Long Crimp Poems
Long Crimp Poems. Below are the most popular long Crimp by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Crimp poems by poem length and keyword.
The wind chill is a devilish 15 below today.
You have no feathers nor fat on your bony feet.
They must be cold, holding tight to the railing.
For some reason, you decided to stay behind.
Didn't follow the flock to warmer skies.
Maybe your instincts are not refined enough.
Maybe you're an autistic avian, didn't socially cut it.
Maybe you've been shunned by the blush.
Didn't have the right touch to find a mate.
Didn't put enough wigglers on the plate.
Maybe there's a new crimp or crick in your DNA.
The reason you sit in a bowl of ice today.
Maybe you think I'm a freak with polyester feathers and rubber feet.
At first,
it seemed merely a dream
revealing the magic and wonder of love's stream,
lovers and partners, companions ever on the run
slipping into bars from the friendship overcome;
a blend of hearts twisted and contorted in the fray
when all the lonely hearts begin their game play;
a dating scene of misconstrued encounters passed,
knowing well, this is a love that never lasts,
to curl, crimp and wave, spiraling circles to love entwine,
alas,
it's the last call for lonely hearts submitting to the wine.
"for contest LAST CALL FOR LONELY HEARTS – COLLABORATION sponsored by Line Gauthier".
i love you ...
to the cold marrow, i do
beastess of black
the art of you, ritualistic, raw
all your names wrap me
savage, winged and wondrous …
tempt me, tepid dragon
i dream of the pursuit
wrought in timeless space
wispy, winding the world
biting my tongue with bitter citrus
or dripping with rhythmic, parenthetical
perfection …
dance for me -
break at the score, residue-righteous
engendered non-generically
come, venerated venom
and strike true -
crimp, shine, bubble, breathe
sing my veins ...
hot, horrid harlot of the haggard heart
neuron-nasty and aflame
a receptor conflagration, reborn
divinely devilish …
i - Mad Molly's sullied son -
curse you with all i know
and woo you with my innocence, lost
i nail you to a cross
of considerations and care
only to worship your ruin
the lion's paw to your Androcles, merciful
acid tears to wash your feet
and blood …
to bind.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, February 7, 2021; update November 24, 2023
Red-ribbon apron drawn to her spine.
Tilted red hat in the air.
Black shining hair bundled in back
as Sally stands simple and fair.
Her mouth stout with beauty.
It's light the moon's surface.
Lips scored in finished pride
and grin drawing love to a purpose
Her stance like a doll.
Her shoulders gone limp.
Plush are her arms
and form without crimp.
Her smile soft as canvass.
Her spirit abroad.
Humble to a tee
and loved to a nod.
A skin lit and glowing.
A mask demure.
Her coco brown eyes
guiding and sear.
A face staring humble.
It's secrets inside.
Questioning; thoughtful.
A love to abide.
At Camden Yards in Baltimore,
The Orioles will play,
The White Sox from Chicago
Their opponents for today.
But players will not hear the cheers
Of all their rooting fans.
For ticket holders, refunds wait,
A crimp put in their plans.
‘Cause Baltimore’s in riot mode
And so the call was made
To ban the fans but for the teams,
Their game won’t be delayed.
They’ll bat and run and steal and slide
To silent empty seats,
With no one there to cheer or boo
Or care which team defeats.
This situation’s a surprise
And many just don’t buy it,
But emptiness is better than
A predetermined riot.
Right foot into this little dimple that you can toe in on aggressively so it’s opposing the left hand, then you can, like, zag over across to this flat, down-pulling crimp that’s small but you can bite it.
[From Honnold’s climbing notebook.]
For me, the most transcendental feat –
your smeared soles at Freeblast Slabs,
your shoulder jammed into Offwidth
and cardiac-kick at the Boulder
were: Inspirational; unimaginable.
We sit in theatre chairs white-gripping
our armrests and, too often, eyes closed.
Up on El Cap as much as we’ll e’er be,
We twist our bodies in synchrony.
We’ve seen how immeasurable
the possible; the achievable
of the inconceivable. At last,
an image beyond the past; a hero
of no vanquished enemy,
brawling limitless potentiality.
Following your lead, we reimagine
how we might ascend our vallied lives.
plus Doctor Kaunda also says family names
in tandem should not determine,
who to associate with, any more than nap
pulled lying flat hair, but rather character of hearts,
viz each one of every Zambian availing their lap
necessarily if seat space in short supply.
Speaking at a vision
ambassadors promoting peace
campaign fundraising dinner,
Doctor Kaunda says increase
in toto with discrimination,
suspicion, hatred, betrayal, malice, fleece
sing (the golden calf)
re: greed, selfishness, grease
sing palms, and other
negative behavior release
zing threatening opposition
to zeitgeist, and core values crease
and crimp unity if left unchecked.
He has recalled that during
struggle for independence,
people from various
backgrounds humming and purring
worked hand in glove together,
realizing that they were, spurring
above everything else,
brothers and sisters of
one nation hungry stirring
potential for harmony whirring.
Dr. Kaunda says the “One Zambia One Nation” slogan
coined many decades ago still holds
true and continues starring Hulk Hogan
to unite Zambian’s together as one motley crue
clinging as one to solid state craft toboggan.
He says Zambia remains
a beacon of peace in Africa,
that dare not smother
snapchat, nor shutterfly - oh brother
scuttling important all Zambian citizens
should pay obeisance with mother
land maintaining grew ving
peace and loving one another.
Whither now hunker-shins?
You have a sweet countenance,
a squat grace,
always middle-aged
on the still edge of a speeding sun.
Another swift day has begun
yet here you sit among the traffic
unflinching, a bold
bladder quelling gravity
with low-sprung shanks.
You deep-seated recliner,
standing-pat over upholstered hams.
A lumpy Mona Lisa,
with your come-hither girth
and just a thin membrane
between you and chaos.
Your skin an alien chiaroscuro,
a candle-lit atlas,
and in the cockle and crimp
of your glistening skin
a truculent contrarian gleams
beneath your world-dismissing
Buddha smile.
blind ...
you must be
completely ...
one person, THE person
who loves you more
than any other has or could ...
right in front of you
making a fool of himself
no care for the laughter of those
who find his adoration of you
and all you are
the height of absurdity
their echoes rattle his maudlin marrow
and crimp his hollow heart ...
just a jester
cajoled by the callous
a horrid harlequin ...
dancing a jig of jaded jocularity
stomping on your careless concern
with lost, fallow feet
your soul's barren soil, unseeded
his blood and bone and bile
the cold casualty
of two lips pressed tender in pity ...
the wretched ruin of
a kiss.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Strand Completely New (4) Any Theme, Any Form" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
The lacquer, the tease, the crimp, of the hair
as we go out in style, mesh tops with flair
the motley choices of fashion pronounced
by the neon signs on our t-shirts no doubt.
Bobby socks and crop tops, spangled and bright,
all bangles and pearls to represent a Mardi Gras night.
The girls they did flock to the taverns in pairs,
to listen to the synthesised tunes that filled the air.
The boys, tight jeaned, and permed like a rock stars,
would enter in packs as though they were the masters,
sauntering through the ladies of lace,
one gloved with the charisma, yet held no grace.
The eighties were deemed a time out of place,
where anything goes, a retro space.
Defined by the music, the look now seems displaced,
yet there was fun and freedom when the eighties took place.
25/10/2018