Long Crouch Poems
Long Crouch Poems. Below are the most popular long Crouch by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Crouch poems by poem length and keyword.
My skin prickles, hair on my arm
flag-raised.
Quite peculiar, actually, someone
or something, is watching me.
I recalculate my senses, dusting off
pre-conceived notions of paranoia.
Across the room, a dull thud garners
my attention. Searching, I discover a
doorstop has simply tipped over, quite
impossible, I conjecture!
I pick it up and feel a distinct burning!
it's hot to the touch!
Dropping the fiery doorstop, I hear an
otherwordly chuckle emanate from
somewhere above me, reloading my
sense of apprehension.
Not to be ill-prepared, I crouch in a
defensive position, peering this way and
that, ready to defend who knows what.
I turn to evacuate the premises,
and come face to face with a grinning
disembodied head!
Punching my way through the
phosphorous face,
I escape!
Wakening
From
My
Dream
02/15/14
© All Rights Reserved
Ranks of glossy printed editions
squeezed into a concertina of space.
The acrylic smell of new books
is cordite to my nose.
Then in softer contrast,
the musky ambiance of the old and well-thumbed,
a well used dust on dust-covers.
A tactile nosegay of leather-bound
classics.
Fact or fiction,
all are revelations revealed.
The appeal of the alphabetically ordered,
arrayed in an athenium
of only passing inquiry.
Movies have usurped many of these stories,
as well as Wikipedia factoids, reviews, e-books,
and word of mouth accounts.
I crouch and stretch
in a confined alcove for a few volumes
that have kept their obscure tales
under cryptic wraps.
I could take them home, maybe fill a single shelf;
speed-read my way through,
read the blurbs and the last chapters,
just in case I am ever asked.
Bated breath stills Arctic style cruelty
Clustered lichen mapped boulders crouch
Exhale cackles an altitudinous eulogy
Mountain leer leans with tortured slouch
Tested foliage tentatively reappears
tougher than Summer's youthful splurge
Bent are the branches, by windswept years
Trunks resist standard vertical urge
Wizened torso raspy ribs shed bark
Becomes much needed garment covering
Tawny coloured critters, burrowed, smart
- sharp mist crystal bluster buffering
Frigid naked twigs survive, fixed, jagged
Pom poms of teal-grey tight leafed stayers
Twisted branches turn handles, haggard
Wicked witch wind pure Winter conveyer
Thirty mile wide wisdom vista captivates
Risen from sea level, knowing as a century
Harking seagull's coastal hug hesitates
Too fickle to make mountain her sanctuary
Wise scamper from door to door directly
Watch the mood change from inside cave
View whisked momentarily by fog's trajectory
Altitude on tiny astute psyche engraved
8th August 2020
Brenda Chiri, - Sponsor
Nature Rhyming Poem Contest
Flying from out of the eerie world of spirits
The Sphinx has come to crouch and pose :
'To close Pandora's Box solve the puzzle of Greed !'
Trust not Luck , nor Fate but work with wits ;
The fire of greed and desire plays havoc ,
Crippling the ability to seek content even in bits
And wipe out the artefact of divine replica ;
"Abracadabra " ,here is the only panacea that befits ;
Will Oedipus or Jason rescue the race , comatose
' Solve the puzzle of Greed to close Pandora's Box ! '
And find the new glow of hope that emits .
Ryan has been plagued with illness,
So took a swimming break in 2014,
But managed to be selected for Rio,
Where he made the finals freestyle.
He possesses mild Cerebral Palsy,
Which affects his right side and foot,
And after on this foot an operation,
For rehabilitation he did swimming.
He’s swum since he was five years,
And when he was eleven he raced,
For the Dovercourt Swimming Club,
To progress to race nationally, UK.
Someone spotted him aged eleven,
And coach Dave Champion taught,
To him the freestyle and backstroke,
Also the butterfly - he swims the S9.
At an International Meet, chilly April,
2016, Ryan swum the 50m freestyle,
In the qualification time for the Paras,
In the finals, 8th place in 26.76 secs.
“Thought forms desire spawns are suspect
Detached soul alone stands erect”
- quote, by poet
________________________
Attachments compel stagnation
Fears and desires then enmesh soul
Illusion bondage delusion
Heart cries out, to again feel whole
Thoughts spiral in a narrow band
Attachments compel stagnation
Made thus captive by our own hand
We crouch in fearful contraction
Path to freedom is cessation
Fearless spirit in witness stance
Attachments compel stagnation
Jubilant heart chooses to dance
Our life, our choice, be to become
Make then each breath celebration
Joyous heart makes love feel welcome
Attachments compel stagnation
08-November-2021
''T'' Contest, New or Old Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
All aboard the zoo train, let's ride there
Be amazed when you see the mighty bear
Cougars, big cats, crouch inside their lair
Desert tortoises creep, they move so slow
Eagles perch and stare from branches, low
Foxes peer out from within their dens
Great giraffes gawk, their necks extend
Hyenas laugh as they run and play
Iguanas lie and bask in the sun all day
Jaguar is regal, as she paces in her stall
Kangaroos nibble on leaves near a wall
Lions pace, the kings of the jungle
Meerkats hide in small holes and tunnels
Now we can view those amusing apes
Orangutans with their funny faces
Past the fountain, we see the polar bear
Quite a sight, as he swims over there
'Round the bend, we enter reptile land
Snakes that slither over rocks and sand
Tribal music sets the stage to see
Up high, as we look into the banyon trees
Vociferous squawks from bright toucans
Wild echos reverberate over the land
Xanadu dreams, on this enchanting day
You feel you've traveled miles away
Zoo magic memories were made today.
Updated on 5/18/2022
Written on 7/11/2015
London is bewildered by its roads
The Circular, the North,the South, the Codes
The Morse and the Enigma Turing broke
So now we have new bicycles with spokes
Once we had the A to Z in hand
Turn it upside down and you'll be grand
New technology has made great strides
Carrying us to Eden ,what a ride
The motorways are empty for tonight
God decided we had too much Light
He taught the bare cheeked Moon on Jesus' mount
To turn the other side when love's about
I liked to use a compass and a map
But now, my dear, most everything's on tap
I crouch beneath my sister as she drives
In the dark on the M 25
But if it's closed, we are completely foxed
We left the old Road Atlas in a box
Along with all my ex's underpants
And naturally his principles of Kant
We may be in Watford or in Bucks
I often wonder what will rhyme with luck
We may be near St Alban's, we can't see
The car ran up the trunk of this oak tree
We rang 999 and they are here
A fire engine filled up with Kentish beer
A ladder for the ladies to climb down
Now they are just women on the town
London won't exist ,destroyed by cars
God himself hates the North Circular
What love commands, the iron serpent obeys:
6:30 punches through the tunnel, a steel pulse driving toward Coney Island,
where lime-green Ubers crouch at the curb, breathing silver into the air,
and brief Urdu greetings strike matches in the blue mouth of morning.
Pakistan hangs above Mermaid Street, an electric-green moon.
“Where to, mama? Where to? Two dollars,” the cabbies cast their daily net.
The same bright bargain, a coin polished thin by repetition.
“Whether you’re a morning person or a night owl, we all start our day at some point. And we all seem to start it differently.” —Kevan Lee
At 5:40, the shower beats a wake-up hymn on my shoulders; I dress inside the last pocket of night and slip out before six.
The garbage bag is a cold-toothed animal in my hand as I cross three frozen minutes to the subway,
where what love commands, the rattling serpent obeys, praying open
the locked fist of morning depression until noon. Am I the passenger, or the cargo?
Why was I born? Why am I a question mark beneath these buzzing lights? On whose scale is my worth weighed?
The ancient question boards beside me, a silent fare: who will remember me when I am gone?
The train’s steel jaws? The cabbies guarding the curb? Would the pavement keep the ghost of my dragging feet?
Is such self-scrutiny worth a New York minute—the red hand a wound, traffic a river—while I stand on the curb of myself, asking who will miss us, really?
Void after void, each dark window and open mouth swallowing my reflection.
Perhaps the few who remember me would feel a missing tooth in the machinery of their days:
For the sake of remembering me, for the empty seat becoming a small grave, for the car fare cooling in a pocket,
for the monthly fees that would knock on a door no one opens—and T-Mobile,
You would finally cut my name loose from the family tree of that grandfathered plan.
Today I sat in a room where silence has erased the walls, hearing only
keys sowing rain across the page, my heart knocking from its cage, the mouse—click, click.
To be remembered: perhaps a poet is a lantern lowered into the vanished world, bringing back enough fire to make an audience believe the dark once had a name.
To whom it may concern
The tick-tock never wait
The worst will come no late
Sprouting from all corners, holy end
From west to east and back, wave counter-espionage with mask of fiend
Who waters war ever growing seed, rest in his castle with Chateau D'yquem's bottles,
While underdogs of the world, crouch as their heart beat rattles,
Mayday with burning fuels like volcano, mustn't be frightful
The hand that mould nuclear so faithful.
Seekers of peace, hardworking, they add more to the over-populace figure of land of dead
Activist might know, they intervene with dying plead,
Hope, little like mustard, the rest of the world turned slaves to fear,
This I know, death is very easy, I tune my Lear,To babysit my day,
For, sorrow is the gold the earth got to pay We will die, never to die again.