Long Culls Poems
Long Culls Poems. Below are the most popular long Culls by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Culls poems by poem length and keyword.
(Note: This poem is a Sonnet with Alliteration.)
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Start stereo streaming, laughter lifting locks;
Hunter hurling hooks, choice chasing chatter;
Dance distant dreaming, trouble trouncing torque;
Buddy bearing books, mind moulding matter.
Love listens lovely, play planting promptly;
Texture tussles trade, boom bulging blossoms;
Vex voice valiantly, touch textures tightly;
Flexing frenzy fades, allure aids awesome.
Loiter lingers lull, words weaning wonder;
Do deliver deal, pressure primes pleasure;
Cheer cleverly culls, posture plots plunder;
Set sleepy sight still, movement mimes measure.
Winding westward way, preying pampers piece;
Pleasure pleasing play, ever eastern ease.
Leon Enriquez
06 May 2014
Singapore
A swallow swoops for flitting flies
While Johnny rubs exhausted eyes
(As morning clasps the rising sun)
Confirming Captain’s day’s begun:
Slow streams emerge from melting snows -
The Merchant Ship’s in stark repose...
As Johnny frets with tingling tongue
A Vulture fleeces fields far-flung
(Beneath a bleeding sun above),
And Captain culls the dead with love:
Yes, while the silent water flows,
The Merchant Ship just gulps and grows...
A serpent weaves amongst the weeds
As Johnny dares audacious deeds
(When evening drains the dying day)
To stop the Captain, come what may:
And while the raging rivers grow
The Merchant Ship rocks to and fro...
An owl, a’ branch, has teacup eyes
That glimmer dark as Johnny dies
(Now sown inside the future’s womb)
When flushing Captain to his doom:
Trapped in titanic undertow
The Merchant Ship’s swept down below...
A fledgling bird sprays morning dew
As Johnny Junior’s born anew
(He’s baptised in the dawn ablaze)
To rectify the former days:
Raw rills arise from melting snow
And virgin rivers start to flow...
(By the time of the shooting of
"The Misfits", the Miller-Monroe
marriage was in deep trouble.
The Pansy is Montgomery Clift,
The Tusker is John Huston.)
After the Fall
It started as a mental exercise.
I wondered if an East-Side Jew like me
(Richard Rodgers, Brooklyn Dodgers,
Staten Ferry, Tom and Jerry,
Radio City, Walter Mitty,
Buddy Rich, Seven-Year Itch)
could sing the song of Stetson-wearing guys,
could capture something of the poetry
of men who have no words.
But then it grew, as all these projects do.
And then I fell in love with Norma-Jean
(no, Marilyn is someone else). I knew
I had to show the world what I had seen
of men who chase the herds.
(Levi jeans, chilli beans,
mustang culls, rodeo bulls,
Misfit Flats, lariats,
pony carts, engine parts,
happy hour, whiskey sour,
bronkin' bucks, pickup trucks,
buying beers, tying steers,
fancy boots, turkey shoots).
Sincerely? Dearly? Yes. I loved that woman -
the one inside, not on the billboard, pouting.
I cared so much, I guess I had it coming.
I was The Man, the one to take it out on.
A mustang in the dirt,
the more I squirmed, the tighter drew the ropes.
She ran to Gable. Primal passion? Rather,
the one thing that extinguished all my hopes:
he was, to her, the archetypal father.
Varieties of hurt
are infinite. The Pansy, Gable, Tusker -
all sorrowing for something. Norma-Jean
has kept her looks (can't say that for The Husker).
Inside, she putrefied. Love turns to mean,
it's ugly to behold.
The pills? The booze? Or was the problem me?
Or maybe everything just comes unraveled,
but some can hide it where the world won't see.
The consolation of philosophy?
The journey is itself the prize. I travelled
in the realms of gold.
Words fail
To fund ease
In lapsed peace
That unveils
Joy bleeds
Quest of bourse
In lost cause
Where pain seeds
Faith dies
To harsh fear
That drowns cheer
In odd sigh
Hope drains
In lost way
Where dark days
Breed more pain
Once good
Now feels sick
In blown wick
Of dead mood
Vile squeeze
Of blown wit
In stray bits
Toss cold sneeze
Wet tears
Tell in vain
Of sad pain
Void of cheer
No more
Poise of choice
To seed voice
As gall pours
End game
Death culls best
Breath of zest
In nude name
Leon Enriquez
23 November 2018
Singapore
Seizing each moment to be kind,
Listen, empathy employ, hear her words,
Appreciate small yet enormous signs,
Respond yet not overwhelm,
Cements our being valentines!
Just hearing her breathing,
Comforts, loneliness resigns,
Kindly searching deeds, acting wisely,
With Hashem’s aid yields love genuine!
Receive ruminations, attend expressions,
Kindles cupid, life as a couple sublime,
Despite turbulent exceptions we eschew,
Renew kindly favor time after time,
Sensitive antennae align the benign,
Middos Tov, being a Mensch,
Grow a good eye that culls the fine,
Delving with heart into her druthers is song,
To courage not chicken out align,
Surrender poetry not “Poultry in Motion!”
And there the story might have ended
But the bite on Suzanne's thumb
Throbbed and became distended,
'I must say, I feel a little rum',
she said and lay down on her bed,
but as she fell asleep a patch of fur
started growing on her tum.
She slept a light and fitful sleep
Full of strange hypnotic dreams
in which she leapt from branch to branch,
speaking in a stuttering chattering scream.
When she awoke she felt warm and cosy,
her bad dreams had all gone away,
The clear bright light of dawn was rosy,
She was looking forward to the day.
But looking in the mirror her face turned a whiter shade of pale,
for now, coming from her lower back was a thick and bushy tail!
Her two front teeth were now so large they stuck out prominently,
And somehow she was not quite in charge of an urge to act, well, more rodently!
Now instead of inspiring her yoga class
With her incredibly flexible poses,
These days Suzanne is sure to be found
In the park, (only partly obscured by the roses),
Listening intently with her pointy ears for the sound of a poor unwary fella,
that sits down to munch on a nutritious lunch
of sandwiches filled with nutella.
For Cyril had imparted a terrible curse,
He was a ware squirrel you see, man,
and what is worse, his thumb biting curse,
had passed on his populist schtick,
and now she's a big Daily Mail fan!
In her throat comes a lump
at the mention of Donald J Trump,
And austerity, well now she's all for it, ha!,
Let the poor rot in hell,
And the disabled as well,
Katy Hopkins she follows on Twitter,
She's the chair of her local EDL group,
Since she abandoned her candles and crystals,
At night she culls badgers, just for fun, with a whoop,
And owns shares in a frack site near Bristol.
Could this be the end for our white witchy friend?
Can the curse of the ware squirrel be broken?
Fear not dear reader, there's light round the bend,
these few verses are merely a token,
Soon in hushed tones by crusty old crones of a miracle will it be spoken,
how Suzanne the fair, once cursed by a ware
Squirrel was magically spared from this sorry affair
by our old Jedi mate Oby Wan of Conorbyn,
for it 'twas by him that she was awoken.
I feel as though I'm between the devil and the deep sea.
Helplessness, like a gale, culls me away from existence.
From all clutches of stresses and strains, I want to be free
Moments move as though streams with no sense of deliverance.
With sloth, wrath, envy, and pride, my plates and cups are full
I thirst for mercy, compassion, forgiveness, and healing.
I wash and wash my linen, which soon turns again soiled wool.
Why do my jars of hemlock provoke in me a proud feeling?
Like a child fallen into a marshy pit, I raise my hands.
Tears secrete from the wells of my heart and flow through my eyes.
My life has often been like a dream of desert lands.
Will it be quenched with drops of grace and reach the divine highs?
Lone I sail on deep seas at black nights in my broken boat.
Far from feeling of finesse, farther from fullness, I float.
My eyeballs move as though witnessing scenes within eyelids.
Face, just like obeying commands of some far-off spirits, skids
Heaven, with the triune god and the angels illumine
I cross the boundaries and reach all realms beyond human
Truth and untruth are tenderly mixed like milk and water.
Where's my skill gone that culls out shapes from mud as a potter?
There's a sensation. It's like the touch on a touch-me-not.
Between what's seen and unseen, known and unknown, there's a knot.
As a small drama that is enacted within a long play
Does the unsaid truth sparkle, piercing the veils of each ray?
Do the deeds of good overpower the deeds of evil?
Between brain, bones, blood, nerves, and muscles, there's an upheaval.
Sitting aside my flowing stream of thoughts and thoughtlessness
Do I, the dreamer, discover my own dream's plotlessness?
Cuffed with cautions, causations, cognitions, and cogitations
Aren’t each dream and the dreamer bound by vague limitations?
Foul tempest wind dost beset thy slumber,
its rain doth drain and dampen to stupor.
I rithe at thy great agony's bequest,
haunted by frightening reminiscence.
'Still the torrid pleas of thy soul!', I cry.
Thunder does naught to distill the shrill screams.
Lightning drenches me in thick vulgar sweat;
heart racing, mind pacing, fervent unrest.
'Will I e'er see a brighter morn than this?';
for foul tempest has consumed most my years.
But just then, when all seemed undone, foregone;
rain culls, clouds lift, and a rainbow now dawns.
09.02.2026
('Resist the devil, and he shall flee')
('I have set my rainbow in the clouds...')
In loving memory the saga goes,
or so they say when feint reminder culls a piercing interlude.
Remnant of an unfinished sentence,
broken shadow haunt awash with grief,
snapshot at the edge of a well.
Parachute of blinding insight on queue or on song,
paper mache angel deep within.
Verses, scrolls, smudges from that pink enamel claw,
whose back fold clip appearance left one reeling,
like some
tree house dweller rattled by a swooping hawk.
Gimlet sipping voyageur
adrift on ice pack yacht,
in need of solace,
yet wishing it to the bottom of his rusty bucket list.
Fragile human being torn apart,
funeral bound,
that once upon a time surreal biker skirting mountains.
A priori stunt man metaphysically divine on rocky ledge,
dare devil prayer when it suits.
Feat performance activist a sleight of hand jester,
yet despite this vapid mask of dumb amnesia,
he wanders blindfold down
an alpine peak while chasing after dim and distant keepsake
Date posted :31st January 2022