Long Dribbles Poems
Long Dribbles Poems. Below are the most popular long Dribbles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dribbles poems by poem length and keyword.
The morning calls hour
has come, as daily it does...
ahead of dawn -
The whistles, the chirps,
the lilts and caws
have come
and filled the empty air;
the air so empty all light has fallen out;
perhaps through the sieve of stars.
Holes of light leaking sight
away into the other next,
or first,
or last.
The clouds drift past;
an ever-offering Eastern sky
dribbles endless puffs of white-stuff
which drift overhead.
Heading toward the light.
Unseen streams of air
both draw and push these yet-to-rains
from beyond the skyline
to beyond the treeline.
A huff-chuffing squirrel is overhead
cavorting and exhorting
in the mulberry-leafed maple
with
leaves so big and profligate
so
as to hide every branch.
There’s an urgency to its gutturality
as it chatter-clambers through the
density of burgundy tree.
I’m in hot water again.
Soaking in the hot wet.
Writing tools all here -
Keyboard.
Tea.
Time...
The cat, important, though not a
tool.
Still, though - pressed into use,
as it were.
But the thoughts do not come.
Unlike the clouds, which we’re taught
are thoughts. Or, is it, “...unlike the thoughts,
which are like the clouds.”?
But I don't have the thoughts, undercloud
(under dark cloud)
though I am.
Only these thoughts
which I very
very do not
like.
A lone goose now.
Also undercloud.
Also, aiming East.
To light. To life.
To next. To new.
Thoughtless.
And not unclouded.
So unlike my thoughts.
A prudent man walked intoxicatedly inside the temple gate
He sits on the door steps and hang his head shamefully
between his legs and whistle a somber tune.
The skillfully crafted temple hoisted on the outskirt of town
Once served as a pinnacle of hope now stands empty exposing signs of doom.
Thousand of spiritual warriors, carnal minded and material minded sinners
once paraded the corridors of the disfigured temple
Bathing in the spirit and dancing vigorously to musical songs.
I watched him lamenting in grief unable to hold back the tears
He held his hands towards the heavens and cried out loudly in despair.
Suddenly the day breaks ironing guilt upon shameless faces
Mocking perishing souls, smothering wounded hearts
And repudiating punctured bleeding vessels in the pews.
The blistered irony resonates from the pulpit
Spewing liquor, intoxicating believers and driving away strangers.
Age old rocks buried deep beneath the kingdom of doom
playing rock and roll at the piano and mumbling scores of honor.
It dribbles and drops, dribbles and drops until it finally made a stop.
Dozens of mighty men hang high up on the pulpit
Filthy hands, disdained hearts and treacherous ways.
They have blemished the pulpit and mutilated the pew.
Sin drapes like gangster in suits crawling under skirts
riding on collars ejecting deceptive agony
in the pews and turned the congregation into a bitter gall.
I sat in the pews for years listening to their stories
watching the endless drama pushing and shoving
bad mouthing and back stabbing and them praising their God
While unseemly retribution creeps silently upon their doorsteps.
Blinded by their own tyranny frighted by their own thoughts
Sunday after Sunday they flock the temple seeking for something that wasn't there
Suddenly a strange sensation ripped through the atmosphere
Pulling saints off their feet
And scattering material minded people in the streets.
©2014 Christine Phillips
In the thicket condensed in faraway desolate island
silence is the petrified breeze that forgets to blow.
Night drizzles on twilight gleam, darkens the sand.
The moon, a lone voyager across stellar satin sky,
sprinkles silver dust of solitude on the canopy high,
dribbles with patina of leaves on the ground below.
Serene sea sees the show of barren solitude grand.
I drink the elixir of solitude as mist of time engulfs me,
my heart beats in the tune of serenading still delight,
the mute music turns into rippling pulses of ecstasy.
My mind is the dusk that soaks the setting sun’s hue,
that’s what the island called life waits always to view.
As sound of the wheels of time fades in desolate night,
in placid depth of inner sea I hear my soul speak to me.
August 18, 2018
Edited September 15, 2020
Contest : Completely Your Choice (9)
Sponsor : Brian Strand
patience is not an embargo;
eerie enmity oozing flows
gaunt gores, perforated pores pruned
fostering felon feasts - foiled fluid
neither is patience hoisted hay;
nocturnal nature chopping day,
smothered smithereens callous clips,
dark dribbles, moist mood, drizzles drip
patience is all but wanky wait;
taciturn haste fuming torn trait,
etched emotions lagging, joy foiled,
confetti of wishes - wit's spoil
patience's an ocean draped'n torrents,
amateurs savor waves' torments.
'20:06:27:12:20
Note: of pored patience.
Listen here: https://soundcloud.com/zuxian/reserata-carcerem-xxvii
A poet lord can't stand a poet lord
My belle can't always feed on muse
In the chase of wanting many an award
Allowing her snub kitchen for writing excuse
Going most days feeding on junk
A poet lord can't stand communication
My mouth is shut down to set up my mind
Though no time for pleasing fornication
Cos artistic altar's oath entwines lines signed
That all day long, each heartily lives a good drunk
Poets at a turn in time, each would become a nanny
Taking up the children's care with pity
Except those times, visitation parades granny
Everyone would love doing great going witty
How on earth can we watch our futures' stillness!
Poets are crazy, emotional switch dribbles wit
Hosting love making to seconds notes taking
Build up frame to make none foreseen omit
Really love doing the titles to get table shaking
In its own outstanding research illness
I can't marry a poet, but can have her as a daughter
To make heiress survived from my bleeding pen
And roast on my behalf wrongs I slaughtered
In her own fare having been nurtured in zen
Young lord knows what boost speedily
I can't marry a poet, may be have one a son
Whose morales been a heir would grow wings
And soar to make moon face the sun
On an emotional transparent's keyboard swings
Young bard's twilight inking classical keys greedily
Your sigh indicates as though you are tired, sad, and worn out,
Yet, how lovely is your song, dear breeze, how melodious!
Flowing, with scent, from a source unknown to an unknown route,
You make paradise this world vast wide and commodious...!
An amalgamation of Piano, guitar, and flute,
Your silent song, like the gushing of waterfall burbles,
In-depth music of saxophone, violin, harp, and lute,
Blends and mingles and dribbles with medicinal herbals...!
Bathing in ponds and rivers and lakes and oceans and seas,
How immaculate is your breath that gives us existence;
Kissing, on your way, the little animals, birds, and bees,
How divinely you have blessed each one with persistence...!
How caressing is your gentle, tender, and soft air stream!
To flow with you and merge with the universe is my dream...!!!
Salome of chapel Street
Is weaving her body to a chemical induced beat,
Synapses electrified, imprisoned in a psychological
Loop,
Barefooted With grubby toes she twirls in little
Circles,
Throwing her hands in the air as she tries to bridge
The divide between the land and the sky.
Busy people with busy lives take a glance and
Stroll on by.
She stops to smile at her reflection,a true friend
The only one she trusts,
She starts again just herself and the cosmos,
Rotating with arms outstretched hoping to catch
A star.
O salome what betrayal Has fallen upon your
Pink dyed hair?
And the dribbles seeping from your pouting lips?
What hope have you of slaying the dragons of the
Mind?
Hiding behind concrete curtain eyes,
And so on she goes spinning in a stupor
Beneath the wrought iron clock of the old jeweller's
Shop.
Punt
Warm and windy, not November at all
The rains have wandered everywhere
But this dusty grid of dead turf
Punt
Sail, sail and turnover, it’s beautiful
Rebecca would like it here today
Open, wide open and free
The dirt smells like the forty other fields
Where I’ve spent the best part of my life
Punt
Wonder -- I wonder
If those purple shirts were lined down
Dirty and sweaty, ten abreast
With pain and determination in their eyes
And blaspheme in their breaths
Could I hit it?
Concentrate; head down, follow through;
I doubt it
Punt
Terrible; missed it
Wobble like a falling dove
From the spray of that old double-barrel
Bounce wrong, like a sad story
It ends with a bleak emptiness
Keeping up is impossible
Reading less, running slower, timing off
Knowledge fading, the science doubles its contents
As I wander in the ignorance that surrounds me
Punt
Short, so short; no power left
So long and so short the time simply ceased
It would fly so strong then
But dribbles now
Punt
Jog to the ball
The muscles ache, the lungs rebel
Give way to the young you old fool
You can’t cut it anymore
Punt
The winds are turning from the north
Winter is so close
The time that could not end is over
And I miss it.
More, better, higher, super, greatest
The future lies ahead
But I miss it
Summertime, a wonderful time full of nostalgic teenage memories
I spent many weekends with my best friend Tina at Bear Pond Park
Memories of packing our swimsuits, towels, music and bagged lunches
And We always brought our spending money for the snack shack
We chewed grape bubble gum in the car and gossiped on the way
It was a fun time and I always looked forward to those special days
At the park, we swam, worked on our tans and went on the slides
Laughing, flirting with the boys while racing down the rainbow rides
In the late afternoon We had our deep dish ice cream sundaes
Memories of my tongue tickled by the tartness of the strawberries,
while soothed by frozen vanilla custard with layers of whipped cream
We ate at the picnic table while sweet dribbles landed on our swimsuits
We had to wait a while before we could go back and swim in the lake
We went back to the rainbow slides, laughing and chewing bubble gum
Our swimsuits dotted with ice cream and berry stains, soon to be washed away
We had one last afternoon swim, our suits washed clean until the next weekend.
6/26/22
Contest: Ice Cream Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Julia Ward
N/A Judged 7/15/22
Reading my own mind
keeping score of all those weird moments
that come and go like ghost trains.
Watching dendritic branches
grow fat purple plums
and hard green grapes on tangled vines.
Cortical cells working overtime.
There's a sort of poem here,
its sunning itself in an afterglow
and won't appear until I look away.
A neurotic cat uses an unused patch
of grey matter for a litter box,
damp dribbles run down my spine.
Now mind flaps gossamer wings
and breaks the tension with a brain fart.
Brain and mind dance a jig together
in a comic parody of an unhinged intellect.
Enough of this reading!
Got to splash words
onto white-water once more.
Got to.