the book of "What must be Put to Rest".
With a mind reset to refresh and redo,
I burned the book of legacies in the fireplace,
watching the white smoke of surrender,
swirl, curl, and waft up,
the stone cold chimney stack.
The warmth and glow of embers
in the fireplace,
among the ashes,
inspired
an enlightenment,
a metamorphosis.
A grubby caterpillar
became a butterfly!
All wrapped up and enfolded,
empowered to rip open,
the chrysalis clad in logs,
in the log cabin,
in the forest,
in the shell within a shell,
the butterfly pulled the rip cord,
fell out in free fall,
and flew far away.
"Red Invitation"
Crocheted a whole story
in golden twine of soft angora
She said no purple
I don’t want purple Agapanthas
the whole barbecue thing
is a party thing
unattended.
This was the most recent
conversation.
Lavender Street, She said,
the Church sits in, how apt.
Lavender.
Well oiled. Calmly receptive.
Ashes to ashes.
Crocheted a whole story
in golden twine of soft angora.
Cocooned
safely tied, catscradled in lace.
The invitation red -
So not vanilla.
Lavender Street
the Church sits in, how apt.
The invitation red.
Candide Diderot. ‘24
“You know what they always say:
you can’t spell ‘funeral’ without ‘fun’ ..."
The Butterfly Cocooned
Noon
Beneath higher twig tips,
my heart flutters
Near converging branches.
My cocoon
Rests
Mid-high the strength
and distinctive character
Of a gnarly tree. Embracing me.
This, my home…Cocoon.
Night.
This essential place,
Protecting
Above the swirling world,
Puzzling with its mixing motions
Of lights, colors, temperatures,
Until I think I shall just stay
In this cocoon
For all the days
of my brief forever.
I have grown able
To feel my heart flitter,
And my future hinting of more.
Secure herein my cocoon,
I debate with Life…
Staying here within,
Cocooned
Perhaps until I might learn
For its own brief time and purpose,
How each raindrop so proudly falls.
————————————————————————————————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 3/1/23
***written in response to my time with medical
Specialist & his presxribed treatment and diagnosis.
Thanks be to God…
The suburban pressure cooker expelled its multiethnic horde north. Laden with implements of leisure, bicycles, kayaks, canoes and camping gear; world weary travelers of urban and suburban bent surged north ever, north. Bucking, they wrenched in unison at road repairs, shunted into single lanes by flaming orange cones of warning like so many track horses at the gate. Tail bitten, truck locked windows up; the denizens drove forth cocooned in metal steeds seeking the clean air and open expanses, north.
Few, freer souls dare the unfiltered air of the artery, north on motorcycles or in convertibles, hoods down, or windows down, blaring an enlivening mantra of sixties rock as they shimmied forward in the in the endless conga line of commerce, past urban blight. The trip north became a Chaucerian Pilgrimage from Nutmeg State to the Green Mountain State of Vermont.
The border crossed, the sky opens wide-eyed, ridge rimmed dolphin gray clouds swim in a cerulean scene. Roadside picnic tables fill. Monarch butterflies flit in the breezes between majestic rows of pungent pines. The whoosh of traffic dulls and the robin’s call emerges over the roiling hills and gurgling brooks. Silence falls, complete; upon the entrance to the first gravel road. Heaven is immersed in the scent of fresh hay and sweet purple clover.