Long Curlicues Poems
Long Curlicues Poems. Below are the most popular long Curlicues by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Curlicues poems by poem length and keyword.
a sparkling expanse, lapping the horizon,
crinkled by the weight of torrential bright
the airborne eye, squinting,
catches sight of a flotilla,
parallel, bloodless gashes on liquid lapis,
pointy beaks gently pecking docile waves,
their wakes lengthening, then fanning,
a formation of miniature peacocks with
oversized white trains mopping the water,
all their iridescent colors washed into the
Mediterranean blue
the sails lean over lazily, a unison of
puffed-up scimitars slicing around a buoy,
slow-tattooing pristine curlicues on the sea skin,
returning to harbour and ice buckets
sprouting beaded bottles of gold
OUTSIDE THE BOUNDS OF SISTER CECILIA
the best firecracker
otherworldly seven hues
hiss, cackle, kaboom
Yes, dear ones, I want to own a pen that produces perfect penmanship, the curlicue calligraphy that Sister Cecilia would have hated. Each color, as my mood dictates would jettison from my mind to paper as a musical note, with hieroglyphic fervor. In unity and uniqueness as my lyrical words ignite each heart…each pen imparts the idea that never ends, heart to heart, light and dark, dear poet.
breathless, eternal
wax that never defuses
its bittersweet light
I can hardly stop to cross the t’s and dot the i’s. You, dear loves, like stars grab on - you little prince(s)! You travel light with faeries and dragons light as silk and mighty as giants. We muse together through the galaxy and time. In Athens, we sit down a moment to hear Saint Paul say, “For in him we live and move and have our being. As some of your own poets have said, ‘We are his offspring.’”
baptism of seeds
in the only plot we know —
glorious setting
inner poet can’t contain
as we head out of the grave
Sincerely, as we begin our journey, it never ends — it goes on and on with friends. Sparks fly - serious, silly, frolicking, frenetic and holy.
let not ruler scowl -
repeat curlicues fifty
times to accomplish your dreams
11/30/2021
Haibun- With A Message
Sponsor: Charles Messina
Computers can absolutely drive us to drink
It's programmed into their memory
Just when we think things are all hunky dory
It lets us down unceremoniously
To frustrate us more we even lose some data
Though we often hit “command/save”
But wouldn't you know it this was the exception
To these monsters we're truly enslaved
The damn things treats us like a piece of crap
I'm sure there are gremlins inside
Trying to turn us into some raving maniacs
Delight when they see us cry
Can't live with them, can't live without them
They've got us by those short curlicues
It's almost like they enjoy watching us struggle
But give in we absolutely refuse
They can drive us to drink, a bloody caesar
Every single night before bed
Oh for the days before technology reigned
When people ruled the world instead
© Jack Ellison 2015
Sotto voce a whisper sweet
if by chance we should come to meet
down in the valley where flowers bloom
shall we enter a two way street?
And if by chance this journey's fleet
with passion's effloresce complete
becomes our season's hope renew,
then would we love this vigil treat?
Inside that meadow of bright hues
will you wrap around my curlicues
and climb the tendrils of my vine
kiss me sweetly by heaven's blues?
Will my colors be rich as wine
when you hold me time after time
like the daisies tallish and wild
do you aim to always be mine
Long after sun has hotly smiled
Long after stars ablaze are riled
will you whisper to my petals,
sotto voce and undefiled .
June 5, 2022
Sponsor Sotto Poet
Contest Name Rubaiyat Contest
I’m stealing through a twilit realm, the ancient pale of Whereis,
passing chambers of an Heiress
(though no need to feel embarrassed)
through a magic mystic mirror hanging curtainless.
A glimpse near naked alleyways (denuded by the moon) ex-
poses Ghosts in gauzy tunics
carving symbols, round and runic,
in distended dingy dungeons of uncertainness.
Down misty streets of cobblestone – ancestral avenues –
patchwork paths consume my shoes
(chasing foggy curlicues
twisting, twirling by in twos,
floating anywhere they choose),
leaving footprints that confuse
vagrant wispy retinues
of the threaded wooden sticks that stalk a Puppet wandering.
Condensed in drops of fantasy, distilled in evening dew,
shifting Shadows I pursue
(wearing faces I once knew,
slipping slowly from my view)
turn their backs to bid adieu
leaving stars to tempt me through
Awful Tower residues
mocking treasures time outgrew
in the birth of old from new
framing pageants in review
midst the visions of the painted past I can’t help pondering.
Contorted candelabra claw the skyline’s walled suspension
caught in twilight’s intervention
– still unlit (in stark dissension),
therefore seething with a tension
in the quiet apprehension
of the Watchman’s inattention
to the night-time’s bold pretension
to her power, not to mention,
to her hyperspace extension
(far beyond my comprehension
of the sundown’s bleak dimension) –
on exhausted beaten boulevards of foolish fretfulness.
Oblivion depletes me, voiding haste and hurried hassles,
me, a simple abject vassal,
trailing moonlit floating castles,
– fickle feet, but fingers facile
grasping straws and pendant tassels –
as I stumble through the rubble of forgetfulness.
I think I must be dreaming as I seem to see these things,
neath a sky alive with wings
(hear the Nightingale, she sings),
midst the whispered murmurings
soughed by Phantoms clad as Kings
pacing palaces in rings,
while their hapless footfall clings
to the sagging sinking sands of midnight’s splintered splattered ruins.
Entangled in the swirling leaves that spin in dizzy flurries,
(while the wind beside me scurries
as an ermined hermit hurries)
lurk my sleepy woes and worries
(glowing faint’ but growing blurry)
which, when plundered by the demon dusk, I’d left behind me strewn.
Continued in Part 2
You are the fresh pink rosebud when it blooms.
A creek murmurs as it passes past smooth rocks.
such as the hive bees' jig if they're full of perfume.
Curlicues on a vine look like your eyelash locks.
Red-winged birds have wings on their plumes.
Your laugh sounds like waves on a pond surface.
A cat's purr is as humming in your favorite size.
Coral sunsets over calm seas have a clear purpose.
As darkness falls, I gently kiss your closed eyes.
In the pit of hell, where there is no extra service,
In my empyreal den, I can feel your company.
"Amore mio," my creativity brings you to life.
When I surfed the web, I kept you in mind, honey.
I utter a sonnet, thrilled that you ease my strife.
Your delightful glance outweighs a pity symphony.
Flames jolted her body, indicating victory.
As the party became louder, she felt in charge.
Cheers and laughter could be heard from a mystery.
Rushing over farms and hills, yelling in the barge.
Attempting to stop her would have been history.
She smiles happily as the light caresses her skin.
She could hear the murmuring of the spirits at home.
A delightful, terrifying indifference swirled and spin.
She needed to relax in the halcyon springs to come.
She was almost there, nearing the valley's light therein
Written: February 12, 2023
This summer, as ever, there's much to do.
But only one or two things I want to do.
I told Alan that, like him, I'm never bored.
But today, like a teenager, I'm both tired and bored.
The long expanse of summer stretches forward. Alan plans
the next 2 years in advance, always moving forward. I can't plan
the next 2 hours, sitting on my ****, undecided whether
to clean the house, make a list of prospective donors, or check the 5-day
weather
forecast. Fires out west, hurricanes south, drought here
in the east where the garden phlox withers and the corn's stunted. We
hear
prophecies of armageddon, doom, but humans may go on another
thousand, million or billion years
undaunted. What is that to you. A day alone in your room and a year
are inexplicable. Now and then a vacation, baseball game, night of love.
A divorce, a death, a drouth. To survive and prosper we must love
all of it, insect infestations and world wars, cloud curlicues and square
dances, work
and weekends off. Knowing the unknowable = never knowing how the
world works.
curlicues perhaps
the Catholic nun
wouldn’t let me engage
in penmanship shape
“shape up, sit straight!!”
yet the ancients
would whirligig
with their featherings
fill up the page
with their zorro-like signature
tap-tap-tap
the teacher’s brought me back
to life, to engage
in this ((yawn)) bor…ing
admonish the swording
don’t let me squander her time
keep in step with the four wall attack
windows of daydreams grow black
march march march
in two straight Madeline-s
the feather tickles my digits
my mind metamorphic
the rhymes fantastic
tap-tap-tap
this time near my ear
the fearsome whip
that steers me
into correction
dear nun’s satisfaction
i’ll get an A
in penmanship
but conduct -
can’t shut me up
"The Immensities"
I shut out the world
and inside me the
deep azurine blue
jumbled pieces
of unread hues
between the
boundaries
of the lost world
within me and you
becomes Blue Sky
Sky Blue
and further inwards
through deeper true
galaxies in my mind open
revealing mysteries
unopened at the bottom
of a lake where there lies She
the Lady in a shattered cornucopia
her body tattooed
in unread stories their curlicues
shining like rare jewels
waiting to be touched
face turned up
looking through
a reflection rippling
the haunting
Just
above the surface
the inner reaches in
to touch the outer
I shut out the world
and inside me the
deep azurine blue
glistens with
jumbled pieces
of unread hues
that extinguish the jagged
like dissolving cut glass
melting their confused boundaries
inside their overflowing
war torn cries and
their stormy unsorry
torrential blues
a new world
inside
opening illusions true
The Immensities
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
" O, wake once more! how rude soe'er the hand
That ventures o'er thy magic maze to stray;
O, wake once more! though scarce my skill command
Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay:
Though harsh and faint, and soon to die away,
And all unworthy of thy nobler strain,
Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway,
The wizard note has not been touched in vain.
Then silent be no more! Enchantress, wake again!"
Lightening aims and shoots at my baby apple tree and with one searing snap, shears it into; smoke rises from the black trunk, curlicues toward sky. Not old enough to birth little ones, I had it out, down and re-planted another one. Soon, we lost our spruce to the winds; a home to doves, it was uprooted. In my yard a huge ball of squiggly spindles with a tree on one end, lay as if someone plucked it from Gaia’s breast and tossed it aside. The poor homeless doves moved to my window air conditioner and braved the icy spring; thrilled as fledgling wings bounced her around, till she finally flew.
trees weathering storms
sheltering many bird species-
prime real estate
doves only build
a twig pile-
one wind obliterates