Long Dwarf Poems
Long Dwarf Poems. Below are the most popular long Dwarf by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dwarf poems by poem length and keyword.
The ground was blanketed with fallen leaves
that crunched under their feet as they ducked
into the bushes and secluded spots behind thick trees
The forest was their domain the comforts of life
as fugitives in hiding they could survive,
it beat capture and torture.
Emerging on the path came eight horses
with their riders trotting into view
Robin Hood and the others emerged from hiding
knowing they will not be eager to surrender
As the sun starts melting into the horizon bringing in the twilight
Robin Hood and his men knew they were in danger
Why did he feel like he was totally kidding himself?
Jumbling and stumbling they start to dwarf
Their voices had evolved from bass and baritones to tenors
Avoiding getting caught they all backed away and scattered
Bidding the riders farewell, then departing
2/13/2016
Poetry Contest: A twisted poem about Robin Hood -
Sponsored by: C. T.
Snow White is a princess with OCD,
who dusted each dwarf obsessively.
She'd polish the floor,
then clean it once more -
now the dwarfs all live quite compulsively.
Young Belle had Stockholm syndrome, it's true,
though the Beast acted like a zoo.
He'd snarl and throw plates,
still she saw him as great,
now she growls and bites like him too.
There once was Queen Elsa with MDD,
who hid herself from the whole monarchy.
She stayed home in bed,
eating ice cream instead,
now Arendelle runs on anxiety.
Poor Rapunzel had PTSD,
From Mother Gothel’s screaming constantly.
Each time someone yelled,
she’d hide where she dwelled —
now Flynn speaks to her quietly.
Young Alice had schizophrenia, they said,
After chatting with hats in her head.
She chased rabbits all day,
while teacups screamed, “Stay!” —
now the Queen checks her meds before bed.
Poor Cinderella lived with DPD,
so she asked the mice permission for tea.
The prince chose her dress,
her shoes, and her stress —
now he chooses her whole personality.
Princess Anna had wild ADHD,
she’d start seventeen tasks before three.
She’d ride off mid-chat,
then forget where she sat —
now even the reindeer run on caffeine.
With acquired skills often very bold...
as a philosopher once foretold,
I write my essay on friendship, kind of brief,
not for my sake but for anyone without relief.
With the keenest mind I move this speedy hand,
to convince fools not to suppress the faith of a loyal friend,
to respect and honor his example of faithfulness;
neither they nor you could persuade me with some innocence!
I uphold the laws of goodness that no demon will upturn;
with watchfulness I conserve their divinity into a sacred urn,
evil voices chant when midnight gilds the cloudy moon in silver...
If phantoms approach it and dare to open it...I'll contest their fear!
I expediently will call upon the two Archangels with swords of fire,
to destroy with their vengeance what demons never admire;
they will chase them away until their shadow dissolves itself into the sunshine,
and proud of their victory: I'll revel in their joy and roar as the mighty lion!
If all enemies look down on me as someone not too wise, just and coherent...
their opinion has little effect on me...I come in peace, not in threat;
I am no dwarf and take all insults earnestly to multiply their woes with bitter words,
and when animosity arises from their chests, I'll grab them by their horns!
FLIGHTS OF FANCY PHRASIS 2
Lady’s mantle with butcher’s broom
dwarf cornel cotton grass so thin,
yellow travellers joy,with buttercup
on sunspurged ,petty whin.
Creeping jenny over silverweed
groundsel& cudweed,balm,rockrose
and agromony with thistle prickly green.
Good King Henry,goose fat red and a full
fat hen,in moschatel with mistletoe
and eyebright mustard so white.Thyme
&teasel so tamarisk in water-peppered bogbean;
grape hyacinth with forget-me-not in a
sea of lavender blue-green.Honesty
cuckoo flower,flax fumitory & fleabane;
musk marsh marigold&daffodil
in scentless mayweed.Yarrow ramson scabious
feverless,&plantain true with pepperwort,
cress seabeat burr buttered blue.
From Flights of Fancy 2003
Listen to me recite this part phrasis on youtube under my pen name ichthys chiro
Turtle heard that Salt Woman was on the road again, and he was
wanting a taste of her. Some miles from Cochiti, he stopped
for directions at a Speedway gas station.
The dwarf who ran the garage could not speak, but Turtle
using the language of Sandhill cranes put a spell on him,
making him dance directions. The dwarf’s jerky movements
became more fluid as Turtle urged him to relate more of the
Salt Woman.
In these parts, Salt Woman had a rep. She traveled
with a wooden puppet that she called her grandson.
When she came to a pueblo she would ask for food for
the boy. Some villages offered her food from the communal
storehouse, and she would bless their store with her tears,
while her grandson grew green leaves on the top of his wooden
head, but in some pueblos the mayor would refuse to offer
anything. Salt women would then turn the children of the village
into chaparral jays.
Turtle figured that the garage dwarf was just a fool, but he knew
that a salty woman was worth finding, and so he drove on following
her trail. Sure enough he found her in a bar in the Acoma
settlement known as Sky City.
Her grandson was with her. Turtle took a good look at Salt Woman.
She was not young, her face was lined, but her hips were as round
as fat babies, her belly dimpled, rosy, and delectable. The wooden
child’s eyes opened wide as he watched Turtle walk up to the bar.
Turtle was looking fine in his rhinestone studded jeans, his tan ruby
fringed shirt and his white, eagle-feathered Stetson.
Ordering tequila, he turned to the woman.
"Will you give me one of your tears, mother"? He asked.
"I have a thirst that can only be cured by a greater thirst".
Salt Woman looked at Turtle:
"And what will you give me in return"?
"I will share my salt with you," turtle replied honestly.
"The same as any man then," she said with a curling lip.
"Yes mother, but my salt will make you younger,' turtle lied.
Turtle will promise anything for sex, in this he is no better
than most men.
Salt Woman laughed out loud, yet a teardrop of sadness fell into
Turtle’s tequila. In a flash Turtle drank it down, grabbed hold of
the boy transforming him to a crane, then he took Salt Woman
upstairs where they tasted their thirst – again and again.
He turned off the running water,
soaped his face not glancing at the mirror,
a long night ahead.
He had four shadows
on the four walls of this rental,
not a good sign.
When later he turned the bedside light on,
the glowing silhouette of his head on the pillow
burgeoned, swelling upwards until
it pancaked on the ceiling above.
Still groggy after the hashish
still psychoactive,
he got dressed.
Out walking the dark Luxor streets
he found a coffee shop still open.
The thick sweet brew was served to him,
a lime green dwarf
sporting a banana yellow fez.
Never again he thought,
patting his pockets hoping to find
some curative cancer sticks.
The Leprechaun.
.
Run, run, run as fast as you can...
I'm still gonna get you, my little green man...
I grabbed on to the gold buckle on his waist...
I held him down, with no time to waste...
I tied The Leprechaun to a hollow tree,
Broke off a branch and poked him on the knees.
I kept on poking him with a stick.
I kept nagging him to reveal his magic trick.
This little shamrock kid would not break.
He kept insisting THE LEPRECHAUN legend was fake.
This little odd dwarf kept lying about his mythical pot of gold.
I kept repeating all the stories I've been told..
Nagging him and nagging him~ FOR HIS POT OF GOLD!
He lied, about the fables, telling me his gold does not exist...
The Leprechaun refused to hear the clover list...
****
It's been 7 days!
And, still he won't give up, what's at the end of the rainbow.
Tickling his little Eskimo toes,
Running feathers underneath his nose.
"Look you little green treasure troll, I've captured you, and demand the gold!"
"You won't get me with your tricks!"
"So don't even try to outwit me with your silly MAGIC!"
I suppose his silver-tongue, will have to do,
And the little gold buckles on his shoe.
I got tired of trying to make him see, my point of view.
I got a better deal and trade for a monkey at the zoo.
Now the lions are enjoying a Pot of Leprechaun Stew.
After All!
Nothing I did, made him unfold.
All I wanted was his pot of gold!
by;pd
dopy
grumpy
doc…
bashful
sleepy
sneezed a lot.
happy now ;)
we do indeed
have a spicy snot
twice the mice
and a monkey
at the helm…
came a lot
she did
to read these men
disguised as
snoozen
eighth dwarf
is a gem
...she puts rouge on
and climbs a tree…
psst… “Snow White?”... she ain’t me.
;)~
"diminitioning returns beyond the event horizon
mariginal lines of visibility as solar flares
light up the sky there is no noise i wonder why"
i wonder how
an event such as
her eyes are on
can stir such wonder
on events unheard
noize is what i said
3.14159265
it’s in the air
and in my head
but when i turn
to see the sun
i thought i saw
inside a one
but honey it said…
nine slides on
and a cone
of silence
doesn’t work
without fun.
:)
I wondered why for a while
but then no one answered
so I’m making up my own how.
that's what.
Form:
A one-handed man carrying a basket full of water,
A blind-y-dumb coward in the soldier quarters.
A dwarf cannonic giant climbing the mountain,
A-day littlun fetching from the fountain.
A faithful politician leading by examples,
A notorious terrorist erasing his samples.
A faithful pope bethrot'd to seven wives,
A sentimentally raw hermit wherein corruption thrives.
Talking trees and howling ridges,
Skiing cows and fighting berries.
Clean,neat,raw,pleasant,bewitching blacks,
Singing,merrying,elated,straightened arcs;
These all will be in the end-time,
All absurdities in their prime.
Collection of Neuroses
To the dead I gave the waste of my mind and to the philosophers their terrible deaths,
To youth I offered poems in prose and endless neuroses braided into each other's breaths,
My stutters boil ferociously in the mouth that never learned to speak the truth out loud,
And the chance to be furious burned out before I could scream my whole bitterness to the crowd.
I banned love from entering like an inept dwarf guarding a rusted gate with pride,
I rummaged through your heart with philosopher's hands and a terrified mind inside,
The neuroses of youth sit on the shelf like a collection of dead butterflies in frames,
And the deaths of my thoughts keep piling up... uncountable... forgotten... without names.
The stutter is my only authentic language — ferocious and real and raw and true,
All other words are philosophical waste dressed up in a deaf parade costume and hue,
The chance for rage walked right past me like a night train that never stopped to stay,
And I remained on the platform... with my neuroses... and my heart... to rummage away.
To youth I stitched prose from poems and poems from prose without borders or end,
To the dead I sent the waste and to the philosophers the questions with no answers to lend,
Love stood at the door like a furious dwarf waiting to finally be let inside,
And I denied it entry... and I stayed alone... and empty... and blue-blood inside.
The collection of neuroses stretches across the shelves of my mind all the way to the ceiling,
The stutters boil in my bones and the philosophical deaths fill every window and every feeling,
Your heart rummaged through the chest found there an inept and furious and broken dwarf,
Me... the waste of the dead... the neurosis of youth... the stuttering philosopher... never a saint at all.