Long Cowl Poems
Long Cowl Poems. Below are the most popular long Cowl by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cowl poems by poem length and keyword.
*Reserata Carcerem LXI*
Yore lived a sage b' bounty brook pining;
dainty daffodils, his keen kins.
Oft would tumbling tide whisper 'ts tune
'n' sewn sage bewitched, ajar would croon.
ñ longer was h' humane - beards' blitzkrieg.
Crushed cowl tantamount t' gaunt grime's spree.
Rustic ravens 'nly pricked his gay,
'n' t' nocturnal nature was he slave.
ñ a nosy noon perchanced a deed -
that which wanky winds' wings oft gleam;
A pious nymph tottered t' his eyry;
banished was sh' b' quaking queen 'neath th' rill.
Ergo, sage's life plied new nook;
h' b' love travelled with nymph - jilted brook.
'20:07:30:15:43
Note:
a) Of sewn sage.
b) Written apace Middle English lexis:
i) Yore - long ago
ii) oft - often
iii) ajar - out of harmony
iv) cowl - Monk's hood
v) Perchanced - happened
vi) Eyry - abode
vii) gleam (obsolete) - to disgorge filth.
c) The following are used with no syllabic consequences:
i) b' - by
ii) 'n' - and
iii) ñ - no
iv) t' - to
v) 'nly - only
vi) 'neath - beneath
vii) th' - the
viii) h' - he
Often, after a day of walking
in and out of my mind,
I will put on a nightcap,
it's not a substantial cap like a bobble hat
it's more a cowl, a hood, a cloud-basket.
Beneath this dark covering
thoughts lay down to rest
in early graves.
Beyond a high hedge of time
astral lights flicker.
An inner sky gleams a starry gloaming,
I grope for a rope to climb
ascend - become - appear.
Now I can travel like a spy balloon
floating remotely guided into other sleeping heads.
Now a secret I have never told myself:
A few nights only,
I enter another person’s dreaming thoughts
startling eyes that are not mine.
I can visit a strangers life,
share a nightmare
or catch a distant memory
rehearsing its pain or joy once more.
It is a trick of immortality
to be this short-lived.
This free-wheeling and head-loose.
Come the bald-faced light
the night cap spins away like a thrown frisbee,
it is only then
that I don't believe a word of myself.
My last poem will be a humdinger, will include
a hummingbird in a ruby throated cowl
sipping satisfyingly in Caren’s Krutsinger’s
faerie garden - we’ll be sipping tea or something
stronger. Our muses are quite old by then,
and surely friends. One’s feigning on a daffodil.
The other’s wrinkling her teeny eyes - a scowl.
Instead of Chris Green’s good morning verse,
mine will say farewell to friends. I don’t think
I could cut it short as a monoku but if I’m going
fast I might need to be brief. Perhaps I’d be
silent, as a lightning bug on a Summer’s day —
I’d have to have my mouth
wired shut, my hands in casts (they’d talk too)
I might say, “toodle-loo,” or “ta-ta,” if not too trite.
I’d turn out the stars and the moon, say, “good night.”
7/19/2020
If this was my last poetry contest poem Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Silent One
Borassus Flallifer
dog leg
cowl
cladding
fascia
gullwing door
kammback
visual design
industrail design
Innovative concepts
Innovative concepts
pimplex
batmans crease
boot
bezel
binnacle
bonnet
he sketched these designs
and modeled from clay the forms
with leather and chrome and
beautiful wood
he made magnificence art
and was happy and satisfied
my love for this
a passionate need
speak it perfect: say it's yours
buy these perfections!
In my youth's frolic at King Lear and Pi
all my days were a Shakespearean tale.
Not algebra, not prose did edify
yet test and limits we pass lest we fail.
To learn and open closed minds to ideas
but I learnt before a fall comes a pride
with a conspiracy one alone bears
yet co-conspirators had much to hide.
For each lame alibi concealed misdeed,
each mad ruse and jape blotted my ledger
but we all do a true life lesson heed
when worn is a cowl or crown to measure.
Comic is the court and jester in school
but better a wise king than a wise fool.
Written: May 1992
please lemme know and honestly profess
if profusion of words create a lingual Loch Ness
(when hens canst come home to roost
especially, encountering
the following conglomeration
in matthew scott harris patois).
He readily admits writing inventive
attempts usually ten tubby a literary mess,
thus finding innocent cyber cruisers
Angle fishing for Saxony fundamental fluidity
courtesy of Freudian stream of consciousness,
gabbling gibberish, muck not done on purpose
and certainly less
to impress.
Gnome hatter intent toward
cogency, fancy ingenuity,
levity, the inevitable
resultant wrought gobbledygook
fascination for Lingua Franca
feeble endeavor splutters, splinters,
and splatters Asia Yukon guess.
Paramour status analogous with twenty six letters,
sans En gull Lush Mother tongue confluence
finds me submerged (as an Arctic Monkey)
swimmingly enervated
via erotic laced sentiments
perhaps finds bravely daring soul madly
hollering, gesticulating floundering,
(in close proximity to Davey Jones's locker)
to avoid drowning at sea
perchance comprehending passionate influence.
Upon espying a signature poem of mine
forces one pre ponder ring lurking predilection
tib hush anonymous re:
dears (dares) adventuresome mettle
taking him/her to the brainy
(briny) deep brink
Icon fess
this (NON FAKE) pretense, why
aye metaphorically express
(via medium of ordinary Anglophile
alphabetic wanton soup,
or figurative egg drop bub
bling broth (el) doth brew)
pronouns Sibyl affectation
affliction sans plethora,
where each ladle full adrip with
richly flavor Verdana Font lee
and sincerely textured vocabulary.
Pluperfect mortals beings undoubtedly feel
(blindsided, how this hunger stricken author
suffers said sesquipedalian syndrome
particularly expectorating flashy
hoping tum bark on successful literary quest)
hyper aware aspiring paperback writers wannabe
might stoop to conquer, cheat, cadge
vis a vis plagiarize plethora
amidst storied plentiful English droppings.
Rather than succumb pretense feigning paucity
temptation to bask exultantly,
professed glorious unrequited love
announcing required sworn vow,
(el lye ding) avowed consonant covenant.
Form:
A solo pilot, lost in snow,
in a jagged mountain pass.
His eyes are trained upon each tree,
and the shape of each crevasse…
In an open-cockpit time machine,
the winter wind does howl,
but a mighty fire’s burning bright,
inside the engine cowl.
The fog and flurry blinding him,
he searches for a trail,
running late, and miles behind,
he’s employed to fly the mail.
He looks for clues to lead him back,
like ancient, sunken wagon tracks.
A mumbled cuss, then shouts out loud,
he’s heard that mountains hide in clouds…
Now’s the time to pay the toll,
for conversations with his soul.
One way in, and one way out,
it’s true that mountains hide in clouds.
Copyright © 2013
Snapping and cracking and whipping we sail.
Sneaking and creaking and sinking t' hell.
Black flies our banner, black as our souls,
Black as a storm dashing ships on the shoals!
Fear us and flee us, yea, run if ye can.
Or face us and fight us down t' the last man.
Black flies our banner, blacker than coal,
Black as death's cowl, we'll swallow ye whole!
Blasting and bursting and bombing we fire.
Bleeding and weeping and wailing yer dire.
Black flies our banner, and Roger so jolly
Shall be fer yer tombstone, a mark o' yer folly!
Yea, we own the water, the wind and the waves.
These oceans t' ye shall be watery graves.
Black flies our banner, black as our souls,
We are the storm dashing ships on the shoals!
When I was young, I wanted to run away to the circus. Then one day I realized the circus was life! Are we not the clown, the strongman, the freak, the daredevil? Is there not personal sorrow and the desperate search for pleasure? The flying trapeze man and woman are in love, and every performance, they risk the breaking of their heart. When one almost falls to their death, the audience cries out, and then claps even louder! The freak show is hidden in the back, though its location is well known to local politicians. Then to play the games on the midway, with its crooked carnies, rigged set ups, and worldly women. The city is 'the big top', its chaotic gyrations and jaded excitements, all part of the show. The grandstands are filled with 'television head' people, buzzing with excitement. See the eye of the tiger, hear the trumpet of that greatest of beasts, cowl at the jungle kings exclamation! Later that night, a young boy lying in bed, wonders if it was just a dream. Then, far off in the distance, a whispering growl was heard!
I ponder on Death as I grow older,
not with trepidation or phantom fears;
although Death's cowl is often soaked in tears.
I've reviewed the files in my mind's folder,
where ashes of an afterlife smolder:
God has gained more credence over the years.
I've lived my life in shades of black and white:
in death, I expect colors beyond this.
Yet, when Death takes me, there is much I'll miss,
like a sunny day and the moon at night,
sense of touch, smell, and especially sight:
but even more, the love behind a kiss.
Oblivion, Heaven, or damnation:
which fate awaits: anguish or elation?