Long Daubs Poems
Long Daubs Poems. Below are the most popular long Daubs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Daubs poems by poem length and keyword.
The unseen maestro, the wily whistling whisperer,
Cunningly twirls a sway in the bending trees,
Dabs, daubs and draws impasto clouds in the sky,
Lilts, entices, leaves to dance in tune, as it whistles on by.
The field of grass compliant, bends to lithe gusts sly.
Laughing to tickling tongue secrets, beholden in every sigh.
The wind teases waves, torments lakes to ripples.
Their surfaces combed and drawn to rugged stipples.
The wily whisperer winds its way into cracks and holes.
Creating drafts that shake the drapes like ghostly souls.
Defying all attempts to block their breathy intrusion.
You can feel it breathing in and out, expiring confusion.
Oh wily wind, your whispers collude and unwind,
The peaceful slumber of earth and heart entwined.
Vae victis! Her quick eyes spy out the field.
Reconnoitred, the foe's dispositions have been noted,
quantified, assessed. The forces of order
and tidiness, in neat array,
perfect their alignment, await onslaught.
The sentinels stand guard:
A pot of jam, a jar of marmalade are emplaced
on the strategic salient of the dining-room table.
In battle-dress, knives, forks and spoons,
the infantry, have been fully mobilized. Now battle!
The moment's silence is conflict's omen.
Certain of the issue, she advances,
knowing all order is as brief as day,
while primal Chaos ruled
when all was void.
She crawls towards an unwary footstool,
a defenceless lone straggler near the door.
This, with one fell blow knocked out,
her target would now appear to be the oak sideboard.
With a sideways reel, the feint is over.
Blitzkrieg is launched on the dining-room table,
the heart of enemy operations. She tugs
the table-cloth; a pepper-bomb descends,
inducing heavy sneezing fits
(didn't they outlaw biological warfare?)
Thus repulsed, she makes for the paper-stand;
papers, magazines, ordered by number, edition or day,
take heavy poundings till they lie scattered,
littered on the floor.
The main assault no longer brooks delay! She tugs again -
the infantry charge down.
They miss the mark but make a hellish din.
With head well positioned for cover, she tugs
a third time, and with a mighty splut
the jam-jars teeter, topple and tumble,
and tumblers crash down with deafening jars.
With jammy hands, the victress daubs the walls,
and in triumph commemorates her feat.
By the shindy wakened, Father stalks in,
his face like that of Jupiter tonans
before the fatal blow.
Her sunny smiles pierce the dismal gloom -
O double conquest! Did Gaul, cowering
to the gore-drenched blade, love Caesar,
the British tribes, defeated, bless Agricola?
What smiles leave hard a little tear
makes tender as a lamb, and Dad,
a willing captive to her wiles, gives in -
surrender unconditional.
And Mum?
She'll do the mopping up, of course!
where the pipeline meets the lake
spewing sewage in its wake
several snowdrops grow and help to paint God’s earth
and as acid rains from clouds
upon the litter strewn by crowds
lines of daffodils speak more than words are worth.
next to piles of household waste
tipped by those who fly in haste
there are bluebells growing wild on urban floors
and as plumes of factory smoke
suffocate disperse and choke
there are birds migrating to these hallowed shores.
where graffiti daubs the wall
of society’s wrecking ball
there’s a patch where tulips dance beneath our sky
and as shards of broken glass
lie in pieces on the grass
two young lovers holding hands walk slowly by.
A child shelters ...
Under a bloody, swollen moon
Yearning the daylight
Soft beams show the way
But there is no ember ... no brightened clarity
No warm-to-the-marrow saturation
It is beautied, like the elements of love
But it can not fill the sky or heart
Wan and weak, it is pale substitute for sunshine
Even the shadows it daubs are undefined
Puddles of inky disregard and neglect
The night's cold, unaffected
Love's longing stretches deep into the dark
Questions crimping the edge of want
Ever nipping at self-worth and pride and expectation
But the child's eyes, transfixed ...
Moonlight has few equals ... shimmering, beautiful
But like love unexpressed, it is ONLY that
A word not said, a hand not held ... time not shared
A kindness unseen, a sacrifice unappreciated
A precious tear not kissed away
Moments - small and not - wasted
They all hide there in the shadows of the moon
Like the dear child ...
(Soon grown and gone)
Longing for the bold definition of daylight
The warming wonder of sunshine
The lasting aspect ...
Of LOVE.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Your Best New Poem" Poetry Contest, Emile Pinet, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Pale Shelter" Poetry Contest, John Hamilton, Judge & Sponsor.
( Inspired by the song "Pale Shelter" by Tears For Fears, and my own childhood )
Rhapsody of rainbow morphs to morose mélange
Bleeding colors bleached from the twilight cloud
Rainstorm daubs as blemish on the broken heart
The shades of grey paint the frayed linen of love.
Requiem of roses resonates in melancholic medley
Petals pine for dripping tear drops of mourning dew
Desiccate in somber sunshine in the deserted mind
Fallen flowers make bouquet for deceased passion.
Cacophony capsuled in the cauldron of mute melody
Chaotic symphony dismantles on the discord waves
Strained smiles sneer the scarred scenario of lone life
Songs turn to convoluted noise echoed by the soul.
The lattice of life seen through the languid cynic lens
Magnifies into crooked contortion of distorted essence.
Lemons,
their squeezed
juice
that trickles
down
the chin,
and slides
through
the fingers,
is the
sunlight
that
warms
an
April
eve'
for
the first
time
since
the previous
April.
Lemon-
drops
are
sweet,
and you
want
to
just look
at
their
sunny
sugariness,
hold one
like
a little
jewelry bead-
and
in
your
mouth
every suck-
one
after
the other
like you
string the beads-
one
after
the other
on
a
long
thin
string
the color
of the moon,
is tasted
like
every
raindrop
falls
from
the
sky
is
felt
by
the Earth.
And
I guess
so many
flowers
are the color
of lemons.
And
on
the lemon tree,
the daubs
of
yellow
hardness
are
almost
the color
of
a wind-
blown
sail
in
a hot
late
Summer
afternoon
sunshine
on
a
sea.
The
lemon
tree
could
be
captive
of
an
artist
in
a painting-
with a
grey- blue cloudy sky-
the leaves
are a dark green.
The
leaves
are
almost
the hue
and shape
of pine needles-
not an actual
lemon
tree-
but
there
is
a
little
white
streak
of
paint
with
a
little
grey
on
the
streak's edge
painted by the artist
on the tree-
what
happened
to the lemons?
The lemons
were plucked
by
the Gardener.
What is this creature revealed,
when an object hits the surface field?
It emits a splash that springs up into the air,
like a fountain surging up skyward with flare,
to reveal everything you need to know inherent,
in water's omniscience, naked, fluid and coherent.
In tiny drops or torrents tumbling grand,
Water seeps into cracks, slips through a hand.
Amorphous and shapeless, with no inherent form to claim,
it embodies and clasps our existence, to tame just the same.
In rivers, it flows relentless to endear.
Carving sinuous paths that persevere,
snaking through canyons and valleys downstream,
with a common theme and meme, and so much esteem.
In lakes, it shimmers, it's still and serene,
reflecting the sky in a tranquil scene.
On its surface concentric ripples resonate
out in all directions, in rings that dilate.
In streams, it gurgles, splashes soft and slow,
caressing the stones with its gentle flow.
Shifting the sands into banks and bars,
shaping its path to where it wants to go.
In the sky is daubs the blue canvasses,
with white, gray and dark black masses
of clouds that foretell what's coming next
Be it calm, change, rain or storm perplexed.
In oceans vast, it has its sway pell mell,
With immense power in waves and swell,
Nothing can stand for long in its way,
All that resist are washed clean away.
For water exists in many physical forms,
In ice, in mist, in drip-drops, and watery norms,
It's a fluid spirit, forever there for free,
To each us grace, hope, scope and humility.
Hell won't be so bad,
if the clouds are made of papyrus
and the devil has ink wells for eyes.
If I could grab hold of his tail and snip.
Forge it into a golden quill called grand forgiveness-
No, hell won't be so bad.
Hell won't be so bad if I'm given a bit of free time.
To go for a row upon that blistered river Styx...
To blacksmith a rhyme, make a U-turn in time.
To a crossroad with four signs that all point to...what if.
Hell won't be so bad.
If permitted to paint watercolor themes,
of starlings, galaxies, or dreams within a dream.
It would be a privilege to wash that fiery lake,
with a million hues of blue ecstasy.
To scribe about God or the color green
and daubs of sweetened peace.
Artiste, she paints in breathless strokes,
Dedicated to the art, the flow,
Colors alive, blushing in bold and bashful caresses,
Lifting the heart, soothing as laughter.
Artiste, she splatters the canvas with hope,
Grace captured on the bare canvas,
Home to so many dashes of light, vibrant and bright,
Quieting the darkness, pouring love out – magnificent!
Artiste, she renders the music over the canvas,
Stirring a spark, the melody so dazzling,
Reaching beyond the shadows, into the lissome,
Polished, poised, promises adorning the blank page.
Artiste, she rescues the moments, changing…,
Heart and soul – from dreary doubts, from doom
Appealing to the wonders, the awe and amazement,
So light softly enchants, peaceful as the snowflake’s fall.
Artiste, she eases every grief – with her flaming brush,
She daubs anticipation into the spirit’s wistful gasp,
Washing all the world in hesitant tints of love – songs
Racing with the wind, inspiring faith within.
Artiste, she lightens her grandma’s load, her blessing,
Murals of gentle dreams, falling easy against the scenes,
Crisp shades move the heart to hear – listen to the peace,
Enthusing the dawn, rousing the stars to glisten like her glossy paint.
Artiste, she is only ten years old, the age when talent –
Is just a twist of the light, a fading color, so bright,
Breathtaking, tumbling from a brush filled with amazement…
Her heart an open book, where God’s love will always look!
They closed the corner store some time ago
the ciggies by the two we now forgo
our lucky bags now a recollection
as is browsing in the comic section.
Mechanics' Social Club no longer stands
their topless barmaids, striving local bands
and Sunday morns' all-comers talent show
both pubs have closed, there's nowhere left to go.
They closed the corner store some time ago
finally called the time and stopped the show
The cafe, bank the chemist shop, all gone
the street is quiet, not much going on.
We'll have a Tesco store sometime, they say
we know they're sure to place it far away
you'll need an Uber car, too far to walk
We'll miss the bench where you could stop and talk.
They closed the corner store some time ago
Nail salons and vape stores, now come and go
barbers, bookies empty charity shops
you see the homeless sleep, you see no cops
once walking up and down the street in pairs
graffiti daubs, the windows smashed, who cares?
An out-of-towner builds an HMO
inside the corner store we used to know.