Long Discretely Poems
Long Discretely Poems. Below are the most popular long Discretely by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Discretely poems by poem length and keyword.
Lena Lane
1894-1912
Dying at 18 was my punishment from God.
“Bless me Heavenly Father, for I have sinned.”
Johnny Barrow found the silk ribbon,
The only man man enough to look for it;
For I did not resist his insistent male charms,
That day in Turnbull, that rich awkward moment in time,
When two decided heartbeats and one determined hand,
Found the scented red ribbon,
Concealed most discretely upon my airy bosom.
Shame and sin indeed found us receptive that day;
He and me, staring awestruck at blue sky and white skin;
But I am fine with this legacy of private meetings,
And alas, private audacious touchings;
If only kindly Estella knew, poor sick soul;
Johnny really loved her; all the stars above admit that.
But Johnny wanted me, desired me with wanton civility,
Wanted me for the grand games we played in secret,
Touching games, grand groping games,
In the hidden lacey canyons of Turnbull.
If only kindly Estella knew, that poor homely thing;
Poor sick and disheveled girl!
Over there in your shriveled grave!
I took your boy, Estella!
I took brown-eyed Johnny Barrow,
And branded him with my fiery mark!
Millay Has Her Way with a Vassar Professor
by Michael R. Burch
After a night of hard drinking and spreading her legs,
Millay hits the dorm, where the Vassar don begs:
“Please act more chastely, more discretely, more seemly!”
(His name, let’s assume, was, er . . . Percival Queemly.)
“Expel me! Expel me!”?She flashes her eyes.
“Oh! Please! No! I couldn’t! That wouldn’t be wise,
for a great banished Shelley would tarnish my name . . .
Eek! My game will be lame if I can’t milque your fame!”
“Continue to live here?carouse as you please!”
the beleaguered don sighs as he sags to his knees.
Millay grinds her crotch half an inch from his nose:
“I can live in your hellhole, strange man, I suppose ...
but the price is your firstborn, whom I’ll sacrifice to Moloch.”
(Which explains what became of pale Percy’s son, Enoch.)
A Religion based on love,
Is following a book full of,
Slavery, murder, fear and hate.
Centuries full of debate,
Continuing to be mistranslated,
Sects continue to separate,
Congregating in their own group.
A soup of different mandates,
Hinder self navigating,
Dictating the way to be.
It's never too late to see,
The one you create for free,
Love is the one true way.
Activate your intention,
Self educate your ascension,
Concentration is the key.
Elevate all you see,
Emanate awesome energy,
Help every one you see,
That needs something you can be.
Spread seeds of positivity,
Pluck weeds of depravity,
The gravity of a loving deed,
Could suffocate the greed.
No creed would have agreed,
It would leave them obsolete,
Discretely keeping you at their feet,
Eating from what they speak of.
Rise above all religions,
With a vision based on love.
Late yesterday afternoon
I got lost in your moon
In your deep ocean.
My heart was drowning
I became a sick fan
Of your smile, my darling.
I was afraid to utter a word
I became speechless, oh! Lord
I love this amazing woman.
For ethical reasons, you ignored me
I now know how it feels to be a dummy
How it feels to be seriously in love.
I cried for the Almighty Being above
To stop the flow of this chemical
Which is destroying my poor soul.
I got lost in your ocean
I got lost in your moon
Late yesterday afternoon.
I know now how it feels to be a true fan
How to be discretely and seriously in love
With a woman who is as pretty as a Dove.
Copyright© August, 2014, Hebert Logerie, All Rights Reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry books.
Here I am again searching for my new found friend
We were walking together hand in hand
And in a fleeting moment the wind spun around
Rooting up trees and flinging light poles all over the ground
and my friend is nowhere to be found. I am still shaking
and my heart is racing…everything happen so fast
there nothing that I could do but hold on to my conviction
until the moment pass. I can still feel the chill in my bones
as I ponder the strange happenings that erode my soul.
I look towards the horizons to understand the nature of man
But all I see was buzzing bee flying around the tree squeezing nectar from the withered flowers, while scores of monarchs and painted lady butterflies gather round the field penetrating wild flowers and making plans for the next mass migration. I kept searching the universe for my friend, but my new found friend began to growl like a bear spilling anxiety in the atmosphere. It hid discretely behind the tree sucking honey from the honey comb and doing a strange dance in the cold, so I have climbed to the top of the mountain to understand the oracle and unravel the mystery that is shrouded in secrecy of man. When my beau comes tell him that I am marinating chicken in the sun
When my beau comes tell him that he has a long distant to run, the clouds are rolling above me and the old man buried in the clouds is waving at the planes as they maneuver in the skies. I stand on this heightened mountain looking across the horizon for my newly found friend and watch the fleeting day’s passes like rockets parachuting in the sky.
Poems about Poets V
Edna St. Vincent Millay Has Her Way with a Vassar Professor
by Michael R. Burch
After a night of hard drinking and spreading her legs,
Millay hits the dorm, where the Vassar don begs:
“Please act more chastely, more discretely, more seemly!”
(His name, let’s assume, was, er ... Percival Queemly.)
“Expel me! Expel me!”—She flashes her eyes.
“Oh! Please! No! I couldn’t! That wouldn’t be wise,
for a great banished Shelley would tarnish my name ...
Eek! My game will be lame if I can’t milque your fame!”
“Continue to live here—carouse as you please!”
the beleaguered don sighs as he sags to his knees.
Millay grinds her crotch half an inch from his nose:
“I can live in your hellhole, strange man, I suppose ...
but the price is your firstborn, whom I’ll sacrifice to Moloch.”
(Which explains what became of pale Percy’s son, Enoch.)
Downdraft
by Michael R. Burch
for Dylan Thomas
We feel rather than understand what he meant
as he reveals a shattered firmament
which before him never existed.
Here, there are no images gnarled and twisted
out of too many words,
but only flocks of white birds
wheeling and flying.
Here, as Time spins, reeling and dying,
the voice of a last gull
or perhaps some spirit no longer whole,
echoes its lonely madrigal
and we feel its strange pull
on the astonished soul.
O My Prodigal!
The vents of the sky, ripped asunder,
echo this wild, primal thunder—
now dying into undulations of vanishing wings . . .
and this voice which in haggard bleak rapture still somehow downward sings.
Why the Kid Gloves Came Off
by Michael R. Burch
for Lemuel Ibbotson
It's hard to be a man of taste
in such a waste:
hence the lambaste.
Keywords/Tags: poet, poets, poetry, poems, write, writing, muse, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Dylan Thomas, drink, drinking
'Twas the night before tomorrow
And the morning after that.
Father Time passed by discretely,
Didn’t even tip his hat.
The calendars of bygone years
Stacked up to nothing much.
The women I’d been cozy with
Keep mostly out of touch.
Can’t measure by semesters
With a stale curriculum.
Can’t reckon by elections
And corrupt officialdom.
The priests of possibilities
Preach sermons on TV,
And offer their salvation
With extended warrantees.
Shameless conmen hawking snake oil
Rake in millions every year,
With quarantines and lockdown
On the omicron frontier.
Tried to tip toe past temptation
Couldn’t circumvent the booze.
All those Christmas decorations
Can’t disguise these solstice blues.
It was hidden below her hairline, across her nape of neck, for her to know that it was there, but no one else just yet.
Younger sister Sophie snuck through her bedroom window. And no one knew that she had gone to party and to dance, to greet, to meet, to drink with friends in Haute Sauverne in France.
Sophie had wisely second thought of riding with the fire chief son, but school friends had allayed concern, all piling in, and not alone, fifteen year old could soon be home, when dance and fun was done.
The night was cold, the heater on, and and tired young man drove off the road, hard crashing with his precious load. Dear Sophie was the only one, with belt forgot, which was undone. Friend sat beside while they both cried and friend held fast her trembling hand, held hand while Sophie cried, held hands while Sophie died.
Four sisters now are three. There's Jen and Natalie, and then the youngest of them all is known only as Mimi.They lost their sparkle lively one, their dearest sister Sophie.They lost their dearest lively one. Four sisters, though not now alone, four sisters now are three.
And so, some time since shock subsides, though sadness never gone, I glanced those words beneath her hair, those words discretely hid, that parents would forbid if they had shown, if they had known that they were there.
But older sister was compelled to get for Sophie sister gone, those words always remembered yet, in tattoo script on nape of neck, her pleading words to not forget, and which said, secret 'neath her hair, and yet cut deep forever there:
'wake her up and tell her',
yes, 'tell her that I love her.'
(Madame is pronounced with accent on maDAME, the French way)
Near a hole in the wall, with no qualm,
Never seen, sits a frumpy Madame.
Using lotion, she works
Giving smooth strokes and jerks
With her fabulous and renowned palm.
By Andrea Dietrich
*This is the theme of a movie I saw on cable.
Its name is Irena Palm, the name a widow takes when
she goes to work at a club in order to make enough money
to allow her grandson the surgery he needs to save his
life. It's not a *****, but her "work" is a bit erotic yet discretely
portrayed. It got high marks from the critics. My writing this
was inspired by Deborah Guzzi's Limerick Contest and now
I enter it into Skat's contest!
Check it out: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0762110/
The fury of suspense
Neither dare mention
Once the moment presents
It's clear their intention
Day in and day out
Both trying to achieve
With the same know how
And allotted leave
Bearing obligations
That fade by day
When both imaginations
Discretely play
That fragment of time
The flock divides
The last two in line
For a thrill seeking ride
The shape of two virgins
A deceitful mirage
Sinfully splurging
An innocent massage
She pulls away
But only a little
The game, in play
Her bow, his fiddle
Her eyes of wonder
Add gas to his fire
Rainbow induced thunder
Of lustful desire
The inevitable irony
Is such a shame
Once finished, they see
They are to blame
The excitement vanished
The mystery, no more
He's no longer famished
And she, now a whore