Long Criss Poems
Long Criss Poems. Below are the most popular long Criss by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Criss poems by poem length and keyword.
. Hello Stranger
. stolen glances
. eyes meet
. smiles returned
. stories shared
. laugh freely
. curious wonder
. common passions
. finish sentences
. seek company
. growing together
. trust mutual
. always there
. we're together
. FRIENDS
. often apart
. missed calls
. ring voicemail
. replies delayed
. forgotten birthdays
. silences misheard
. familiar assumed
. doubt grows
. changes resented
. drifting apart
. pathways diverge
. awkward silences
. different values
Thanks Goodbye
If I had a pretentious brain
which acts faster than my heart
Maybe then,I would abhore this soul
which spreads freely through each verse
Maybe then I would impress you
with my intellectual grammar
and sophisticated words
I would scrutunize
each and every coma
dot and exclamationmark
believing I know best
But I would never let that happen
I'd rather stay at bay
Writing firstly with my mind
and not my heart
leads only to an asylium
within the being of myself
Poetry is my voice,my shadow
The sacred shrine of great escape
Each stored emotion processed
within a yesterday
Poetry is the inner of my existence
breathing softly,bleeding deeply
exploding in death,love
passion and romance
In every verse a whisper
a thought that I would scribe of
a silent cry expressed
Maybe in a tomorrow
you might pass by me
Tread your footstep on my ink
and spit saliva in my face
But maybe in a today
a broken -hearted fool stops by
to find comfort in my world
Maybe a prisoner,a tramp
an insane soul or outcast
would pick these scattered scribbles
and gather them as whole
Maybe through each criss-crossed puzzle
finds a narrow passage
which leads his faith to home
Maybe a little child
whose blissful giggles
depends on little words
would turn the dusty pages
of silly rhymes I penned
Rhymes which know the moons
stars,faries,and the magic land
Rhymes which know each fantasy
and how to be a friend
And maybe He would smile
Maybe He would laugh
Maybe He would dream
Maybe He would grow up to write
the most eloquent sonnet
there has ever been
Or maybe He would grow up
to write simple words
just like me
about daises or dandelions
and expressions to be free
Do you feel the chaotic concerto?
The cloaked and clandestine composer
Plucking at the ivory keys, exactly eighty eight
With even more ways to tangle those
Countless red strings of taut linear fate.
To be a being, we first must begin
To begin, we must be born, then torn
From the lively, slick, loud, and slimy link
Of mother’s umbilical cord, now
Cut.
Cartwheel your baby body from the delivery room
To sitting criss cross applesauce atop a cedar stool
It’s snack time at age four,
Celery sticks, peanut butter, milk in a plastic cup
Chug whatever lies before your youthful eyes-
Slam the glass down, now look at you, twenty two
Disillusioned with the notes you hear, but cannot play
Plucking the strings, now we all sing to the song
Of a puppet on a string dancing, dancing
To the melody that is tied to us as we trudge along.
“And now here we are at eighty eight,
Did you think you would make it to the retirement home?
The fuzzy television screens, the dementia, the barely palatable
Food that nearly slides itself off your plate, look at you
Still slimy, still newly born.
Let me cut your cord
You made it, this is your reward.
Is this all that you have hoped for?
Well it better be, for this is the sound
Of your string’s final, echoing chord”
Snap.
Break your celery stick betwixt
The anger you feel, your fear,
And the peanut buttery memories
That stick to the roof of your mouth,
The ones you hold so dear
Try mumbo jumbo chicken gumbo soup saith dumbo
Yours truly an unfortunate hostage
within *****sapien zoo
presenting poetic hodge podge
and mish mash to you
looking for unwitting subject(s) to woo,
and albeit impossible mission) to free me,
where within human bondage I stew
more specifically mine personally
custom designed invisible
prison self made,
thus wishing to don persona
of such an éminence grise
as Jawaharlal Nehru,
and trumpet courteous helloo
before bidding kith and kin
and fellow humans permanent adieu.
When free and clear out of the blue
methinks I hear a voice
calling me matt chew
which intones do
please try a healthy dose - Mister Fitzhugh,
a Louisiana creole speciality touted
as psychological cureall within Hangzhou
capital of Zhejiang
sheng (province), China
where amidst bustling
businesses as usual
happens to live animated cartoon
caricature, whose modesty peddling
holistic and homeopathic
(interestingly enough) Asian Jew,
who many neighboring residents
thought semitic rapscallion
long in the tooth occupant loo
duck criss cause he exhibited inhibition,
essentially said reprobate a coward,
who didst udder moo
if you dear reader can bull leave,
hence nonestablishmentarian fella
in their (others) netview
hashtagged snake oil salesman
buzzfeeding gullible poo
courtesy legendary secret formula
comprising his mumbo jumbo
chicken gumbo soup,
our mutual friend Dumbo
doth heartily broker
entrancing kickstaring rendezvous
panacea as genuinely true
but aforenamed solitary wordsmith
also incorporates voodoo
to scare away mailer daemons
all the way to Xanadu
located (courtesy Google)
in the modern-day Zhenglan Banner
in inner Mongolia on southeastern edge
of the Mongolian plateau
The city founded as first capital
of Kublai Khan, the leader
of Mongol Borjigin clan
who founded Yuan dynasty that ruled
most of modern-day China,
Korea, and its surrounding areas.
Halfway along a train of thought
a single passenger, just you,
as nimble as a soft-pawed cat,
stepped out onto a deserted platform.
Out of my heart,
a great rocket of desire raced away
into a half-dressed sky.
It may have been your floppy hat.
and your pink shoes that caught my attention,
yet it was you, your appearance
between the hat and shoes
that caused my mind to gasp
like a swimmer coming up for air.
I think we were both surprised,
both caught off guard like that,
both bemused and aroused
in the same timeless vision.
We had only moments to smile and wave
before a flash of gunpowder blooms
derailed us both,
but it was so worth it.
She sang with love
She flew with glee...
A bounce in her wings from tree to tree.
He stood there and watched her in awe,
A creature so beautiful and so free!
The shiny colorful wings so bright,
watching her glide in the air brought him sheer delight.
Growing fond of him every day,
Perched on his shoulder,
to his house she happily went away.
Now the criss cross gold grills her sky...
He got the best of things for her he could buy.
And with her enthralling songs she sang him to sleep
But when the night fell she couldn't help but weep.
He showed her off to his friends and kin,
The colorful little bird who sings for him.
Looking at her in awe they wondered how,
A creature of the sky is acting in accordance to his whim...
"Doesn't she long for the sky?
To stretch her wings and fly away?"
So, on a mournful summer day her feathers were trimmed to her dismay!
Days sped past and nights went by,
The lonely creature pined for an open sky.
Her feathers lost their sheen and voice grew shrill,
She loved him yet
But lived with him not at will.
When she had had her wings,
for her freedom she never even tried her wings to flap,
for his love was nothing but a trap.
And now when she longs to escape from his hut;
She can't do much as her wings have been cut!
Summers turn into autumn as the clock ticks by,
He stands by her cage letting out a remorseful sigh.
All she really loved was to sing and fly;
But he has cut her feathers and left her to die!
(a salvation for my then junior high school youngest daughter afflicted with cognitive dissonance, who over the intervening years (mor'n half dozen Earth orbitz ago), I dashed off this poem witnessed nothing short of miraculous transformation evinced and witnessed by profound learning displaying significant aptitude cognition).
twas spawned fondness
for above named young lady,
when she got assigned
to thine offspring
a glint of genuine virtue grew
into shimmering orb
of brilliant radiance
if accorded sound - would ring
the tune of countless angels,
which imagined beatific,
Democratic, fantastic...sounds
generated via many wing
heavenly music filling
cosmos with joy as august aural,
choral, epochal...tones
would zippily zing
from across universe
spurring one me silly mortal
to contrive this verse
attempting to capture her
aura, charisma, enigma...purse
sue wing dynamic link
with progeny did nurse
emotional and spiritual value
dedication she did immerse
latent social services skill
plus natural radiance
a blessed hire
at Central in Norristown, Pennsylvania,
whose visits i miss lyre
plucking voice
stilled concern for precious Shana Punim,
who aspires to challenge and grow
this father may spill tears
his lessoned fatherhood role
n'er did aye tire
and glad fate that though our paths
will probably not criss cross
curiosity will gnaw within noggin,
and possibly rub raw minor loss
viz, the persevering
maiden USA touch of Kim
lichened to moss
in her rooted cultivation of care
toward biological lass a lucky toss
of the genetic combination
from Matthew
and Abby Harris our jewel
shimmering facets of luminescence
reminding me human
gem stone a kool
aid - priceless staff member
of human league,
whose golden presence doth gently rule
without doubt a beloved
unbridled priceless counterpart
some lucky guy
pledging his troth yes – she yule
see stars in her eyes
no doubt disappointment
felt by other guys
envious of he,
who snagged Kimberly Hartzell
so worthy and wise!
I’ve always had the sneaking suspicion I’d never grow old.
I mean, when I was younger, I scribbled plans in a notebook.
Drew clumsy castles with blue marker and proclaimed loudly
that I’d own one one day.
But when you’re a kid, “old”’s just around your twenties,
miles away from that wooden gym floor and your friends
sitting criss-cross applesauce next to you.
Now I’ve got my license
- probably a prerequisite for castle ownership -
and I’ve driven those miles to that point
just to find it’s a cliff edge.
Every version of me - 8, 12, 16 -
echoes in the sigh of relief I breathe
when I see the drop-off ahead.
I used to be so scared of heights,
thoughts of rock-climbing would send my hands tingling
and my knees to weakening.
But this yawning chasm greets me like an old friend.
I've been here time and time again,
if only in imagination.
The wind blows softly at my back,
and if I close my eyes and follow its whims,
maybe my movements won’t be entirely my own.
Maybe I’ll have reason to fall.
The momentum conservation principle states that when objects interact,
the object pushed gains momentum from that with which it collides.
Sure, the wind’s not solid,
but maybe they’ll overlook that fact.
I’m sure doing my best.
Threads
By Michelle Morris
07/10/2023
Threads of time
Weaving together
Past, present and future
Ever changing as we change our perception
Threads of space
Moving forward
Expanding the Universe
As we become enlightened in grace
Threads of life
Pulsating with energy
From every cell and atom
That connects us to everyone and everything
Threads of relationships
That become entangled
Like quantum strands
Of wishes and love and longing
Threads of life paths
Criss-crossing as we meet and part
And forever travel across lifetimes
And create memories and meaning
Threads of tapestries
The beautiful, eternal weaving
Of a serendipitous creation
Across the Universe's landscape
Threads of Destiny
Entwined and apart
What we can choose to be
And create and achieve
Threads of Fate
They are tight around us
And keep us anchored
To all that we have to know
Threads upon threads
You and me and angelic beings
Us and them and Good and Evil
Forever Light and Dark clash and swirl
Threads of faith and trust and beliefs
Threads of truth and justice and peace
Threads of deception and desires and sins
Threads of every single human condition
Threads of love and hope and joy
Threads of destruction and rage and hurt
Threads that tingle and sparkle and shine
Threads of everything that make every soul Divine
© Michelle Morris, 2023
totally lecherous, yet talented Damien
TG4 plays providence to his vocals
Tomboy Irish call him a treasure
today’s leprechauns use singing to entice
talented neophyte criss-crosses the Isle
tenors flounder copying his Irish flair
truly dolorous, they smolder because
their bombast like hot air is way hyped-up.
tunes, Celtic songs, no inhibition, we know
taverns love Damien, he brings in the gold
June 1, 2019
John Hamilton's contest: Eight Word Free Verse Challenge
FYI:
TG4 is an Irish free-to-air television channel for Irish-language speakers. It launched on 31 October 1996. TG4 is also available to watch online live and to view previously broadcast programmes from around the world through the TG4 Player