Long Debonair Poems
Long Debonair Poems. Below are the most popular long Debonair by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Debonair poems by poem length and keyword.
I'm replaying every little thing
I should have done instead.
There goes my hard-won peace of mind;
it's stuck on an endless rewind.
The Ferris wheel of hindsight
lifts me high enough to see
a thousand brilliant answers
that came far too late for me.
Round and round the roundabout,
the painted horses prance,
each one takes a jaunty stance
offering me another chance to dance.
I wade through all the bloopers
slow as creepy caterpillar loopers
marching in a Conga line of troopers
marking time with loop-de-loopers.
Head over heels I tumble,
cartwheeling through the air,
reviving every awkward pause
with a blank and baffled stare.
I tried to act unbothered.
Play all debonair and cool,
then flipped clean over on my bicycle
and somersaulted like a fool.
The past should have a closed
with a bouncer at the door.
Instead it sells me tickets
to the show I’ve seen before.
Here we go. It's loopy-looby-loo
Up and over, doing a loop-de-loop,
whirling, twirling round the loop,
hips a-swinging through a hula-hoop.
Here we go. It's loopy-looby-loo
Up and over, doing a loop-de-loop,
whirling, twirling round the loop,
hips a-swinging through a hula-hoop.
I dream to be a buccaneer out on a sailing ship
Purple parrot on my shoulder sharp cutlass on my hip.
Sailing upon the seven seas it's adventure I would seek
Treasure chests of gold doubloons I will capture from the meek.
A striking figure I would cast with skull and crossbones on my hat
“Surrender now me lowly dogs or prepare for death combat!”
“Cannon shot and the taste of steel should you choose to fight!
So save your souls and join my crew or to Davey Jones you’ll go this night.”
“Blood ’tis not my favoured wine. I’ve drunk it fully from my cup,
Surrender now me lowly dogs or blood I’ll feast from pups!”
A noble leader I will make winning battles from my lips,
Admiral of an awesome fleet of four and twenty ships.
The bards of court will sing of me, a debonair dashing brute
Swooning lasses wholly lusting for a buccaneer and his loot.
____________________________
After twenty years of pirating and spilling claret on the seas
Death lives upon my shoulders after brutal killing sprees.
Bereavement is the briny wake of this immoral trip
My lust's for wealth not fantasies, and innocence has lost its grip.
A hollow man with no regret the keys to Hades at my behest
No need for words of harmony as breathe stops, within your chest.
Stand and fight and I’ll feed the sharks or yield and I’ll do the same.
I have no need for spineless crew unless my blade you tame.
No value do I see in life unless it’s ransom that I pursue
I’ve slit the throats of worthless filth, destructions the path I imbue.
My crew they only follow me for their blood lust I do quell
They’re damned to me forever till we meet the gates of hell.
My whispered name fills men with dread, I’m a murderous bastard beast
The widows that I’ve created will rejoice when I’m deceased.
Despite your proclivity for the dramatic,
your latest love saga limps barren of marrow.
Perhaps your heart’s unfruitful seeds need a harrow,
lest your spent nuance-fields shrivel up traumatic.
You brag and attest that cupid well tends your quest,
leaving raw, arrow-clad women piled as discards.
You secretly fear lust might pulse your heart to shards,
yet with temerity, you divest, then detest.
Wimpy-lame best names your decrepit armature.
You feel sure you have sent many down pain’s vortex.
You think yourself debonair and worldly complex,
but such false cheers just you hear in dark’s aperture.
written for contest that required the italicized words be used
Debonair Dog sauntered into flower show at quarter to three
We offered her a glass of divinely suited lemon tea.
As she held the cup, we noted her paw’s prominent pinky.
She pronounced the ebony cone flowers a bit too inky
Her hat was the most admirable periwinkle blue,
Her purple suit outstanding, a designer’s ultimate coop.
What breed is she? Someone asked me, possibly Miss McGoo.
Breed all her own, I told her. She’s Miss Debonair Dog to you.
She brought a new touch of elegance to the flower show that day.
Her presence alone, brought in gawkers, who usually gripe to pay.
She walks with a certain air, you know who she is right away.
Springtime has never looked this great. Just saying, okay?
I think she stole the money, my assistant ran over to say.
Who? I asked, not thinking that there would be any way…
That Miss Debonair Dog would think to “do us” that way.
But alas, she was gone, as was all the customer’s hard earned pay.
Through forded streams, nostalgia seems, to be a sense of Nordic Dreams
The pathways to yesterdays, appear to retreat to ample schemes.
Broken nails and nightingales lighten up your brooks and streams.
Take a lock of broken stock to see what truly seems.
Lilt repose in lily throws, is knocking at my silken chair
Through the slits, the moonlight sits, its gaze upon my flaxen hair.
Opportunity flaunts as debutantes, in appearance gracefully debonair.
Gentle words floating from the birds, act upon me without a care
As a white dove from above, with beads of honey running wild
I withdrew to be with you, for words that are Coleridge styled.
They come in turn, to gently discern, and then gather into a pile.
In a continuum, within this kingdom, they come at us all the while.
Though they seem as in a dream, to be of pure fantasy;
if I believe, I may conceive, to have them become reality.
They may seem far as a distant star, but may be in propinquity.
Permanence in ascertainments, can be a hallmark of destiny.
They address as they coalesce, the storefront pretentiousness
in giving description, within inscription, with literary prowess.
Words convey, contained in a foray, upon the domain of impressiveness,
they are contained as they remained, as acknowledged in cohesiveness.
All the rhymes during the times, taste as sweet as butter creams.
As a scribe would inscribe, the essence of moonbeams
In our yesterday, and today, written on papyrus reams
Both fantasy and reality, within the nostalgia of Nordic Dreams.
Admired by many from afar,
especially in jam-packed bar;
must include a fair derriere.
How he stirred his tea is his affair.
Any amount of shove and push,
like a beating about the bush,
will drive him up sanity’s wall.
It’ll make his coming out to stall.
More than the sum total of parts.
Eyebrows are raised at broken hearts.
Like flotsam, affairs jettisoned
and much of the jetsam yet to stoned.
The episode at Walt’s party,
back in the day of drink hearty,
where Mickey and Minnie romped
on the screen amongst feet stomped.
Giving his due: He’s debonair
and goes through life without a care.
His Free Will not ever questioned,
and compassion not sessioned.
If passion weighed up against norm
and he’s expected to conform,
what message do others relate?
Their self-loathing must abate.
Two sisters it seems lived near Bowling Green,
Each a beauty in every way.
One fair it is told with hair of pure gold,
Eyes blue as the sky in May.
The other brunette, the lovely Collette,
With eyes a deep, warm brown,
Two beautiful girls with masses of curls,
The most sought after girls around.
Wherever they went they turned heads and gents,
Would follow it seemed in their wake.
They were ladies of leisure, used to parties and pleasure,
And their father spared naught for their sake.
A young man came their way one fine summer day.
Debonair and handsome was he.
He charmed his way in, with each sister he sinned,
But he'd learn that their favors weren't free.
Their father was wealthy, his bank account healthy.
The young man thought he'd hit his mark,
But to his dismay he found out that day,
To dally with these girls not smart.
Behind him he'd left many hearts bereft,
And he thought the sisters the same.
But together they came and called out his name,
And their family knew who to blame.
'Tis a very small man who will take a girl's hand,
Then leave her ashamed and in tears.
To be left in the mud covered in blood,
Would now be the least of his fears.
Because of deception they'd shared his affection,
Now he would deal with their father.
The old man cried out with a mighty shout,
And the young man began to grow smaller.
A small man I see, a small man ye be,
And never no more shall they see ye.
In a prison ye'll live in a prism I give,
To my daughters where they will keep thee.
There is no escape, this is your fate,
For your crimes now you'll pay the fee.
You'll live in this locket I draw from my pocket,
Until they no longer desire thee.
The sisters could share it, each one could wear it,
And he would be theirs forever.
Trapped in the locket he took from his pocket,
Because of his wicked endeavors.
Now the sisters it seems visit him in his dreams,
So he isn't too lonely at all.
Though filled with depression he's their prized possession,
Trapped in that little gold ball.
Kept locked in his prison to madness he's driven,
And the sight of it leaves them in stitches.
Never play fast and loose or attempt to misuse,
The tender affections of witches.
Grandpa T. Squirrel was a put together guy for sure.
G.Q. Quarterly was his magazine of choice, so pure.
He was dapper and debonair, a dancing escort with flair.
Women squirrels sighed longingly when his scent was in the air.
Grandpa T. taught his grandchildren to walk with pride and love.
He reminded them that Grandma Squirrel watched them from above.
They knew he would never again marry, for he was still hitched.
He lived to be twenty-seven, and this fact is true, no glitch.
But while he was on earth, he gave many hearts a sigh.
They thought he was marvelous, a truly wonderful sweet old guy.
Grandma Squirrel waited patiently until it was his time to go.
He was a dandy, for sure. All of us agree, and many others know.
In debonair, burnt-orange, fur cloak
You trot your preened tail in front of the men folk
Nose pointed skyward prowling for a free dinner after dark
Your prickly ears snare every sensual bark
Squinty eyes reflect the sleekest of movements
With soft, silky prance; you parade your flossy accoutrements
Until spotting a virile, unsuspecting suitor
Your animalistic hunger will your wary maven tame and tutor
Forthwith, wrapping your seductive paws around every seamless border
Your fawning tongue feasts on every truant part in short order
Then dragging the drained prey back to your temporal den
Smacking your satiated lips you howl and grin
Her name was Susan and she was breathtaking.
She could spin a poem into a spider’s web strength and ethereal wisps.
I was smitten beyond reason.
Captured by lust quickly tuning toward love.
Then the however happened.
However, Susan was adept at spinning a gossamer web
Silently, she captured victims blinded with lust
like this one whose idea of loving her went bust
Susan was a mean girl, a Black Widow weaver
she encased him in a silk cocoon...
until her appetite for a meal woke her from peaceful rest
A smile on her face, legs crossed... all eight of them.
Patiently, she waited while giving herself a mani/pedi
Susan sat drooling at the thought of lunch
She decided she better dress for dinner
after all…
her lunch date was just hanging around.
She looked such a temptress
With scarlet lipstick smeared over her face
And perfectly manicured talons
She set to work unwrapping her prey
Ready to nibble him down to the bone
Susan’s prey appeared all debonair with bells on
She could see through his charming but fake façade
He saw her eyes glimmer, her lips red and inviting
She offered him a kiss as she wrapped her eight legs around him
His eyes bulged as she kissed his lips while suffocating him in her web
He begged her to stop as she drank from his mouth,
until he was silenced
The above verses were inspired by a prompt given to poets, Jan, Tania and Lin, by Arlo Parker, who wrote the first verse. We give credit to Arlo for inspiring us to write these verses; a joint venture of Arlo Parker and the mean girls.