Long Debonaire Poems
Long Debonaire Poems. Below are the most popular long Debonaire by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Debonaire poems by poem length and keyword.
The big, bad wolf wears a suit of gray with a snide smile.
Standing upright, he believes himself to be debonaire
as he takes his comb from his breast pocket and slicks back his hair.
Why does he flash his pearly white fangs
and file his claws 'til they're razor sharp?
He smells the fear of docile creatures; he taunts the weak,
stalking his prey while vultures circle overhead in waiting.
The face of evil in a fairy tale with girls wearing red cloaks
and shepherd boys watching their flocks on hillsides.
Flames like daggers from his yellow eyes pierce the pastoral images.
Clear skies become dark by his phantom-like shadows.
He walks tall in black boots of Italian leather
towering higher than treetops in their eyes
beyond the echoes of his menacing laughter.
The woodland creatures cower in their hiding places,
yet hope for a glimpse of the beautiful princess
in her dazzling horse-drawn carriage crossing the forest.
Through the darkness, the ancient land shines like an emerald
with fragrant flowers in bloom; the petals strewn her path
in a storybook from a child's shelf between rainbow bookends.
Surely, heavenly showers shall rain down on the land
and good shall overcome evil with rainbows coloring the pages
as an enchanted princess in a shimmering gown rights all wrongs,
though her strength is not immediately evident.
Melodious birds fly on the outskirts of the tale,
orbiting the forest without fear, searching for the light.
The princess, oblivious to danger, dances amongst the trees
calling the shy creatures from their hiding places.
She ignores the wolf's hideous laughter in a dream-state.
Looking for her prince, she kisses a frog to no avail
then spies three little pigs with curly tails and fearful eyes.
They know the wolf too well. His gray suit coats the dreams
of their happily ever afters. Our heroine, the princess, wipes their tears,
rolls up her sleeves, and builds a brick fortress.
She bravely changes history to her story not giving in to fear.
Fear only fuels her adrenalin rush 'til the job is done.
The wolf huffs and puffs, bites and claws unable to infiltrate.
He eventually sulks off on all fours with his tail between his legs
and is never heard from again. At least, not in this storyland.
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders
for Fairy Tails contest (Debbie Guzzi)
*the wolf is personified
The Path To Least Resistance -
By: Sue S. Side
Amp pull ease just sparked insight,
I suddenly became aware,
(actually self actualization
came ohm to roost - dare
ring with mighty stir since this
Earthling orbited thru the atmosphere
back in time many a passing,
quickening, and rip snorting year),
how my current psychological,
neurological, and emotional despair,
sans crafted - plane vanilla
existential plight grounded, nixed,
and shorted former spunky,
quirky, and goofy boyish air
snuffed out, hopscotched
(along buttery, bow jangly rocky
unlevel road i.e. skeletal derriere)
extinguished courtesy nihilistic fanfare
with counterproductive antiwelfare
of self, when just a tendershoot, nothing
boot bag of unlovely bones when bare
grim reaper das scythe
did to hunker down
specifically anorexia attired
with trademark black hoodie wear
firmly entrenched, would
not budge, clear
out, nor disappear
matter of fact arrogant behavior
cannibalistic ornery rode
roughshod, and cavalier
dauntless demeanor debonaire
leaving body electric
in utmost disrepair,
lo parents trumpeted
state of emergency
and sought out consigliere
one Doctor Ted Goldberg care
fully applied his deft, heft,
whence nervosa finally left
after quite long stretch of time
not without a fight,
and permanently sear
my esprit de corp
undermining foursquare - buzzfeeding
every epidermal micro hectare
pot tent lee loosed pendulum
within pit of mine being, a nightmare
minimally livingsocial, linkedin
to tomb ma birth family prepare
ring to die just on verge of puberty
analogous to bot sized
wrecking ball lob
bing within me tummy scare
ring the Bejesus
from those who begat me
nonetheless felt immense care
and concern helpless, and lacked app
nowadays accessible within sphere,
viz zitting world wide web,
now holed up in mancave sitting here
reflecting how I sabotaged
vitality, virility and vim stunting
maturation across vast swath of yesteryear!
In Scotland, it is illegal to be drunk in possession of a cow
But is it legal to make love to a cow while drunk
A man named Ronald MacDonald once robbed Wendy's
That sure sounds like a whole lot of burger bunk
There's actually a city in Turkey called 'Batman'
The law states all young boys must be named Robin
'Climax', Cumming' and 'Gay' are city names in Georgia
Need to be very liberal minded in the land of cotton
There's a city in Missouri named 'Licking' oh boy!
Also, one named 'Butts', that's a real hooter
A boy in a Florida was arrested for disruptive behavior
Excessive farting turned off classmates computers
Sony once accidentally sold 700,000 camcorders
That had the technology to see through people's clothing
Mozart wrote a canon entitled 'Leck mich im Arsch/
Translates to 'Lick me in the ****' naughty composing
Amazingly a man once wore 70 items of clothing
To avoid an airline's extra baggage charge
In a deck of cards, the only king without a mustache
Is the handsome debonaire King of Hearts
A Canadian farmer once rented ad space on his cows
His cows went on strike for a piece of the action
A book titled 'Everything Men Know About Women'
Filled with 128 blank pages which is only a fraction
Though they won't admit it, women fart as much as men
They cough out loud to disguise their big boomers
Takes forty-two muscles in your face to make a frown
Just four to smack someone's head needing a suture
Soul - an outcast ?
Soul is an outcast beneath this sheath,
seldom surfacing from right underneath!
Stoic as ever at the on-going spectacle;
intervening wisdom - ever expecting a miracle.
Apprehended and obsessed to thrills that dissipate;
oblivious to the fact that it is the mind that create!
Incarcerated for lives in the past and used to living beneath,
indeed the Soul is an outcast Being beneath the sheath.
Vagaries of thoughts and mind that is given in to - 'oh mate'!
innumerable routes of torments that we take it through and subjugate.
Intoxicated with acquired vices and scruples galore;
will it ever swim across to see the coast in any yore ?
Attempts to flush the Spirit out with spirits will only make it flee;
Nay can you smoke the Soul out like you do the bee!
It will slip out unannounced - thence your time for your last wreathe,
of course the Soul is an outcast, deep down below the sheath!
Find an anchor with nature and character that is debonaire,
to steer through the plicatures and help contemplate on that abstract 'Solitaire'!
Other modes of journey in music, art or any rhythm - for that wisdom,
be pursued with focus and passion to swap for that - ever reverent freedom!
Fleeting time passeth every moment - never to return,
emasculate in vision and mission - looming large and threaten!
Emancipation from all bonds I seek before I finally breathe!
Alas, for my Soul that is an outcast in my own sheath!
Your Erin green eyes, piercing my soul at night.
Beseeching my soul to pick up a pen and write.
Your flowing Auburn hair, with a " Distinguished Gray " .
How do I make my pen express feelings, WHEN I HAVE NONE,
So Sleek, Suave, and Debonaire, how I wish we had some time to SHARE.
I ponder with pen in hand, Where do I get feelings from: they must be out THERE
I seem to remember, along time ago: I knew the feeling of LOVE.
But She went away August 25th, On our Everlasting DAY.
I know that I will never be a poet, for I can Never have another One,
That can show me how to write, the true feelings of my Heart.
With no feelings: No Knowledge of feelings, How do I write with my Heart?
The emerald eyes: say IT all: No longer can you use " LENORE " as a wall.
My heart hears the faint call: of feelings :Yet with pen in hand, my mind says :Stall.
So many lonely years, so many tears I've cried, another with Jade colored eyes.
Through her and her many Peers : Tamiviolet, Bill, and Charlie; so Profound.
And the Great Matriarch Poetess : CAROL BROWN.
I beg of you all help me learn to pen feelings, as I read in your words.
Bringing to life : Clouds, Flowers, and Birds.
Sometime I to Will BE A POET.
.
Your Erin green eyes, piercing my soul at night.
Beseeching my soul to pick up a pen and write.
Your flowing Auburn hair, with a " Distinguished Gray " .
How do I make my pen express feelings, WHEN I HAVE NONE,
So Sleek, Suave, and Debonaire, how I wish we had some time to SHARE.
I ponder with pen in hand, Where do I get feelings from: they must be out THERE
I seem to remember, along time ago: I knew the feeling of LOVE.
But She went away August 25th, On our Everlasting DAY.
I know that I will never be a poet, for I can Never have another One,
That can show me how to write, the true feelings of my Heart.
With no feelings: No Knowledge of feelings, How do I write with my Heart?
The emerald eyes: say IT all: No longer can you use " LENORE " as a wall.
My heart hears the faint call: of feelings :Yet with pen in hand, my mind says :Stall.
So many lonely years, so many tears I've cried, another with Jade colored eyes.
Through her and her many Peers : Tamiviolet, Bill, and Charlie; so Profound.
And the Great Matriarch Poetess : CAROL BROWN.
I beg of you all help me learn to pen feelings, as I read in your words.
Bringing to life : Clouds, Flowers, and Birds.
Sometime I to Will BE A POET
I waded through a field of
she loves me she loves me knots
Needing to tie her bow to my happiness
I searched vigorously
Until I found that one wise daisy
For I knew she was my forever
My heart was incapable of
being with anyone else
I planned out the path
To the aisle of our bliss
For she was and is
everything that matters
That smile that breathes life into my days
I feel comfort and excitement in her arms
When I found her
I had no need to look further
I left the searching to the undecided
The fickle fools
Looking for their Jennie in a bottle
With a glass held in a hand
What's your sign
Clever pickup lines
Thinking them prettier
With each sip of wine
I preferred a softer approach
Not particularly smooth
or debonaire
Yet she too
miraculously was drawn to me
Somehow able to see
The spark within the blue
of my adoring eyes
Pupils dilated
Increasing double in size
Twenty two years
Ten thousand kisses
This is
My witness
My sweetie
is the perfect Mrs.
No field
Of Daisies
Will ever make
This mind hazy
For I know
With all my heart
She Loves Me
So thankful
We tied the knot!
For SKAT's Romantic Pen Contest.
(Now we hear from the murderess. She explains
that she killed Calmette because he published
love letters which she had written to her husband,
a minister in the government. It is true that she
made her own way to the police station, having
given her word that she would answer charges.
"Le Gratin" is the "upper crust" of French society.)
4. Henriette Caillaux
He got his just come-uppance. Ça suffit.
What else is there to make an issue of?
Oh, very well: you wish to know my plea.
My plea is, I'm a woman, and in love.
I didn't leave the scene. I waited there.
I am a lady, I'd done nothing wrong.
My attitude, you think, is debonaire?
I said I'd keep my word. I came along.
What kind of scoundrel publishes the letters
that pass between two lovers? Tell me that!
He sinned against our love, against his betters:
The cur deserved to die, I'll tell you flat!
The jurors? Do they tipple, make love? Dance?
They are red-blooded Frenchmen? You will see.
Le Gratin, c'est Le Gratin. France is France.
No jury will convict. Take it from me.
When someone's out to damage and disparage,
When all the chips are down, this is a marriage.
King of the Jungle
Queuing with my homies
Houdinis every one.
No sharpened tongues, but scissors,
To calm the shaggy throng
Not all blokes in this queue,
Despite lockdown's grooming blooper,
As I stand here and review,
Will contest my Bradley Cooper
Alas, Delilah wins.
It's time to shave my greying locks
Hirsute-less head, Yul Brynner,
Now the look my ego rocks
Now a simple peasant
With falling dreams, so vain.
No more the Isolation King
With glorious flowing mane..
My crowning jewel.
Majestic theft!
The jungle cries, her heart bereft..
As gothic curls now hit the floor;
The swooning fans will be no more
And yet..
Enthroned here, buys me precious time..
To formulate this simple rhyme
And meditate upon what's passed
As hairy shoes I have amassed.
I dwell on more important things
While scissors snap, and clipper sings
Of friendship. Love.
Of breathing air.
Despite the loss of debonaire..
The blessing of recaptured choices.
The privilege of freedom's voices.
And now my head, so strangely free;
Reminds of who I'm meant to be.
Jinjagoliath
13th April 2021
My Medical Moonstone
His eyes are a beautiful sea-green.
His hair, a combination of grey
strewn upon stands of gold.
Gentle, a great sense of humor!
Who is this man?
Why, he is my family doctor!
He actually has the ability to laugh
and to be himself!
Not a conceited man, nor a stiff
white coated physician who prances
about being debonaire.
But even better, reads my poetry.
Right there in his office,
During an all too short, medical
journey.
All he can get me to do is have
my blood tested.
I will not take drugs, nor do any
other tests.
It's my body, my choice.
He allows me to have my voice!
He was not an easy find in a new
city.
But I hope I do die under his care.
That type of doctor-patient relationship
is so very rare.
My "Golden God" doctor!
Oh, so human and true.
It is no wonder your patients,
have the highest respect for you!
November 12, 2019
Form: