Long Corseted Poems
Long Corseted Poems. Below are the most popular long Corseted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Corseted poems by poem length and keyword.
A little girl’s heart, wrapped in sweet tarts,
And pressed with messages of love
And belonging.
BE MINE. FRIENDS FOREVER. I LOVE YOU.
Wrapped in chenille,
Sleeping in a pink and powder blue room.
Chestnut hair spread, silken, upon white sheets.
Encircled by dancing maidens in corseted gowns.
Woman’s work surrounds her.
Spools of thread, ribbon, and tape measures;
Even in slumber her soul’s directed by the desires of others.
Days filled with sunlight, and apple blossoms, on a stage of pine needles,
In a forest of dreams... dreams of family, babies dreaming of babies.
Dolls, play with dolls. Barbie faces the Troll king,
And in her heart of hearts the troll always wins.
like the f l i c k e r s
of light...
I was born later
than witchcraft;
not a voodoo bride,
with thick velvet veil
walking down
with peacock-pearl waves,
in the silhouette
of silver demise ~
like a carnation
claoked with cashmere coffin;
but a corseted flame
of bronze and blood ~
as the moon bites
into the blaze of my heart;
liquifying the lapis blues
and bleeding
the truths of luck,
that flow in the
elysian effervescence
wrapped in sunstruck ashes
and aurelian sonatas ...
I need not the spiced tongue
of tarot chariots ~
neither the vehemence
of fire-dragon oracles ...
because the horoscope
of my heartbeat
shall suffice to sear those stars
starving for sultry eve's
eloquence dipped in
the dire desire to fuel their sparks ...
in this d r e a m ...
of devotion for my deity,
neither dusk nor dawn
can delude me ~
because the essence
of this spirit breathes me
in swarovski gold scars ,
floating and glimmering
through the jasmine elixirs
of my mind,
where I may stretch
across the soul-arcs
with swan elegance ~
rippling with wisps
of chiffon white ,
in the mists
of honey perfume
and porcelain saudades ,
diaphanous in the streaks
of shimmering solace ...
unspoken yet felt ,
beyond kohl rain ruffles ...
and jet jinxed breezes ...
~ O mundane magic ~
blemish me
with bona fide
beams of aura,
balming the brave
with an astral alliance;
and let me bathe my wings
in the ache of aquamarines ...
as, the incensed heat
of your baptized waters
can rinse my cursed rose rings ~
and might make me illuminate
in azure ice calmness ,
with my feet anchored
to the feathery throne of fireflies,
like the p r i e s t e s s
of p a t i e n c e...
warm with weak
~ g l o w i n g w i c k ~
of glossy green glitters ...
The year was 1680 and I was travelling,
I sat in the carriage looking out the window;
The coachman was driving the horses quickly,
As a storm was approaching us from behind.
Thunder was booming and rolled over the forest,
Already raindrops were falling on the glass;
The sky was overcast with dark shifting clouds,
And everything was getting dull and gloomy.
This road was so deserted and remote from civilization,
I must admit that I was afraid.
Suddenly the carriage lurched and was falling over,
It bounced through the foliage, twisting and turning;
And then it stopped and all was quiet and still,
The coachman was dead and the horses also.
Struggling, I managed to climb back up to the road,
My corseted body, full overskirt of pink satin;
And parchment petticoat unsuitable for climbing,
The bun on my head loosened and my hair fell.
Oh dear, it was so dark and misty on the road ahead.
But I started to walk in the inkiness.
The forest around me was pitch black and frightening,
But there, through the trees a light was burning;
The rain was coming down in torrents that blinded me,
As I stumbled forward through the tangled trees.
A wood cabin was hidden in green lush vegetation,
It looked so secluded and isolated and lonely;
But I found myself banging on the door loudly,
As sheets of rain poured on me from up above.
And then the door slowly opened and light spilled out,
And I stood there dripping wet, and . . . .
________________________
August 22, 2015
Poetry/Narrative/Cabin in the Forest
Copyright Protected, ID 15-702-939-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
I swallow smitten smoke
stomach the wake of verve ~
a corseted coherence
craving night’s clemency
while the sun sleeps
lips pressed to the searing chalice
intoxicated by silver essence ~
my fragile fragrance
You name my soul,
an enamored enchantress
the touch that craves not
a thousand thirsty eyes ~
misinterpreting inner magic
confusing compassionate
curves with consent carved
but I am not your temptress
nor am I a mystique
clothed in mists of memories
marooned in manipulation
I never ached to be the allure ~
bound to every burn
wading to savor my secrets
the intriguing incense
intricately kissing the cashmere air
the scent of the soul’s need
O spirit, guarding my light,
seek me as I am ~
an enigma, unfelt,
studying the silhouette
s i m m e r i n g
in crimson and copper
for the mirror
resembles threefold silence
wanting to be the destiny
not the dancing desire
dissolving into the drunken depths
of candle-lit dusk ~
your breathless incantation
a hypnotic haze
hand-woven into thin lace of love…
I am more than
your skies’ beholding ~
I am heaven’s eternal poetry
a pulse
no palm can possess...
In the tremble of the evening and the rustle of the unfinished letter,
My aged hand, shrouded in the mist of memories, writes the last farewell,
Under the blue cloak of celestial silence, waiting for the silent echo of your pride,
A proud oblivion that dares not gamble with lost words.
Seasons, stepping over us, corseted us in tombs of leaves and thoughts,
They have coiled in the whispers of our souls together and apart, in snowdrifts of indifference.
I see bleeding sunsets where each day concludes its aria, a somber procession
Beneath my eyes frozen forever gazing towards the sunset, in the waiting of a dawn I have lost.
I, remaining immovable as you knew me, just a little more hunched by words unspoken,
The eternal white blizzard has blossomed in my hair, a winter poet with a heart clad in ice armors.
And here's how shades of gray weave their bed in the canvas of the soul's dusk,
Coloring darkness over the love that bleeds, a flame that extinguishes in the horizon that forsakes me.
The star of my eyes is extinguished, and the sky only illuminates me in hues of longing,
It is a portrait, an old and cracked painting, that even time refuses to touch,
Hidden in the sweet kiss of things no longer, I find my solace in the dust on abandoned furniture,
And feel how without your presence, life slowly melts away, like a candle in the wind.
The snow of indifference has buried our whispers, and blizzards of despair blow us towards separate fates,
We will always remain the same figures, like two timeless clocks, the man of the sunset and the woman of the dawn.
Somewhere, in our story, that unravels and falls, we remain two strangers to the world and to ourselves,
Lost, you in the red light of the evening, me, a residue of a star flickering in a forgotten corner of the sky.
And when these lines will fall away, just as the shadow detaches from the body at dusk,
I will navigate in silence among galaxies, an anonymous cartographer of the way with stars and memories,
A mute bard, stripped of the sale of sentiments, severely ill with the euphoria lying in my chest,
A last page, a last verse, woven from longing, of your odyssey, admirably sad, divinely beautiful.
The summer was lush with death,
it turned the hare into a twirling dervish,
the raccoon to a pantomime villain,
forced mice
to sing in the jaws of predators.
The woods are bare now,
trees rattle,
birds clatter twiggy wings,
briar tangles
in the bare throats of scarecrows.
October gourds glow, there serrated grins
reflected within the eyes
of late stalking cats.
Nocturnal winds sweep in,
bone corseted myths
ride upon the cracked racks
of desiccated lambs.
Petticoats hang from gristly limbs
much tattered by thorns.
By December, the skeletal woods
crunch inwards like roofless catacombs.
Reckless children are lost
in a leafless maze of fairytales.
Mothers tag the young
like puppy dogs, vaccinate them
against dismay.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
reent edit
Intricately fragile, embracing her curves,
She silently breathes in this womb,
This womb where she is a prey to its wants,
Its black silken webbing costume,
That clenches her neck, runs down her back,
Is tattooed the length of her leg,
Where every small inch of her dark gothic body,
Is covered in this spider’s thread,
She’s at one with this life of widowed disguise,
Eyeliner, fishnets, boots, and nails,
Each covered in this rich exquisite black web,
Becoming her corseted black jail,
And she wakes up at three, the unlit in the dark,
To play and to stalk and to bite,
To walk in the black crisp air of your town,
Our black widow who walks in the night.
The faintness of flight overwhelms me
boxed in caged, corseted, in a cattle car of the air
pristine bells and whistles cajole the herd
as the breath is cycled and recycled through the
bellows of plasticine and metal
germs jumping from orifice to orifice
knees crushing bosoms braced for the portent
the potential
the promise
of the fall.
Faintness elicits only minor response
from the tenders who un-tenderly steer the crowd
small moans garner memories of the mallet falls..
but fail to unseat the kindness
so needed..sought
watery eyes wave
and the floor seems the only safety
and still the settlers stay settled in their complacency..
neither rising to gift an aged woman with their perch
or commenting as she hits the floor
ah the joys of twenty first century flight
in the belly of Virgin America.
The redwood forest has been caged,
corseted its skirt hemmed
Who would think there'd come an age
when trees where kept enclosed
And so I cry and so it goes.
as we bid good bye to all of those.
Seeing nature is now all the rage
even stars have dimmed
Dominion over nature's stage
has killed many winged.
And so I cry and so it goes.
as we bid good bye to all of those.
Man has devoured fish, fowl and sage
ravenous and blighted
And so in truth we can't assuage
our hunger once cited.
And so I cry and so it goes.
as we bid good bye to all of those.
The sky where ghostly bird do fly
depth where ghost fish swim
The forest where the trees all die
Man's been the death of them.
*Meant to be a song.
RAVENous
Wickedly,
dressed in black satin,
corseted with passerine-ego —
she dares
the dawn to interrupt her feast,
afterall, SHE is the Queen!
beheading of the smallest of things,
the nibble of opportunity.
Vast is she, the moonlit sentinel,
fearsome in flight as her ebony cape
flaps open like the grim reaper — ripe,
as she lurks over the lintel.
He who tenders
money, braving twelve last straw dings
of the towering clock,
caterwauling about a nagging wife,
a no-good son.
No mercy
for the ungrateful,
she abandons berries and grains
for a heartier steal -
an alcoholic’s swansong.
7/7/2019