Long Dabbing Poems
Long Dabbing Poems. Below are the most popular long Dabbing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dabbing poems by poem length and keyword.
A mackerel sky fillets a fish scaled village,
an ear clapping, full sailed, fog
moors itself to the rooftops,
then hides all in a breezeless blear.
Rheumy eyes peep out from nets,
damp noses sniff abaft trawling drapes.
Cloth in hand, potbellied proprietors
battle the splatter and spray,
dabbing at mildewed shelves,
warding away slopping waders
and salty puddles.
On the sightless sea
far beyond the shore and shingle,
fog horns are lowing like lost cattle.
Later, misty reeks will be scoured
from groggy docks,
hauling hands will rope together
the tide-tossed salvage
by and by, squeaky boots
may trudge to taprooms
where codgers and callow alike
can be well oiled
and duly quenched.
When brainwaves strive against my need for sleep,
I exercise to help my mind calm down.
When pressures get so bad I want to weep,
I do yard work or jog a while through town.
A dear pet or a loved one's home going -
out come the tissues, dabbing at moist eyes.
When sharp pains jolt with an electric zing,
the crying helps the sting depressurize.
When I feel insignificant or small,
the ocean waves provide a balm for me.
When life's injustice casts a darkened pall,
I pray to God as sun sets on the sea.
Salt water is the cure for anything:
my sweat, my tears, the sea - to these I cling.
"The cure for anything is salt water:
sweat, tears, or the sea" ~ Isak Dinesen
written 14 Sep 2020
Meeting a princess
It was, according to the old, the coldest winter
any could remember, the wise said it was because
the war had disturbed the weather pattern
One day, it snowed, then it got mild, after that
it got
very cold, the hilly road turned into an ice rink
to our delight of children
We could sleigh all the way to the lake in the town
the lake, poets wrote about; they were building a hotel on the other side where old houses had been
It was the tallest building in the world, mother said
it would be better to build housing for the poor
What did she know, reading books all day long?
In the afternoon, as the day faded, an old lady was going
home, she slipped and fell on the treacherous road
we helped her up; she had a nosebleed.
She opened her lacquered handbag took out a handkerchief that had borders and was the whitest he had ever seen, dabbing her nose in a delicate manner
So brittle she was, like something rare that could vanish
into thin air, I took it upon myself to take her home
she held onto my arm like a butterfly.
She had a beautiful oval face, and we had round faces
like, farm folks, I concluded she was of royal heritage
was she a princess from a forgotten country?
I opened the front door for her, she gave me a sweet I put in my pocket to savor late and also
to show the other boys sweets were rationed.
We had fine teeth.
When coming home very late, the night was starlit
we boys had a great time showing off sliding on the ice
to impress the timid girls
At home, mother sat reading a book, I think written by
a Russian bloke called Tolstoy looked up and said
if you are hungry, find something in the kitchen.
I told the mother of an old princess I had helped her home
she had fallen on the ice and had nosebleed
Princess! She said there are no royals in this town
what was her name? Marianne, and she spoke posh
Oh, her, she was a big, Nazi during the war
I was annoyed with my mother; why did she go and
spoil it all, what did she know about life, with her nose stuck in a book, and who the hell is Hemingway?
Tendency is, to apportion
Love:
like slices of iced sweet
at a party
braying festive, 2 playful swipes
at a swinging, loaded donkey
(not the husband this time)
toffee for the dear loyal mate --
allotment of love, for precious children;
for all our Prayer-family, appealed
a canopy of blessed shade, like that
bible gourd,
cat and dog needing, also,
some petting reward – no special
reason...just because --
to the poet, as with painter,
superseding costume body of flesh,
art is voice-echo and representative
image
one's deeper beating sentient part
ventricle tools, the writing pad, the brush...
more poignant the words,
broader the expansive, lyrical stroke:
ruled paper or mystifying canvas~ the soul,
a bottomless well from which to
creatively
draw
fluid destinies
for controlled dabbing
abundant dashing-splashing
spirit-inspired
awesomely appealing
saturating pour --
IT TAKES TIME TO SEE THE LIGHT
Death is best taught in the dark
Fetching sticks, setting sparks
Its bag of tricks: sickness and hope
A black curtain vanishes
The magician leaves you with a moonless night
A lonely night without stars
And you work to locate those sparkling crystals
And place them one at a time back in the sky
But tears fall like glass, resetting the progress
You need to accept the inevitable
But no one can do the Impossible
So cling to the possible
Surround yourself with an armloads of friends
Let them take turns dabbing your mascara
As their handkerchiefs turn from white to black
One day you’ll find the moon back in its place
You will wonder how long you missed it
1st Place
4/7/2017
DIDACTIC FORM
pumped up with helium
blowing insane mad
quack quack
red rag to a bull
pork chops
had a meeting today
flipping over backwards
sending out invitions
who was not invited
frothing bubbles
insane
out of his nose
stench of duck
killer looms
raging shutters fall
protecting the duck's
tiny ears
sitting wearing
peter pan tights
retrieved in
paradise island
from a sunken
white ship
he sat eating duck
what a monster
blowing his trumpet
crowing about it
the wizard pinpointed
casting a spell
in a whoosh
turned pork chops
into a snail
now crazy duck
has turned
into super duck
got you in his claw
laughing holding you
opening his beak
laughing like mad
slimey little critter
tosses in the air
dabbing then
swallowing him
over whole
a hero amongst ducks
over the moon
just ate killer
flapping with joy
waddling to
the nearest pool
now who,s got
the tights
quack
is back
a little slim
but shady
First Christmas without you, my dearest, my love
Cruelly taken too soon on the wings of a dove
How can I rejoice when my heart broke in two
Those memories still vivid of my last days with you
No holly, no ivy are decking the hall
No Christmas cards; no Christmas tree; nothing at all
Awakening early on this Christmas day morn
I watch the sun rising, for it’s just before dawn
The full moon is shining, like a beacon from afar
And very close to me there is a twinkling, silver star
I am pulled towards my garden as the dawn begins to break
And gently wipe sleep from my eyes; I need to be awake
The moon shines down so brightly, as if to celebrate
Illuminating my old Fir tree, adorned with snowflakes twinkling at me
I venture closer to my tree to witness tiny birds a fluttering
A nightingale perched on the top, a joyous song she’s uttering
I watch this magical scene unfold in wondrous disbelief
and dabbing tears of joy and love with my Christmas handkerchief
That twinkling, silver star is Venus; known as the Goddess of love
I feel your love enveloping me as she twinkles and sparkles above
For somehow Mother Nature has, in all her Christmassy glory
Gifted me a happy end to my grief-stricken Christmas story
Written 10th December 2018
Competition: Christmas Tree
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
5th place in Premier Contest
Contest A BRIAN STRAND COUPLET
Sponsor Brian Strand
FIRST PLACE
IT STARTED WITH A BLANK CANVAS
Come lay your paint on me, it pleaded
I’m here in this garret, naked and cold
So what could I as a sensitive artist, do
Except comply, dabbing shades of blue
Reaching for indigo, as if I’d been told
Then pausing, to hear what it needed
Canvas relieved it was no longer blank
Stood there proud, and eager for more
As if formally bloodied in its first hunt
And so pleased, I almost heard it grunt
To win this creative battle, if not a war
For every new daub, the muse to thank
Coloured layers, streaks and a smudge
To which even a rainbow might defer
But now an abstract image has its day
It now had a life of its own on display
And for myself, expression is the spur
Unpainted areas still bearing a grudge
Both the brushes and I played our part
The canvas with a coat of many colours
With a final flourish, it is finally signed
And now it seems to have its own mind
It’s access for all, with raised portcullis
Now a painting, perhaps a work of art
Bound to reach a close, everything goes as thus
Your farewell etched like a scar
Whispers in the dark, so it flows
Echoes in my mind as I still drift afar
Contemplating lies, contending excuses
Darkness looms as the harbinger gazes upon
Who refuses to take refuge from impending danger
One man's hero, the grief of another
Tormented by your graceful smile
My memories play a frightening illusion
No tears left to run its mile
Endless void only to be filled by your absence
Contending excuses, contemplating lies once more
Blinking back tears as I bask in your embrace
Your sweet words like music to thy ears
Shrouded by darkness no more, surrounded by your reassuring light
Your letters revealed thus to me
One man's hero, the loving mother of another
Warmth of resonance filling me
Dabbing gently my sobs goodbye
The pride of having you takes place
Your farewell, I see a new horizon
A calm push to transform to a new me
As a step into a new chapter of life
One that will forever be proud of your legacy
Often I harken back
to a very wise poet,
how “life is but a stage”
of tender moments
splashed and splattered
by fierce jabs of passionate
heated rage
such opera the workings of
fallible human hearts~ such a
masterful organ still an infant
unwinding with tyrannic-like
stops and starts
Where would poetry be
without feeling words
and colorful flourishes?
Where? Without reckless splashes
on canvas wall and trampled over
floor – saturated flamboyant
brushes ever mixing and dabbing
seeking and grabbing smoothing and
rubbing out fillings satisfying
while definitions left
spatially wanting
for the poet draws as he writes
from wells deeper tributaries distant
less regulated winding streams of uncoagulated self
seeing one's soul somewhere between ignorance
and all knowing ever greater for its never finding
ever seeking ever flowing
Indeed “life is but a stage,”
every breath a potential scripted
unscripted page every exhale a new dissolve
for the air to take hold of and fly with
Never cheat ambient emotion
of heights and potential lows
Never set passion wastefully adrift
let the spirit give full body a heartfelt
push into uncharted always somewhat
perilous yet marvelous revealing lift–