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.
goodbye summer goodbye
i will miss them so all the flowers in my garden
they needed me and that felt right
i spoke to the flowers explained to them
about the sun
about the shade
about the showers
i will miss them so
all the flowers in my garden
the days won't be able to hang around as long
the nights well they'll be around more
but as things stand i have no one
no one to kiss in the light of the moon
no one to hold beneath the pin lit sky
the days won't be able to hang around as long
i'll have to roll up the beach
I'll have to put it in storage
i wouldn't want it to freeze
or get seriously bitten
by the grip of winter days
i've learned by experience
even in autumn winter visits here
i'll have to roll up the beach
i will have to discretely wave my goodbyes
to the ocean curls and all of its pearls
speak quietly in order to not upset the boardwalk
she always cries
she hates goodbyes
she'll miss her friend
her best friend summer
i will have to discretely wave my goodbyes
no more t-shirts and shorts or barely there swim suits
i'm going to really miss the ladies dressed like this
i'm going to really miss what they do to my rubber neck
yes i confess i am not particularly attracted to parkas
no more t-shirts and shorts or barely there swim suits
i might as well say good bye now summer
i'm not very good at this it makes me sad
i should tell you i won't be going to the airport
i couldn't stand to watch you leave. i like you here
i might as well say good bye now summer
i'll help you pack, you'll need the grey clouds
the thunder cries the zig zag lightning bolts
you'll need some zip lock bags to pack the humidity
i've spoken to the birds they're all set to migrate
why does every story need to have an end...
Full and slowly opening in the room
a dozen roses bloom;
large buds once tightly closed
their fragrance open and arose;
a beauty of colors, lavender base
crimson tipped hues upon their face;
blushing pinks ready to unfold,
nothing better than a rose.
The whites open freely
as a single apricot glows discretely;
centered on the table, to the sun exposed
arranged carefully in layered rows;
two short lavender in front, the apricot and two whites
with seven tall lavender blooming in delight;
such a treat, some special thought
secured in love, not purchased just bought.
A dozen roses mark the spot
to say he loves me, loves me not?
savored with a kiss upon the cheek,
soft and gentle, please repeat;
gratitude, appreciation for the years we played
in the game of courting love on parade;
recalled now thru times of vigor and vim,
securing the memory of him.
A dozen roses given for no reason,
a costly price out of season;
but the thought continues to survive
in pressed dry petals, no longer alive;
while in the warmth of spring's young sun
love surpasses the short time we'd won;
beautiful and true
the lasting I love you.
Kiss me soft and gentle into old age,
write a love poem on the page;
who would have thought how far we've come
when life seemed ever on the run;
busy and rushing, we did pause
to keep life from slipping away just because;
hold me closer, kiss me tender
these are moments I want to remember.
A dozen roses set the scene
trimmed and tapered by the greens;
baby breath, full, white and thick
but it's the roses that make the mix;
a wafted fragrance perfumes the air
that carries heart and mind back there;
the good times and the bad,
the happy and the sad.
They all bring a tear to my eye
while on your shoulder I softly cry;
give me back those times,
summers warm and winter wines;
as life goes on, brief as it is,
we each had much to give;
but roses lose their petals, bend and fade
it is dreams that remain, keeps me safe, unafraid.
Inspire an old song from the 60s days. Bring me a rose.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v1CgVvg9-5E
The Lord Mayor received a letter,
The Chief Constable the same,
From the Big House in London,
Signed a double-barrelled name.
Harry Finnegan received a letter,
Not the same of course;
Tea at the City Hall next Tuesday
And kindly bring your horse.
There’s anticipation in the city,
The worst there’s ever been;
Finnegan’s horse has been invited
To take tea with the Queen.
Of course it’s really a secret.
They don’t know why she's here.
Harry Finnegan aint telling
Even after twenty pints of beer.
On arrival the queen got chilled
As she was driven up and down
Reading through the graffiti
In the rougher part of town.
And old Harry Finnegan,
Being a perfect gent
Lent her a horse blanket
To use till she went.
She said if she ever ever
Needed a horse for the day,
Like changing of the guards etc
Could he ensure he wasn’t away.
Then the Queen knighted Finnegan
Though she said of course
This isn’t for you Sir Harry
It’s for your magnificent horse.
They raised glasses in tribute to him
And Phil the Greek pulled his mane;
My dear old sir, he said,
We shall surely meet again.
Come up to the palace,
Meet our Charlie and our Anne.
They both like horses
Andd she is your special fan.
Then as they set off back to London.
Harry Finnegan’s old horse started
Laughing and laughing and laughing
And very discretely, land lazily far-ed.
Sir Harold Finnegan still loves his horse
Though not in any carnal sense, of course.
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!
Rejection Slips 4
Editor's Notes
by Michael R. Burch
Eat, drink and be merry
(tomorrow, be contrary).
( and complain
in bad refrain,
but please, not till I'm on the plane!)
Write no poem before its time
(in your case, this means never).
Linger over every word
(by which, I mean forever).
By all means, read your verse aloud.
I'm sure you'll be a star
(and just as distant, when I'm gone);
your poems are beauteous (afar).
Less Heroic Couplets: Rejection Slip
by Michael R. Burch
pour Melissa Balmain
Whenever my writing gets rejected,
I always wonder how the rejecter got elected.
Are we exchanging at the same Bourse?
(Excepting present company, of course!)
I consider the term “rejection slip” to be a double entendre. When editors reject my poems, did I slip up, or did they? Is their slip showing, or is mine?
Ode to Postmodernism, or, Bury Me at St. Edmonds!
by Michael R. Burch
"Bury St. Edmonds—Amid the squirrels, pigeons, flowers and manicured lawns of Abbey Gardens, one can plug a modem into a park bench and check e-mail, files or surf the Web, absolutely free."—Tennessean News Service. (The bench was erected free of charge by the British division of MSN, after a local bureaucrat wrote a contest-winning ode of sorts to MSN.)
Our post-modernist-equipped park bench will let
you browse the World Wide Web, the Internet,
commune with nature, interact with hackers,
design a virus, feed brown bitterns crackers.
Discretely-wired phone lines lead to plugs—
four ports we swept last night for nasty bugs,
so your privacy's assured (a threesome's fine)
while invited friends can scan the party line:
for Internet alerts on new positions,
the randier exploits of politicians,
exotic birds on web cams (DO NOT FEED!) .
The cybersex is great, it's guaranteed
to leave you breathless—flushed, free of disease
and malware viruses. Enjoy the trees,
the birds, the bench—this product of Our pen.
We won in with an ode to MSN.
Keywords/Tags: rejection, rejection slips, write, writing, poet, poets, poems, poetry, internet, social media, society, culture, virus, viruses, viral, coronavirus, malware, world wide web
Suspicion fell on the butler.
one scone was missing
a chair askew.
The constable scratched his chin
tapped his note pad.
The butler stood
Idly guilty in the doorway.
This was not the first such incident.
The Lady of the Manor strode into the room,
surveyed the situation
muttered under her breath.
The constable observed her behavior.
Discretely followed her
to the garden
where she inquired of the gardener
“Where is he?”
The gardeners reply:
“Behind the shed, Ma’am”
The constable joined her
as she looked behind the shed.
He was there all right.
Crumbs on his lips
jelly on his paws.
Guilty.
John G. Lawless
©7/15/2022
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
The hunter now without missing shoots,
And so the eagle without perching flies;
Who's wiser between shooter and flier;
Under direr circumstances above, guys?
When discretion finer discretion meets,
Who wins when each sharpens disguise?
Between keener fowler and slier fowled,
Who's truly more unbeatable and wise?
If the going ever discretely tougher turns,
That tougher get going no matter what;
Yours shall be valiant victory in the end
Regardless of how hard your effort's fought!
Unerring let their missiles aim
At softest parts of your fragility;
Simply wing your nonstop flight
Higher above hunter’s hostility.
As i sit here and ponder
About my love that's gone
She was tall, slim and shapely
Angelic and full of song
But then i started to wonder
At certain times she never came home
I used to wait and worry
And the streets i would sometimes roam
So many early mornings
She wandered in all tired
The changing of my love
Whom once i craved and desired
So many questions i asked
But for her, there was no tell
For it came to break my heart
As i told her to go to hell
One wintry stormy night
The truth i needed to know
I followed her in my car
Through winds and driving snow
Her car turns into a driveway
In an classy part of town
Where the elite look down upon us
In typical, turned up nose frown
I park my car discretely
Hidden from the road
As i make my way to this mansion
Quite an affluent abode
I slowly, quietly walk
To find out why she's here
As i approach a bay lit window
Stealthily i begin to peer
I see a well dressed man
Slightly older than me
As in the door way stands
My darling so close to me
But gone are her innocents
That were by my side
She's now scantily dressed
The truth to why she's lied
Her skin on show all over
Black leathers in sporadic view
Her breasts all pert and ample
Eyes of azure blue
I stand in total shock
As my love in another mans arms
Sharing her heavenly body
Rejoicing in her charms
No more of this i can take
As i turn and take flight
Betrayed by my loved one
Her other side of midnight
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/love5.php
There's something to be said
for doing the right thing,
even for the wrong reasons.
Reasons are about becoming, a work in progress,
as doing is about living, a lifetime process,
both fully where
and when
and why
and what
and how we are
each day following disembodied wandering rights
of sometimes restless,
other times restful
dreams,
recreations,
playtimes more cooperative
than competitive,
And nightmares
about doing the wrong thing
for economic and politically
left-brain thought to be correct reasons,
natural and right-brain spiritual,
Seeking paradise adventures
engaging health-embodied relationships
communing with reasons
felt more right
than anthro-elitist wrong,
Inviting something,
perhaps to be loudly said,
often to remain silently fed
but discretely unsaid,
while doing healthy things
for complex wrong and right wealthier reasons,
seasons,
compassions,
communions.
Yet, within this LeftBrain dominant ego
remains something deductively unfinishable,
some warm accompaniment unsaid,
not identifiable
assignable
for doing right things
with reasons of robust resonant intentions
to ride this creative tensioned cusp,
that sacred tipping secular point,
in-between not not wrong alternatives,
And know
this timeless ineffable advent
is sufficiently resilient adventure.