Long Corkscrew Poems
Long Corkscrew Poems. Below are the most popular long Corkscrew by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Corkscrew poems by poem length and keyword.
The thunder reached them well before
it's shadow flashed along the shore
as whirlwinds from the steady beat
knocked fleeing hordes from off their feet.
Thousands sprinted to the surf
except a few who had the nerve
and put up spirited defence
and fell in flares of heat intense.
Fast and low, wings whipped the waves
glistening scales of charcoal, Jade.
Skimming clifftops, banking right,
climbing until out of sight,
then corkscrew dive in view it hove
and settled in a quiet cove.
On rocky crag where beast had fetched
it gazed down on her wings outstretched,
mother of pearl breast warmed by sun
she looked up at the one who'd come.
Crimson eyes met gaze of blue,
"Vanilla's sold out- will chocolate do?"
For contest- 'Dragons', sponsored by Silent One.
October 19th 2015
When, on that craggy moorland verge,
you make your stand, body braced
against the storms bullying bite;
when you permit the squall
to sweep your soul awake
attending only to the winds voice,
its howling funnel
forged in whirlpools of chaos,
then you will sense that thin thread
that holds you to this momentary life.
If then you suffer the stabbing rain
to corkscrew your mind,
allow the gust-mobbed gale
to expose each molecule of fear
you thought you had banished;
just being there within that mauling,
a hub in the dynamo
of an endlessly turning,
then your breath
will be one with the breathing sky.
If you remain there
all of you that is unrooted
must sink or rise, and if you dare
to grasp that howling by its throat
you will deliver yourself
to the deep dale or the soaring sky
newmade,
as transpicuous as daylight,
your spirit magnified
in the pristine eye of God.
Lord, save this unholy Baptist!?
Her lactation, like mother's juice,
slakes thirsty tongues with creamy gist.
To flush her slick love-chamber's sluice,
with corkscrew thumbs, and practiced wrists,
like a gander she mauls her goose!
If hairy chest stirs those supple breasts
in whorish barns (near lover's inns),
then with my cock's erectest crest,
the buttocks (of her cleft nether-chin),
like meat pies, I durst hurry test,
lest I, limp, err in deadly sins!
But I pray Thee, O holy Godhead!
I durst not be so thus content'd,
when, like dogwood, is my sainthead,
when goes my pizzle unlament'd;
and, like Pan, to c*nt the nunhead,
I've foregone your grace, unrepent'd.
Brainstorming, concentrating
panning... for poem
idea shattered brew
tilly by deafening seasonal
greensward cutting crew
contracted throughout summer to mow
leaves of grass
every Tuesday, which drew
attention toward fragrant aroma
seeping into nostrils
of me - match hew,
heavily negated true
quiescence courtesy ear splitting
soundcloud of driving
mowers even moo
ving bovines would
clap cloven hooves
over soft as lambs wool
sensitive hearing micro corkscrew
innards, viz their spade
shaped audiological
anatomical accouterments -
cow word lee lowing Jew
pitter Io sliver by jove whew
once silence returns
(after cessation rip snorting bedlam)
savoring the hum of nature anew,
and moost likely relish
fresh cut leaves of grass
as I inhale analogous
delectable waft of homebrew
albeit molecules borne aloft
after sharp heavy duty blades
of industrial riding mowers bestrew
higglety pigglety, helter skelter
juicy fruit chlorophyll rich
plants releasing nectar
sweet as honeydew
olfactory imbibing nostalgic view
of yesterday, when agrarian farmsteads
populated landscape picturesquely
anointing, exuding, messaging...
perfuming faint clue
intimating rural lifestyle forebears
hapt tubby privy too,
where deer and antelope played
unaccosted by impending urbanization,
hence such idyllic serene rue
man nation - visage you
would probably concur
as most divine comity
worth more than any buckeroo
could purchase - vestiges vanishing
without a trace adieu
mother nature nowhere found
except caged up within zoo.
The cat wants in
dark spiraling clouds stretch
to grab at our throats,
the cat has made a fort of its
spring-loaded
corkscrew body.
There is no distance now,
just this on-rushing rumbling
a sign that we have mislaid
our past
in this brick-walled moment.
They say when it tracks us down
it sounds like a train,
the heart ducks below its own pounding,
thoughts become
a sensorium of beheaded sensations,
ears are left to ring on their own.
The term ‘Tornado’ does not cover
the many reasons to run blindly
or stay hunched in a bunker of reason.
Wide-eyes search out
nests of kindred heartbeats.
Then there is the wait,
the explosive ticking of electric moments
that shake both bones and faith.
You may not know it
but your bent body is praying,
your mind
has become a begging bowl.
Then the banshee whoosh
and clatter
of a near miss.
No flying cows cross our eyes
just a frigid silence
between the loud drip-drop
of a spent and broken rain –
then
hands reaching.
We looked out across the Canyon
It looked like a painting from above
Like you'd fall onto it, not inside.
The farther in we trekked
The more 3D everything became.
Like hiking an optical illusion.
The canyons wall were gray,
But you'd never know it.
Painted red from the canyon dust
The cactus flowers at full bloom,
Next to yucca plants and prickly pears.
We moved downward to Plateau Point
Like an island underground
Surrounded by the rushing river
Down via Devil's Corkscrew.
A route that lived up to it's name
Until we got to the bottom
Jumping into the icy water
Looking back up to the top
I wonder if I looked like part of the painting
Of this Canyon, so very Grand
March 22, 2022 Sponsored by: L MILTON HANKINS |
Woodsman on a prowl
Sneaking around like an owl
Noticing innocents getting a fright
Watchman you are a good knight
Defending partiers in a plight
Battling a monster in a murderous fight
Erich you guarded them all
Despite the rainfall
Where thunder clapped
Lightning snapped
Spotlighting your heroic stage
Heralded by the girls maturing in age
Until your deadly scripted page
As we reflect surrounded by campfire mist
Who should be on the angelic list
Mr. Anderson may not have received Brad Clooney fame
But we knew your look maybe not name
Reminded the rat was Ben
While the chopping mall no longer needed Ken
RIP mechanical hiking buddy
Protecting those from evil not really funny
Make it sunny
Heavens will be brighter
Since you are now a soulful fighter
We all down here
Are in it for the scream and cheer
Toasting Rob Dier
With a corkscrew and beer
A thousand simple things will make me smile...
The sleeping form of a precious newborn,
A child's drawing in his artistic style,
Pastel shades of the sky at early morn,
Fairytales of a magic unicorn.
I am amused by hair with corkscrew curls
on heads of adorable little girls.
By puppies tripping over their own feet,
Watching moonlight glimmer as night unfurls,
A surprise kiss that's incredibly sweet.
Someone falling should never make me laugh,
But quickly, I'm chuckling out of control
Then apologize for my social gaffe.
I wildly cheer when my team scores a goal.
I've heard that 'Laughter is good for the soul.'
In a spontaneous moment of fun,
I jumped into a snowdrift at full run,
Finding great pleasure in just being me.
Like the taste of cotton candy, finespun...
Life is sweeter when I set myself free
November 11, 2021
Agendaless Exuberance Contest
Sponsored by Unseeking Seeker
Syllable counter: Howmanysyllables
Ah... already the summer
approaches closing time,
but yours truly can squeeze
one more rhyme
before September first,
thus the following lines after...
Brainstorming, concentrating
panning... for poem
idea shattered brew
tilly by deafening seasonal
greensward cutting crew
contracted throughout summer to mow
leaves of grass
every Tuesday, which drew
attention toward fragrant aroma
seeping into nostrils
of me - match hew,
heavily negated true
quiescence courtesy ear splitting
soundcloud of driving
mowers even moo
ving bovines would
clap cloven hooves
over soft as lambs wool
sensitive hearing micro corkscrew
innards, viz their spade
shaped audiological
anatomical accouterments -
cow word lee lowing Jew
pitter Io sliver by jove whew
once silence returns
(after cessation rip snorting bedlam)
savoring the hum of nature anew,
and moost likely relish
fresh cut leaves of grass
as I inhale analogous
delectable waft of homebrew
albeit molecules borne aloft
after sharp heavy duty blades
of industrial riding mowers bestrew
higglety pigglety, helter skelter
juicy fruit chlorophyll rich
plants releasing nectar
sweet as honeydew
olfactory imbibing nostalgic view
of yesterday, when agrarian farmsteads
populated landscape picturesquely
anointing, exuding, messaging...
perfuming faint clue
intimating rural lifestyle forebears
hapt tubby privy too,
where deer and antelope played
unaccosted by impending urbanization,
hence such idyllic serene rue
man nation - visage you
would probably concur
as most divine comity
worth more than any buckeroo
could purchase - vestiges vanishing
without a trace adieu
mother nature nowhere found
except caged up within human zoo.
In a world twice-walled, of crystal clear,
A space unseen, a prison of fear.
Between two panes, a fly, held fast,
No egg was laid, no shadow cast.
A sudden blink, from there to here,
A puzzle spawned, to quell the tear.
Why was he placed in this glass tomb?
A silent jest, a sunlit room.
The panes so close, a breath away,
Where heat would build throughout the day.
The air grew thick, the world compressed,
A tiny heart beat in its chest.
A wave of fear, a buzzing dread,
Trapped in a space for what was dead.
But in that fear, a spark took hold,
A story waiting to be told.
For he was not some common drone,
On legendary wings he'd flown.
A legacy of grit and might,
Who turned from darkness to the light.
"I can do all," the thought took flight,
"And conquer this eternal light!"
This glassy cage would not decide,
The fate of one with so much pride.
An engine roared within his soul,
To make his fractured body whole.
The escape began, a frantic beat,
Wings flapped to an impossible feat.
A thousand times the normal pace,
He'd drill himself from this dreadful place.
Like corkscrew turning, sharp and fast,
A future from a painful past.
He put his head against the pane,
And pushed away the numbing pain.
His legs tucked in, a living drill,
He'd bend the glass to his own will.
A scraping sound, a tiny groove,
A body spinning, on the move.
Slowing cutting, grain by grain,
Ignoring all the dizzying strain.
Whip! It splintered. The glass gave in,
To let the outer world begin.
A twisting heat, a focused mind,
He left the airless tomb behind.
He drove his weight against the rift,
A frantic, final, upward lift.
With ancient strength, a sudden shove,
Cast from the dark by light and love.
He was out! The world a blur,
A dizzy, disoriented whir.
He couldn't stop, the spin and dive,
Just trying to remain alive.
He slowed and slowed, the spin decreased,
His frantic, panicked mind released.
He fought to gather all his sense,
And break the hold of the intense.
At last, the world came into view,
A place to land, somewhere brand new.
He found a perch, a simple spot,
To ponder the great fight he'd fought.
A hero fly, who broke the glass,
And let the final moment pass.