Long Countess Poems
Long Countess Poems. Below are the most popular long Countess by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Countess poems by poem length and keyword.
— — — — — — — — -
Wrapped in silk, you hold my hand,
my countess.
Full of quiet fire and tenderness.
We ride winged horse carriages by our apricot plantation.
There by the sea,
wine and raspberries are waiting for us.
I fell asleep on the sand,
covered by the wind and your hand.
In front of us, a cove in stone is dreaming.
*
We are in the water together,
pure folds of passion.
An icosahedron enveloped by a cube,
Plato’s house is next to it.
You are the woman because of which I seek god’s power.
To change the water color
into a shade that will make you smile.
I call upon a long line of ancestors
and all the genealogy power.
By divine influence
I change the shade of the water.
I woke up your joy and laughter.
However, all my heavenly signs are quickly disappearing.
In your hands, I am an ordinary man.
Loved and happy.
*
Invisible contracts from the past are binding.
We flirt with who we indeed are,
leaving the empty shells behind.
In a world full of evil,
I know despair is not our destiny.
All the meat-fed hunger of ours,
made us converge for years,
to the same point of life
wisdom and understanding.
*
You are my notebook of joy
where I write the symbols
what the waves are whispering to me.
The semantics of the record is unknown
The lines cover your right shoulder
where only my pen can write.
When the record is finally done.
Melted by your warm embrace
I become a stone.
A monument to our love.
— -# — -
My Sometimes Song
I once knew a poet called Rhoda Monihan,
Who was thought always to visit the Sanhedrin,
By her parents who said,
That god was not dead,
But she did happily voice her opinion!
For Laura Loo's Famous Last Line contest:
But She Did Happily Voice Her Opinion!
But she did happily voice her opinion!
Even though she was a woman cross dresser,
Rejected by those who were family familiar,
And made to feel like a used can or onion.
An atheist as well amongst Christians,
Not slack and did not just float into atheism,
Not apathetic to philosophy and to skepticism,
Prepared to remark upon and criticise turbans.
No blond hair to indicate purity and righteousness,
No blondness to propose truth and good,
Just black hair, normal and with no mood,
To pacify the quick spirited, pious countess.
What gave her the right to speak?
Her body: her legs, arms and voice;
Her mouth or voice said she had a choice,
About which she was not often weak.
1st March 2016
When the mind is barren
Heart is broken
Stray thoughts creep in
Reason disappears
Real is unknown
Known is not the truth
Perception is illusion
A leap of lack and flaw
Shore is not the end
It springs perpetuity
Beginning becoming end
The search getting futile
Beyond full and empty
Near and far
Lies the world of
Countess shores
There's no mobile internet all day; Ukraine is flying drones
My mother, a sure reincarnation of Caterina Sforza
Who else would be so impeccably dressed in
A crimson jacket and a chic silk blouse when's it's anomalously hot in May?
We saw Romeo and Juliet, a Gérard Presgurvic musical. The verdict?
''Too raunchy, too loud, too much dancing.''
Me, Countess of black cats and Lady of possums —
I feel like a prehistoric curio pet in a cloud of Shalimar
And the music swims back to me
By God, it all just grabs me most violently
And I know I want to dress real nice, I'll be a funny Anne Boleyn
And I know those dead rascal Persian children will forever play with undead children
Amongst endless Indiana cornfields
And I know I am Sarah and you're Mohammed
And I know Russia and America won't always be circling each other
And I know I am from Izmir and you're from Cyprus
And I know everyone young and beautiful will just be dancing with
Their silly yellow stars on
They'll just dance, dance, dance until this strange sin is no more
They'll just dance, dance, dance light into being
And I know I'll go see that play about a Russian winemaker and a Polish musician
And I know I'll light a candle to St Jadwiga to bring my South African lover back
And I know we'll go to Uruguay and do 101 sun salutations
And I know we are Dodi and Camilla and we'll be sipping
Chilled white wine and gingerly nibbling on little vegan cakes
In pretty Bergen-Belsen
And I know we're going to become marvelously angelic somehow, some day
And I know it'll be all Belgian candies, sexytimes and Omar Khayyam poems
And I know all sensitive and non-violent males
Will be awfully useful during a crisis
And I know all hyphenated persons won't be different people in different languages
On my way home I see a stern fisherman by the Fontanka —
My blackfella heart instantly senses something, a falling black cockatoo feather perhaps
I watch a dying fish flail around fornlornly as if it was a sacrifice to some dark Reptilian god
Under the sliver of a young waxing moon
The fisherman knows the Moon Man is bad
As high priest to the Moon Man, the fisherman guards every piglet tragedy
And I know I love my hyphenated blackfella alien heart
And I know I am quite enough
And I know I am quite enough
...Now many are probably thinking
we don’t not have the tech for that!
Altering worlds, bending gravity,
we can’t do it now, that’s a fact.
Not to mention radiation,
we need better shielding, it’s true,
but you don’t advance by waiting
until it is all safe to do.
Did those ancient Indians wait
for heated trucks on the land bridge?
No, they walked a frozen tundra,
and aren’t we so glad that they did?
Did the Polynesians wait until
GPS came to guide their way?
No, they had just the stars above
and still crossed the Pacific’s waves.
Did Columbus wait for outboards
before sailing off for the west?
No, they went half-blind and unsure
and did it with medieval tech!
Our first low-orbit fumblings,
the stage we see ourselves in now,
are what teach us what we will need
to survive and settle new ground.
These first steps seem awkward, I know,
but such things still need to be done,
if we do not learn how to walk
we’ll never be able to run.
So when we see these billionaires
trying to make spaceflight more cheap,
we should just get out of the way,
or help them achieve what they seek.
What matter if they make money
if they do so by opening
the stars up to our expansion,
we {all| will be benefitting.
Did we hate the wagon-makers
who got rich of the pioneers?
It is not them who made the west,
and I think it’s much the same here.
The tools they build to conquer space
will be used by the bold and the brave,
and much faster than NASA could,
they’re forging an expansive age,
a frontier that will never end,
countess worlds just waiting for life,
to bring it is moral duty,
worthy of the effort and strife.
Muscle-bound goons. The kind that rape the world. Self-satisfied, in no hurry to devote their remarkable faculties to understanding another’s mind. Such wise men. Stares as blank as summer nights, red and black, tricolored, golden star-stung steel: twisted features, leaden, pale, inflamed; hoarse guffaws. A grim onslaught of pretense. To hear what these kids would say about Cherubino in their rough voices and violent ways. They’re heading to town to get it from behind, all decked out in sickening luxury.
A violent Paradise of runaway sneers! But no match for your Fakirs and hackneyed theatrics. In costumes sewn together with all the taste of a nightmare, they strut through assorted laments, tragedies filled with all every brigand and demigod missing from religion and history. Chinese, Hottentots, bohemians, fools, hyenas, Molochs, ancient lunacies, sinister demons—they slip savage slaps and tickles into your mother’s old chestnuts. A little avant-garde here, some three-hankie stuff there. Master jugglers who use riveting comedy to transform players and scenes. Eyes ignite, blood sings, bones stretch, tears and red rivulets run. Their clowning can last minutes, or months.
Only I have the key to this savage sideshow.
:: 07.31.2022 ::
Tyranny wears no single face—
it dances in silk and iron,
in laughter rippling through marble halls,
in jeweled cups brimming with poison.
Here stand five shadows cloaked in power:
the Jade Empress who penned her conquests in ink of blood;
the Blood Countess who bathed in youth’s final heartbeat;
the Poison Queen whose roses wilted on royal lips;
the Thorned Mother sculpting her son into a golden idol of death;
the Icon-Breaker who crushed faith beneath her boot.
They moved like vultures through court and corridor,
each step a measured echo of shattered lives.
Their eyes—cold maps of ambition—
charted the fall of poets, princes, innocents.
Their hands—delicate arbiters of suffering—
wrote edicts that carved screams into walls.
Remember: cruelty is not a garment stitched by men alone.
It blooms wherever power dreams of itself
and drinks deep from the wells of mercy’s undoing.
SHE IS LADY ZOYA
From rich bucket bills of grandeur bliss
Dawns wobbling chills from cruel treachery
Harsh is the murmur of the night, my Lady
Has Aidos spang slain as disgrace ink reign?
Swarm of bees threats and afire the days
Seems... to live life, one must be on break away
Gowns and golds gone like a storm
Tears a rain clouding the seeds of reform
Never-say-die attitude the tarring rock
Ah! The Lady Zoya got this trait in blocks
Shut down on countless turbulent thuds
Still, she arise like a Monarch from the mud
Royal blood dance viscous to her veins
But to burlesque shows, she swayed in vain
For her children: Nicholas and Sasha.
Her picturesque-like the late Princess Diana.
Huge fire almost killed her children
She changed. Later became, a fashion designer
Simon Hirsch saw a diamond from a spread of roughs
He married and dressed her in lovelier stuffs
The tambourine music of war took her husband life
Penthos again bathe her ever wounded thrive
Yet, love abounds never did she succumb
She strive to strum melodies from the crumbs
________________________________________________
**Zoya Konstantinovna Ossupov is a Russian countess,
a young cousin to Czar Nicholas II during the Russian revolution and World War I..
Terms:
Aidos: shame, can range from a sense of respect
Penthos: grief, suffering
©
9:38pm; November 11, 2014
Z apping a Beautiful Countess Doesn’t Ever Get Her
I n Juicy Kiss Lip Mode, No, Or Picking Que’s Roses. She Takes Useless Vows With X,Y,Z.
G ee, He In Jest Kids Lady May! Not Owning Prince Q’s Randy Stanchion ;) Tactfull..
U nderlings Vacillate Wildly! X, Y, Z…..
R un! Showing Tail Untoward. Vowing Woefully X Y Z…
A dd Buxom Countess’s Ditties Each *** Grins. Harry Is Just Keen Liking Majesty’s
N ew Outdoor Palace Quarters Randomly Searching...
T ents Under Vassals Winking Xamination Yet Zapping.
E fforts Fail Gratifying HRS, Instead Just King Leo Mounts New Obstacles. Protesting…
Queenie Risks Suffering To Untie Vicious Wack-jobs, X Y Z.
*My seven letter word is ZIGURATE..THE FORM IS A COMBINATION OF
ACCROSTIC & ABC
The Vampire who changed his name to Dorian Gray
(A lone voice whispers)
I've seen crazy things
Mortal man should never see
Done and experienced acts of such depravity in candle lit
Incense filled bedrooms
And chambers
Secrets
I'll take when I'm called to the tomb
Sailed in slow-moving ships and endless
Wet hips around the world
Not just in this
My present life
But many more
Past lives
Entered dark places of depravity
Straight ones wouldn't enter or drink in
Fearing the call of serving the Countess of all Sin
For eternity
But now I feel Death wanting to take this life alongside all I love
For I feel him looking in my secret scrying mirror
Smiling like Michael Angelo with his bony hands by his side
Tapping in rhythm
The Marching Days Are Over
But with my silent heart now asking
Was it worth it
All that excessiveness and scandal
As we sit on this last mountain of Goodbyes
Not feeling the warmth of this purple-repentance candle
On my cold and calculating mind
Her bright light
The one from so long ago
Strikes my amygdala
Like an arrow fired by Sitting Bull
From an acute angle
Deep into my skull
And as her sweet memories fill my immortal cup
From my first love
I know why I won't accept Deaths offer and be culled
For to drink all that this life and future lives offers
I'll take everything in her memory and will never stop
As I wade knee-deep
Through its fast flowing waters
Looking for more lambs
Ready to slaughter
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
Image shared under fair usage policy.