Long Cranny Poems
Long Cranny Poems. Below are the most popular long Cranny by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cranny poems by poem length and keyword.
storm
howls
in nether regions
licking the dust off the earth
like powdered sugar
shaking
and rattling loose
all that's not tightly bound
driving and pounding
it spanks smooth beaches
wave after wave
lashes and crashes
against drenched shores
tide swollen
beyond its limits
challenging places it's
never been
like the wind
in every nook and cranny
groans
tosses
jostles
exposes
releases
its pent up
energy
in raging blasts
making you die
so many little
deaths
then rocking you
its baby
to sweet never never land
where you dance with
enchanted flora and fana
until sparrows crying
and fresh morning shining
awaken you lying
in the strong tender arms
of your gentle snoring
monster
In a world where a deep ‘voice’ over’
trailers future disasters
the top brass of a uni-party
(together with its
current four-star chorus),
gather to pump up the fear machines.
The machines are shiny,
and titanium clad.
Budget cuts
have left them empty of any
discernable function
except the line of the day.
The ‘line of the day’, today
is the same as yesterday
it is:
‘Obey and eat your soup.’
A Mickey Mouse blimp
sails over the embattled roof
of the Whitehouse
waving behind it
its glorious unquestioning symbol
of freedom.
Freedom costs less nowadays
for no one goes to the theater.
At home they make-up
their own horror movies;
future shocks confirming
hosts of endlessly bad scenarios.
The silent and compliant
pace back and forth
in their virtual lock-ups
where every cranny and nook
has its own tiny camera
that records every tick
or shudder of dissent.
In the realm where the winds do whisper, and secrets softly tread,
The air is filled with tales untold, and dreams, delicately spread.
Gently it caresses the emerald leaves, sharing tales of afar,
Narrating stories of distant lands, under the same luminous star.
It twirls through the desert’s scorching expanse, lifting grains of timeless sand,
Sharing echoes of ancient times, from a distant, arid land.
Crossing over majestic mountains, where peaks kiss the heavenly blue,
The wind carries the solemn silence, of vistas vast and true.
It glides over the ocean’s endless dance, where waves eternally meet the shore,
Whispering tales of distant realms, and ships that sail no more.
Through the verdant forest, where life buzzes in hidden nooks,
The wind tells stories of the earth, in every cranny and brook.
Sweeping through the city’s hustle, amidst the chaos of human art,
The wind gathers every joy and sorrow, from every beating heart.
It meanders through the fields of flowers, where colors wildly blend,
Sharing fragrances of blossoms, in a perfumed, heady send.
Every whisper of the wandering wind, is a messenger, undefined,
A bearer of the world’s chronicles, and emotions, unconfined.
If we listen with hearts wide open, to the gentle, roaming zephyr,
We might hear the world’s heartbeat, and find our souls, tethered.
Through every gust and gentle breeze, may our spirits freely roam,
Connecting with the world’s whispering winds, in the spaces that they comb.
And in the quiet, may we hear the subtle, intimate threads,
That weave us into this tapestry, where the wandering whisper treads.
A speck of dust, a gritty granule, a mote of dirt,
A flake, a particle, a granule, a tiny remnant of what used to be.
A hotchpotch rabble assortment littering every nook and cranny,
Everywhere is dusty, dowdy, and dusky dusted.
Dust floats, flies on the wind, scatters about, makes a mess.
Always there needing to be swept up, brushed aside and cleaned away.
All matter is rendered asunder to dust in destiny's fate.
Each skerrick of dust a tiny full stop,
At the end to its saga of life and decay.
Stop a while and peer at your dust
Before you throw it away.
To wonder and marvel at such a diverse array of remnants
Of entropy personified in such disorder.
And to wonder where each speck, mote and morsel of dust came from.
FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED WALL
I tower above the crumbling ruins
Of a once majestic tower,
Flag and pennant proudly proclaimed
Pompous claim of pelf and power.
Yet all the boast and bombast,
In crumbling silence relates,
Of transient tenebrous things,
Of fickle times, of fickler fates!
Filigreed fronds in gentle sway,
Butterfly-hued my petals smile,
Delicate poise, yet firmly gripped
By roots who’ve been awhile.
So here I sit so up on high
Exuding sweet allure,
Biding time in changing climes
To wilt and die for sure.
But then, again, I’ll never die!
My seed will traverse to distant land
In nurturing avian gut to drop
In crag or cranny - to make its stand.
(And phoenix-like I'll rise again!)
Some days I am twelve or thirteen
Other days I am eight or nineteen
Age is nothing at all, which I have now seen
Glad to be an artist and poetry queen
I have no advice for you, for I do not live your way
Except to enjoy every nook and cranny of every day
Be yourself, and never be afraid to play
Dancing is great, if your ankles will sway
I say to my youngers, do everything you want to do now
I have trouble walking in pastures, out to my cow
take the trips, and eat that sweet, fattening chow
do things that amaze others, make them say “wow!”
Seventy is the new fifty, is what I heard last week.
Fifty was never the age that I planned to seek.
Do what you want, never be too mild or meek
Seventy likes to sit with bare feet in the creek.
Some days you will feel like twelve or twenty-two.
This is quite normal; I know. I am seventy-two.
Do whatever you need for your soul to do.
to be the best you; to be the best YOU.
Gazing out my window pane,
so much comes into view.
Is my sight a reality,
I really have no clue.
Raindrops dew on leaves,
flowers humming with bees,
a cardinal perched on the sill above,
and higher yet flies a dove.
Sun breaks overhead,
beams of light
bounce off this garden scene
vanishing into the shadows in between.
All creatures big and small
nestle into their nook or cranny,
safe and warm like a glowing hearth,
a place I should really fancy.
But now it's time to close these shutters,
throw down the sash, no words to utter.
I will go to bed and get some rest,
not to come back here, I think it best
I have mirrored the whole of my life
On this mercurial surface
I have painted myself on this glossy canvas
My pen has bled words in red
You can look straight into me
As you see my reflection on a mirror
I have sketched me as I am
Honest and truthful,
Sans distortion or contortion
I don’t want to be a sham
Here have I laid bare my life
Fraught with aches, dotted with smiles
My longings and my heart aches
My expectations, my disappointments
My triumphs, my defeats
My search through every nook n’ cranny for success
My plunge into the nadir of despair on defeat
My moments of escalating joy
My dark hours of crippling distress
Everything I wanted to be
Everything I failed to be
Please have a peek into my porous heart
Assess this candid chronicle of my life
And tell me if my soul is black or white
Sometimes I feel I am a life boat without oars
Floating aimless hither and tither
But I see light houses of joy in between
To pilot my way over shoals and breakers!
May. 5.2022
Placed Third
In the Mirror of Life Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Earth:
Take off from the mass
Grounding oneself means standing
Barefoot on the grass
Water:
Fills every cranny
Obscure holes are discovered
Circulates freely
Air:
Time to rise to heights
Flight welcomes the curious
Breathe in wise insights
Fire:
Light shining above
Beckoning all Cosmic kin
Through beams they all love
Spirit:
A dream sparks on Mars
Spirits beam us way up there
To converse with Stars
Dream:
Dreams give hope to all.
Why not fly upward in Space?
Bright elementals!
Goal:
I'm flying to Mars.
I am on Mars in spirit.
Will be there on foot!
I still remember that old barn so red; a center point of my youth;
Pickle barrels in the cellar; cows on the ground floor and hay stored in the loft.
I rode the John Deere a thousand times in and out of her wide, always opened doors;
Plowing fields near and far, but with her redness never out of my distant sight.
She housed the cows we milked and the tools we used throughout the long, hard day;
And, she was our playground on those summer days when chores were done by noon.
I remember her beautiful, natural smell that our city cousins abhorred;
And, I knew every nook and cranny that I could hide in to get away from their whines.
We would swing on the rope out of the loft, landing on piles of freshly cut hay;
And, just lay quietly in the night with a cool summer breeze passing through her doors.
It was in this red haven that I birthed my first calf and learned how to set a broken leg;
And, it was high in the loft with my high school sweetheart that I first became a man.
The farm that housed that wondrous red barn is now a mall parking lot;
But, the memories of lessons learned within are forever blazoned upon my mind.