Long Craned Poems
Long Craned Poems. Below are the most popular long Craned by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Craned poems by poem length and keyword.
Subtitle: Send In The Clowns
Doctor Embroil you are wanted at ER
the nurses teary eyed never did once stir
as a child that lay on a gurney, after a sprint incur
mumbled with delirium
SEND IN THE CLOWNS, SEND IN THE CLOWNS
A four year old boy who called everyone one Sir
lay dying at the center though he spoke with a slur
his hearing was intact, though quiet was his purr
father promised me, ...
SEND IN THE CLOWNS, SEND IN THE CLOWNS
His matted curly hair smelled of African rain
his little hands clutched a moment insane
Dr. Embroil put your red nose on, so he craned
I got you boy, ...
SEND IN THE CLOWNS, SEND IN THE CLOWNS
his mom outside a corridor leaning on her cane
begged for a miracle" God take away his pain"
as a finger full of light touched his apterium,
the boy smiled and said,
DON'T BOTHER, HE'S HERE
A tissue like a white hibiscus like the one in the garden of Demetrios
It fell on my shoulder, as if from the scarlet mist of my unconscious
Emitting a maddeningly possessive aroma
Forced me to look at the spotted cheetah
Seated under a very old yellow forest birch in an appetite ageless
As I craned my neck a little up my eyes came across the pink furnace
His flowing hair resembled an amber cascade in a hill in Darjeeling
His face held the finely drawn painting of Michelangelo, revealing
Hypnotic heat of passion for my deep river
At the bend looked up the restless shiver
The crimson coloured crests rushing toward the inevitable healing
In reckless submission to the cuddling curving crashing and crushing
What happened then is not difficult for you to visualize dear readers
An elegant embroidery of diamond desire from the rainbow breakers
Looked down in delight the birds from the clouds
How in sweet heat dissolved the cultural shroud
In the fountain of eternal flesh and blood the lilacs of Atlantic laughter
Thousands of butterflies under sunlight set sail in flamboyant lustre
October 24, 2017
Two wheeled commuters with heads booted with helmets, dotted the highway;
The four wheeled rich hooted at pedestrians daring to cross their path,
While rental three wheelers heated them all, filling even places like foot path;
Traffic winked red, green, and yellow to jam, trim, and brim the highway.
Like water discharged from flooded reservoir, humanity flowed on the highway,
Down to their destined ends, discharging spray and smoke, littering its path
With fed up lives, held up to the grave; lawmakers floated on the crest of the path.
Only the hapless found themselves fighting for space in the helpless highway.
On this highway, at the peak hour, popped up a human head as if cropped
From the ripe body as a yield to the reapers blooding the streets with sickles;
The highway halted; heads craned above wheeled carriers; questions hurried
Everywhere with worries and wonders; “Hyderabad has a head chopped;
Is it for ‘Biriyani’?” Some quickly tweeted like men of booze oozing for pickles;
Cops looking for the lost head, severed by train, at last sighed, with heads retrieved.
[Cops in Hyderabad, India retrieved a severed head from a railway track, put the torso and head in a sack and took it to hospital for postmortem. But on the way, the head slipped down from the sack and caused a commotion]
A famous alumnus is visiting the university. I got an invitation several days ago to a small, socially distanced, masked, focus group. It was to be early on a Saturday morning - so, why not? I was excited to see her - I’m a fan.
We were a diverse group of about 20 (covid tested before admittance) students and I was in the back row. Seating was offset so everyone could see everything perfectly. I craned and swiveled, when her entourage came into the room. Then, there she was - I’m sure I was grinning ear to ear (behind my mask), we clapped, excitedly. She wore a navy business suit. A jacket over a black blouse with slacks and black shoes.
She gave a talk, about the challenges America faces. On YouTube, her speech-giving voice always seemed artificial, cold, harsh and brittle. Here, she was low-key, motherly, whip smart, personable and humorous - everything I had hoped for.
Then there was a question and answer session (NOT easy questions - did I mention whip smart?) followed by a no touching reception line. And OMG, she’s a foot away. She seemed a lacquered and corrected sort of person - professional - I guess you’d say.
Everyone was gently elbow bumping with her, so I did too. You’d say your name and class. “Anais Vionet, freshman,” I said. I wanted to say “I’m a BIG fan” but I thought I might come off as either fawning or even worse someone bent on wasting her time.
We both smiled, me behind my mask and I bobbed a goodbye nod, but as I went to step away she said, “How’s your Grandmother?” I was shocked but I managed to say, “She’s fine, thank you.” To which she replied, “Please tell her I said hello.” I just nodded, “yes” as a sort of “I will,” and stepped away.
I glanced around, there was no handler by her side and she wasn’t wearing an earpiece - how she knew me I have no idea - but now I think she’s considering a run in 2024. My grandmère would be a whale of a donor.
What a bizarre encounter.
In remembrance of 9/11/2001
A skyline, once two-headed,
a postcard promise.
I saved it,
that future view,
my feet on the ground,
neck craned back,
in the shadow of steel giants.
They took the dream first.
Not just the view,
not just the towers,
but the postcard, torn.
The future became a past I never lived.
I saw them fall,
and a part of me fell with them.
My anger, a hot fire,
against the smoke,
the dust that buried my dream.
The broke the glass of the window I was looking through,
shattered the symbol,
Left an empty space.
But the broken glass became a mirror.
And in it, I saw us,
not broken, but reflecting.
A million faces,
not shattered, but hardened.
Holding each other up,
in the place where the towers used to be.
The dream changed,
it became something new.
A different kind of strength,
forged in the space where the twin towers stood,
built not of steel, but of spirit.
We were not broken,
we were made stronger.
The fab four...not Scouse superstar serenaders..
Stellar constellations of cricketing fascinations...
Connoisseur christened, humdinger harbingers..
Listen…whispers of willow wizardry whistle…glisten..
Skipper sorcery glow…celestial cerebral Martin Crowe..
Appetites whet..forget the quartet..for the fab four is no more..
Game's pantomime dame, Kohli...encores harangued..
Creeping crepuscular flaws…Virat’s ersatz career nadir scores..
Smith's sisyphean shuffles..flummoxed fossicking for form..
In mists of time..muffled murmurs of his prime...
Two remain....caressed nurdle nirvanas...nudges finessed...Kane..
Benjamin Button…old school whiffs…lyrical lever lullabies..
Rooted rhapsody riffs..gourmand & glutton..
Wallowing in echoes..aesthetic embers of the past...
Trained elbow craned....poetic flighty feet…
Silkily souffle sashays scream balletic....
Swishes so late, almost tardy...halcyon garlanded greats..
Third man tickles...soft hands court..behind cover cavort..
Wooing nooks...seducing crannies..scoreboard cooing..
Relished textbook looks..cherished record books..embellished..
Joe shuns Icarus...strums eclipsing Sachin's sun..
Kane’s hushed kudos..won’t boast..hums humility…..
Genius garnishing..legends..legacies..
So time “gentlemen” please..
Lachrymose Last Post toast.
Final round for Kane..Joe & Martin Crowe..
Late great host…ruminating perched proud..
Hankering..hollering with the crowd..
Illuminating a long white cloud..
It was a night so dark, so damp; the fog swirled thick about the lamp,
a night not fit for man or beast, a night on which tender hearts ceased
to care about mankind's suffering, so nasty was the storm buffeting
the tiny humble New England town, its weathered cape cods all battened down.
When of a sudden a cry rang out, piercing the fog with a shriek and a shout:
Did it herald the dawn of a better day? --Or just proclaim, "Man's lost his way."
Shutters opened, blinds upward flew; Denizens craned their necks for a ring-
side view.
Where was the man who'd issued the cry? Was it a sign of life, or would they
all die?
Just then a riderless horse galloped down, streaking its way through the town,
tossing its mane right then left; of its mystery rider long sine bereft:
Whence the cry had come, no one could tell; when an unearthly voice, straight from Hell
split the night with a ghastly shriek; shutters slammed tight--no one dared
peek,
As the horse veered away, frightened itself, by the Devil's advance along with
his elfs,
Crescendoes of wailing blackened the night--of a poor humble town in a fight for its life.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the following poem was written as part of an online poetry class; responding to the image above
We tuned the dish to static,
listening for God’s cough~
a blip, a hiccup in the cosmic hum.
The night shift drank coffee
thick as engine grease,
the kind that left your tongue
tattooed with bitterness.
We waited…
and still, the stars
bled silence.
You said, Maybe we're dialing
the wrong frequency.
I said, Maybe God’s just shy.
Then the power died.
The dish froze mid-sweep,
like a man catching
his own ghost in the mirror.
We stood there, necks craned,
waiting…hoping…
for the dark to whisper
its secrets to us.
suddenly in a gap between talking, he was taken over
by a new page, turned mid flow, as he clutched his chest,
creases betraying a defeated face as a thousand thoughts
bottle-necked the wasp-waste of an end, the hourglass
about to crash to the floor, his hourglass, his time, his eyes
and through the mist and haze, he had never felt so alone,
clamminess whitewashed his pain as the seat shuddered
beneath him, his eyes overwhelmed with fear, dewing
wetter with each fading beat, my heart thy final judge,
only tomorrow would know whether he was going
to start his life sentence for murder as the courtroom
looked on before an ushered and craned departure
Was the article illusive
In transparent approach
The suitor in study
As students with rome?
Cause and able, yet
There she isn't
Ive died in your dear wifes eyes
tell me i never loved her
hurt after the dancings done
ive died in your dear wifes eyes
and theyve been taken away
tell me i never loved an angel
hurt after the dancings done
thugger enter the idiom
corner unpainted, love irish
b, low, c nuttin
craned, exam, deliver the news
leave all these younga brohtas bent
kneckin on a fence
weezers
the boy's in t.o. puttin on advisors
saw you a step out
ob gy n you thoughts
why you catchin trash
yo mama radio no latch
free rides for too strong
mama and daddy silly idols
al dented the news racks
elbows up