Long Drawls Poems
Long Drawls Poems. Below are the most popular long Drawls by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Drawls poems by poem length and keyword.
We entwine among boughs
of leafy trees in graceful fluidity so evergreen...
and whisper of love's harvest after gentle drawls
rising with petals from coos of evening,
when branches drape our secrets
in glossed foil to amble on,
beyond tremble of stars.
Until midnight wraps our kisses in its cooling veil,
thanking a god for breaths which drift
into curled wanderings ,
to awaken us upon the scent of day's blossoms…
lips stain teacup
while gauzy air cuddles our ardent pledge,
as we become one forest
under our shade
that I rest calmly knowing you are my home.
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8/11/2019
Contest of Lu Loo: My Home
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Re-post dated 02/01/ 2017
Blackbird of omen drawls in trembled heaves
Across spoilt air, near an empty farmhouse,
Where a lone keeper plucks blooms and young leaves
Arranging them on the mead's cornerstone
As he utters an oath like an eerie groan--
Within the blur of haunted thoughts which rouse.
Possessed by tricky dreams, hours still recall
Marauders grappling his wife, on tightened rope ;
That in dim scramble, a gunfire…a fall
Causing quick flight where loved one disappears --
Is she deceased, alive? … bird’s foresight rears:
Through crypt of nights, this keeper sings of hope.
Written 4/3/2018
Contest of Laura Loo: Rhyme Time 1
Mint stars reaching out to greet the sky
Cool zephyr blowing across your cheeks
Much nearer, your silhouette appears
Like a fog carried by beams ,you advance
With sequins on hair tossed by the breeze
As your flowing chemise billows like a sail
To throttle on bare toes across our woods
I seek your face rising from scented grass
A nape blushing like jasmine’s breath
I become an orbit twirling summer’s fire
That my eyes behold a sigh in the light
And the edges between us grow tighter
While your fingers moan to whisper this lore;
“The stars will be watching us,
and we will show them
what it is to be a thin crescent moon.
You and I unselfed, will be together...”
And this magic frees me to sing in drawls
You murmur,"soak in the pour of rain,"
While we lay on the meadow of my arms
Allowing the lanterns that hang on air
To consume a flame kindling our breaths
Until you and I become one stem.
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*Inspiration from the poem of Sufi poet, Rumi,
( A Moment of Happiness), a stanza highlighted
above.
Any Poem Contest #4
Sooth this irrational rage resplendent in its affliction
See through the foolish drawls that make up my surrounding core
Understand I see each flaw of mine in light of your brilliance
Not to compare yours to my worth as wretches do thrash in vain,
But to mold along your own tapestries,
And rightfully, in threads of gold, sustain
Oh, can it be as I request your stay,
That you are truly aware of the magic in your poetic sway
Of a life so drawn to the scaffolds of your welcoming mind
To see its dream, structure, and its whole, combined
It must be so, oh enthralling writer,
That we see through lenses reflecting all shimmers of might
Sifting and searching beneath all shades of blue
To find our reflections have touched surfaces we still yet discover
Within myself and you
And my love, it must be so,
That in your makings, your labors, your loves
I find myself not only nearer, but clearer,
As this budding rose no longer wavers in irksome winds of her doubt
Tremoring in such loathsome drawls birthed by some distant, parched earth
You, in your magic, cultivate and reward such growth
So that this rose ever rejoices her new mirth,
And with your sure, steadfast direction,
Out the very canals that gush your soul’s purpose
You seed her worth, feed her worth, and know her worth
Just as she worships yours
Names carved deep,
in marble stones, keep
memories fast asleep,
until loved ones weep.
Mementos kept in drawls,
photos displayed in halls,
precious things hung on walls,
oft echo memory recalls.
One is living, one is dead.
Why not remember a thread,
that is ongoing, instead
of annual tributes, planned ahead?
A grave grows old,
neglected in the cold.
It keeps the passed on hold,
when keepsakes, instead, evolve.
Each touch of them, each look,
is like reading a book,
over again, lest you mistook
a detail, or what you forsook.
So I leave the cemetery alone,
in its seldom visited zone.
Instead I focus on being re-shown,
the tapestry of echoes hand-sewn.
On the Rug with Death,
two beers in hand
(though no one here drinks)
we laugh, his lifespan
a joke still fizzed. My breath
ignites wars, lulls drivers
to sleep and builds bridges
for his guests. What idle past-
-times you worship, he pitches,
eye wand’ring to traverse
the awkward silence as I
know what comes next. My
gauge on Man’s power dwindles.
Perhaps, he drawls, you might taste
something ever so slightly
more enlight’ning. His heavy
accent traces over the words, like
sugar on a sticky thumb post-binge.
Tongue in cheek, his fingers surpass
my laugh in wishing to be broken.
Deep solace lingers on between the pauses
of your lisping words--- a quest for normalcy
amidst the yells never heard by moonless eves,
by cathartic drawls never felt by anyone
except me... holding those mottled palms
I watch the light flickering among
veiled shadows from your eyes...I cry inside.
Though inner peace can be anonymous,
distant from life's torment, I sing our
childhood tunes where despair lays heavy
on needled days:Somehow, it calms
your thoughts, then we grin, laugh if
only for an instance...until winds of an
ailing mind snuff time's flow, while the blood
of tears carries us to space we do not know.
Yet, faith prevails like a whistling serenade
which calls you back to a dream of comfort.
Although this ailment reaches stage 3, we
feel reborn by so many dreams of life's ventures
yet to be done-- the journeys to mountain tops,
the different flavor of late autumnal rain ,
a newborn's tiny frame cradled by your arms...
( remember you wanted two?)
Dearest friend, oh Eena of all seasons, I align
my white energy with you, bold and unyielding--
twogether are are never far off: watch me smile,
allow me to listen, and relish this affirmation:
' Dreams are to be lived. Live! You are never alone.'
Contest of Silent One: Together we are strong
3/21/2018
Old Mr. Nicholson
totters across the town square
to the barbershop where
Clive has cut his hair
for the last forty years or so
Not hardly needing
even a trim
but pretending
he has a reason besides
the gossip waiting within
Inside, the shop smells like hair tonic
shaving cream and old leather
and the only noticeable things
that Clive's changed
in the last forty years
are the calendar, magazines
and gumball machine
Tall and gaunt, Clive stoops and
shuffles around the shop
a bit slow and shaky, but still
the cheapest and best around
as he drawls out the latest
scuttlebutt from all over town
Harry Van Hoorn leans
sideways in the old barber chair
hanging on every word like an old hound
ears flapping in the breeze
making an odd squinchy face as he
holds back a sneeze
bits of loose hair tickling his nose
While old Arnie Bruner
broods in the corner
his usual sour-faced self
like an old prune
all wrinkled and dried up
without a single good thing to say
“Well, hello Ed!” Clive stops and says
as Mr. Nicholson sidles in
he amiably waves his comb in the air
continuing to work on Harry's hair
thoroughly ignored as he
continues to speak
“Long time, no see!” Harry sings out
even though they were both
in here just last week
“Hiya Harry!” Mr. Nicholson says
in his high-pitched little whine
“Have you heard about-”
“Oh wait, lemme guess-” Arnie breaks in
in his growly bass
“...it's about that place... next door to-”
“Jim and Grace” Harry cuts in
“No, I was going to say-”
Mr. Nicholson chirps
a bit snappily
“It must be about Jenny Mae...”
Harry chortles gleefully
“No, it's gotta be about Faye!-”
Arnie belts out grumpily
Meanwhile, they're missing
all the scorching details
of the greatest scandal
as Clive croons on
amid the din
of his gabby, blabby customers
each desperate
to get a word in
Back and forth, in and out
with bickers and shouts
hums, warbles, trills, groans
solos and accidental duets
their crazy cacophony has become
a funny (albeit gossipy) kind
of barbershop quartet!
By 11, I thought I'd have it down by 15,
But by 16 and a sour sunday morn,
And daisy chains foiled into the moor,
And hands that tighten but ne'er lighten,
Hands that strangle, stitch, and liven.
Of ties that wrangle, withhold, hang o'er the handle,
And toe-tipp'd kisses of kids with scissors,
Incisions of misses by razors and flesh fissions.
And slaps of fathers that formed tender swine,
borne a brat, t'tender the bar o'wine,
And quaint affections that form'd none conscience. Greyed,
spurned eyes grown affray, blotting boils and sores, and
Loaned love t'be lost along the way.
And all ails of child, trebled the gall of blackened bile, tendrils of
Denial t'caress the carcass, and withdraw.
E'er unsupervised in sullied superstition, bled to th'core of frailing admonition,
And hitched a hind of loops and bunnies,
Ne'er t'tie and stead, but t'tumble into the rabbit.
O curs'd the cocoon in biblical serpentine,
O'riddles and remedies, and stewards in cemeteries,
Led to call and sit and stew,
Waiting, waiting, and awaiting
Sunday grace anew.
And sixteen drawls in th'stench of wine,
And sixteen sings the sickly hymm and diagnostic chime,
Of the flatline.
And sixteen awaits the mellow Monday morn.
And sixteen waits 'till there is none left t'mourn.
30//4//2025
Notus comes creeping furtively from the south
hot and bothered from the blazing summer sun.
The wind of change...concealed it launches sudden storms
as clouds pile up across the sky, dark and towering,
lightning flashes, thunder drawls, torrential rain descends;
rivers swell to bursting point; fields are swamped, crops destroyed.
Then once again he sneaks away, planning his next move.
His neighbour, Eurus, wants to show he’s no less able.
Bearing his inverted earthen vase he goes along
clumsy in gait and spilling water on dry soil.
His forays from the east tend to be unlucky.
Autumn fades with a sigh on Aura’s gentle wings
as ice-cold winter rushes in impatiently
from northern frozen lands to take its place
goaded by the domineering force of Boreas
who moves ahead with strong, intense authority,
his violent temper uncontrolled. Despite his age
he pushes his galloping stallion to the limit
riding forth relentlessly, cloak billowing behind,
his white beard curled; shaggy hair spiked and frosted.
Roaring, across the land he speeds with utmost haste,
a sacred conch shell grasped firmly in steely hand;
tremendous power he exerts and blows aloud
while humans cower in dark caverns, shivering.
They know his moods and fear his devastating wrath.
In their minds, princess Oreithyia’s forced abduction,
rape, and carnal satisfaction are still fresh.
They yearn for winter’s bitter ally to move on
so that the gentle Zephyr enters from the west
bringing with him rainbows and showers of spring,
calm serenity, greenery, flowers, shades and hues,
romantic feelings, fiery passion and intense love.
Ultimately, all four have to heed and appease
King Aeolus, firm ruler and keeper of the winds.
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*Aura = breeze goddess
*Oreithyia = mountain Nymph
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18th December 2014
Contest: Gods of Winds
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Placed: 2nd