Long Espouse Poems
Long Espouse Poems. Below are the most popular long Espouse by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Espouse poems by poem length and keyword.
Ok, (taking a breath) Christmas.
Finals are over, it’s the Noel Holiday and the very air-pressure feels different.
My lanky bf, Peter and I have a small, three-foot, plastic green tree which stands proudly, like a cliff-jumper, on a coffee-side-table. It’s wrapped with enough multicolor fairy-lights to illuminate Times Square. It glitters, otherworldly, like the Carina Nebulae - where angels live.
It may be deliberately derivative, but I espouse joy this holiday - and general fun in the season.
Call me privileged, call yourself the same, and declare it a blessing.
Earlier this week
all I wanted was sleep
but once freed of academic cares,
I curse sleep’s thievish minutes.
Now that I can look around - Paris is merry and bright.
The Champs-Élysées axis is lit-up like Neverland and it’s used as a social runway.
There are cocktail evenings at the Ritz, Plaza Athénée, Le Meurice, George V, Crillon and Cheval Blanc - not a single “party” to book into, but an ecosystem of palaces crawling with ‘winter magic’ - code for quiet, exclusive, ‘famous people in the building energy’ soirées.
How do you get into these private, no-tourist, DM pass-only events?
You don’t.
Oh, you might read about them if you follow the Paris nightlife Insta accounts (Silencio, Raspoutine, Castel, etc.)
But I’ll get in, because I have François for two weeks to coordinate all my ‘Christmas wishes’ (lucky him) and though he grouses from time to time, “Anais, I’m NOT a magician,” he’s never let us down.
It works like this, I’ll DM François what I want, “We’ll need 4 all-access-passes for tomorrow night’s ‘Last Winter Tour’ (arena show) and voilà, it’s done.
Now Peter won’t go out every night, he has his own holiday ravishments planned
- but isn’t that what mornings and afternoons are for?
.
.
A Christmas Playlist for this:
daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_29.mp3
.
.
François, one of my Grandmère’s conglomerate, executive-secretarial minions. He’s handsome, 28ish, a perfectly tailored, hipster with straight, blonde, fringe-hair and a Sorbonne Université DBA.
When my I love you falls silent on your ears
And I'm laid back into the cold hard ground
Please speak of me at my eulogy
Espouse to all what I believed
Talk about those I loved
And our ride across the miles
Make sure my family and my friends all know
That the greatest gift they've ever given me
Was the honor of my knowing them
We've laughed and grown but then again
I still got one last gift to give
My gifts the memories
I'll never be further than a thought away
If you care to see my smile do the same
Chances are you'll forget
My voice in time but don't be upset
Cause someday you will give the same
Gift of memories
If I didn't get to tell you I was sorry
For something that I may have put you through
Please take from me apologies
Wrapped up with the truth
I've never been a perfect man
But all I held was love for you
And lastly for my wife and son
While we all feared this day we also knew it'd come
There aren't enough analogies
To help the hurt and stop the grief
Just know that you were my world
And my gifts the memories
I'll never be further than a thought away
If you care to see my smile do the same
Chances are you'll forget
My voice in time but don't be upset
Cause someday you will give the same
Gift of memories
I still love you all
Please heed the call
And my gift of memories
I love to see the previous order turning,
when the old leave all their property to youth:
it’s this, not buzz of bee or flowers returning,
that makes me feel the world has found its truth;
and if a man produces sons enough,
the chances are at least one will be tough;
and a younger loyalty in love or war
will make the heart and sword arm young once more.
A woman is old who sets no warrior yearning;
she’s old, if she keeps faithful to her spouse;
old, if she uses black and sorcerous learning,
or lets more than one lover in her house.
She’s old, if her hair’s a mess of ragged stuff,
or if she takes a lover who is rough.
She’s old, if she thinks that music is a chore,
and she’s old when all her talk becomes a bore.
Women are young, whose hearts remain discerning,
whose actions show the values they espouse,
who do not look with scorn on merit’s earning,
whose virtues are a light no scandals douse.
A woman is young, whose manner is not gruff,
yet gives impetuous youths a wise rebuff.
She’s young, if her figure’s nothing to ignore,
and she doesn’t pry and listen at every door.
I call a man young who’s passionate concerning
jousts and courts, considering thrift uncouth.
He’s young, when he thinks that money is for burning;
when, ruined, he smiles without a trace of ruth.
He’s young, when he stakes his fortune on a bluff,
and feels that no extravagance is enough.
He’s young, if he is skilled in lovers' lore,
and he’s young, if he judges risk what life is for.
Though a man be rich, I say that he’s old, if, spurning
pillage and war, he wastes away his youth
piling up bread and beef and wine, then turning
monkish, serves eggs, as if we'd nary a tooth.
He’s old, if he muffles himself in woven stuff,
and can’t command a horse and ride him rough.
He’s old, if he rests in peace when battles roar;
old, if he shirks the field and bars the door.
Poet Arnaut, go take this song of youth
and age to Richard, that he may feel its truth
and never wish to heap up worldly store,
since youthful daring enriches honor more.
— translated from the Provençal by Jon Corelis
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Foundation.
With uncertainty flowing like a molten volcano around the world, and online.
Is it within dark times like these, we should try to bring more light into the world?
Title:
A voice in the dark whispers
Lookup
Not down
And be drawn
Into spiritual degradation
Or dark temptations
Linked to politics or the flesh
By the Red Dragon
But to blue clouds
Filled with sacred tetragons
With belief in whatever you know as good, be held
In-Depth
For the son of Cronus and Rhea
Brother of Zeus and Poseidon
Grows ever near
To welcome you into his waterless Barren Lands
Delighting in unimaginable fear
So be
Precipitous
And look up to
Defeat the rolling Abyss
Ruled by Hades
Hidden
Within
Its mists
Espouse goodness
While you still
Live
Like a sweet Valentine's Day kiss
And try to avoid
The Void
Filled with those
Who now pay a hefty
Price
But enter into new lands of Spiritual Paradise
With your selfless acts
Of kindness and self-sacrifice
Will you try to do good?
Or will you follow those who will suffer bitterness, when a star called, Wormwood,
Falls?
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
National Panic Wednesday March 9th, 2022 actually... every day
Founded by Tom and Ruth Roy
solely to acknowledge hardship
of A. R. Harris
and her husband M.S. Harris,
who cope poorly
(even courtesy medication)
with anxiety attacks, especially when
violated, probed, interrogated courtesy
Highland Manor inquisition,
which traumatizing event happened
on aforementioned date
included with poem title.
J. G. and P. F.
constitute management team
under jurisdiction of Quoss
(pronounced chhath tt) and Grade,
who espouse principle laissez faire
but whose exhibited heavy handedness
pertaining to the married couple
named in the third line of this poem.
Either one or the other gals
who attend these premises
here at the Schwenksville location
(I won't mention
the state as penile solitude)
alluded to a peculiarly nasty odor
emanating from unit B44,
our man/woman cave.
We received a twenty four hour deadline
to get into shipshape the disarray
messiness even Pigpen
would find abominable,
yet upon receiving both
oral and written admonition,
me and the missus
buckled down and kickstarted
frenzied whirlwind one bedroom
apartment cleaning spree
zoned out like zombies of Sugar Hill
when the clock struck bewitching hour,
more specifically that alluded time
synonymous with midnight.
No matter we felt dead tired
whereat neither option
to acquire additional time,
nor desist existed,
and yet nearly impossible mission
to continue, but appealing
to temptation of sandman
out of the question.
Deep sleep for the weary
appeared oh so heavenly,
on par with plate
of powder milk biscuits,
our mandate (analogous to pilgrims
adults and children -
forced to fight in crusades)
forbid cessation, thus to plod
and plow onward
despite overwhelming urge to plotz,
(not the slang definition)
found yours truly
blissfully in dreamland
when me noggin hit the pillow,
Not for a minute
could yours truly
sit down and take a breather,
despite severe lower
(rightside) back pain.
Said dull throbbing ache
diagnosed as tight muscles
by Doctor (physical therapist)
John R. Mishock,
he would not countenance
(approve, comply, honor...)
I popped one Ibuprofen.
Patriotic Americans are disgusted with Trump news every morn,
all shaking their heads in disbelief at the prick who is a thorn.
With such an arrogant mien, his character is one of a pooh bah.
Always thinking he's above the law, as if he's king or maharaja.
Ridiculous is the new mantra that might be his campaign slogan.
It's just asinine and imbecilic. That's the opinion of Jenna Logan.
It sounds just like baby gibberish when he cries out, "MAGAGA!"
With Putin and Kim Jong Un as friends, who's next, the Hezbollah?
Melania read her script then returned to the annals of obscurity,
saying her hubby will lead America "by love, peace and security."
Lying words, she was commanded to read raised a few eyebrows.
I wonder what price she'd pay if to his agenda she'd not espouse.
It was reported that she swore and cursed using the "F" word
when asked about Christmas decorations, and was overheard
saying she didn't care at all about Christmas, and she was tired
of having to do things in the White House that were required.
One reporter said Trump's MAGAGA sounds like baby babble.
It'll become the new battle cry of his crowd, the motley rabble.
Their banner should be emblazoned with a snotty nosed child
throwing a tantrum, out of control and his anger running wild.
I know this post will not be met with agreement by some of you.
That's perfectly ok because you have the right to an opinion, too.
You can bash Joe Biden when on words and steps he may stumble
but as America's President, I fear Trump will once again fumble.
Can anyone be so blind not to see, by taking an honest reflection,
that he directed a mob to commit treason and an insurrection?
What hold does this immoral sleaze have over far too many?
With eyes open to reality, you'd see his dysfunctions are plenty.
I've never been a Democrat, nor a believer in the Republican ilk,
but I think Trump is a miscreant who'll keep taking all he can milk
from a country deserving to be held in high esteem and dignity.
But four more years of DJT will end in chaos from his malignity.
Honesty presides in these fresh sonnets
Where breathing seeks to set example
For future generations on thresholds
Of honest wit staying apt and ample
Poets questioning meaning in long life
While judging and evoking honesty
They hold themselves above impending strife
And espouse flamboyant ideas-majesty
Honesty leads the art of poetry
For a poem swallows up the reader
Engulfing him with central bardolatry
Wise words breathe an eternal breeder
If poets just stopped phony contrasting
Perhaps poems would thrive everlasting
How does a new poem live forever?
Let me count the ways poems purify
Through female free-form and virile villanelle
If only they knew to demystify
Poetry that writes to catch attention
He did not get from his early childhood
A quiet child worthy of mention
Whose poems represented brotherhood
Reactions of interconnectedness reign
Sultry sounds stream to entice sentiments
A hope that senses will linger the same
That baby poems do dance like Bacchants
That the earth-bard could only smash thoughts, too,
So his poem would dance dreamily inside you
From the heart blooms colorful rose bouquets
Surrounded, a sweet seizure flutters upright
In gushing, garrulous melodic phrase
Made to fit undying spiritual rite
Hearts merge and hands do as faint souls entreat
Fragments of glass in the chapel's skylight
Form and message merge on rustic countryseats
Bucolic grazing land's tearful twilight
Poetry overwhelms overt outcasts
On journeys into the poet's caves
A mysterious abyss of absinthe
Pathways crossing upward to vivid waves
Where, at last, souls meet to exchange nepenthe
That simply symbolizes completeness
In every illustrious, starry sweetness
Poetry is breath
To us bequeath!
Folie à deux
("shared madness," or "madness for two").
I suffer in silence, though not alone
kvetching old curmudgeon (me)
(once upon a time, a promising
long haired pencil necked geek)
buzzfeeding off life's miniseries
of unedited miseries in tandem
with ideal counterpart ofttimes
easily mistaken for a clone
Matthew Scott Harris
unable to function without her
(zee wife), he doth espouse as integral
to calculus of his existence
plus attributes wizardly
powers within (yours truly)
derived, highfived, and thrived courtesy
(think symbiotic), quietly riotously quintessentially,
nevertheless beloved hen pecking crone,
we carrion and cavort
(our respective wings
beating at speed of sound)
generating humming drone
beehive ving amorously
exhibiting unchoreographed tableaux
long practiced routine
equilibrium intermittently punctuated
with dynamic pantomime tour de force
communion words superfluous
since telepathic communication
predominates the unspoken wavelength
long established modus operandi
since... before pledging our troth,
while each ourselves in utero
womb during fait accompli
vis a vis gamely matched
think arranged embryonic marriage,
thus marital covenant
essentially linkedin since conception
both of us coaxed when livingsocial
no longer being tethered to umbilical cord
as lifelong playmates
forging compatible association,
now a gratuitous nod to our long since
dearly departed mothers
unbeknownst to them
how like firmly attached barnacles
each handily, snugly, and warmly fit
(esse mitten hand over fist gal love)
vicariously experienced reciprocal
trials and tribulations
whatever fate visited head of the other
permanently anchoring
nsync out rolling - rock of Gibraltar
across metaphorical stormy seas
trying against all odds
to weather strongest
emotional/psychological tempests
wallowing, née drowning in despair
at aging body, fading senses,
and thinning hair
which last named
akin to Samson
bolsters mein kampf
since... infancy, whose
counterpart betraying me like Delilah
wishing and threatening
(albeit jestingly) to lop off golden locks
each hair reed stranded longfellow
woolworth more'n fine spun gold!
Standing at the kitchen sink
My wife quips “you are one happy person”
It is right there and then I realized
I have been found out
Time to confess
I am one of “those” “happy people”
And a morning person to boot
I admit I am an ice –cream-aholic
Hooked on chocolate Rocky road, 2 scoops
Left to my own devices I play hooky
My favorite vice mid day movies
Yes chick flicks
And I buy the ludicrously priced pop corn
Next up on the list a get away at the spa
Even if I fall asleep during the deep massage
Cruise ships are my Achilles heel
Where else do they make your bed
Feed you 24 hours a day
And you can hide from the world
My flexible job schedule allows for daytime bike rides
Who doesn’t want to be a kid again wind blowing through your hair
The bane of my existence, poetry writing
Anytime, anywhere at the drop of a hat or spur of the moment
To espouse words of wisdom or not
And connect with family, friends and complete strangers
Yes, there are up and down days but as the saying goes
“Be Happy”
Andreas Simic©
"Gothic 17"
provided they are
all story
and no reflection
I’m all for heroines
those coiled springs
minds like vampires
the ones
who
never sleep
sharp teeth
dripping words
that bleed
kissing lips dreaming
lips speaking, punctured
Northanger
North anger
abbey nuns clipped
speaking like demons
novitiates
slipping
on pearls
of kintsugi angst
the wisdom
refrains lifting
ripe mouths
blood red
enchantments
lift chins knowingly
chants kissing
tongues that touch
and speak
like babylon
drifting breezes
feeling something
forever mortal
moist and driven
the loose
long held like gems
in velvet gloves
the forever lost
bewitching, cast in spells
driven to distraction
Austin Kimberley
last day of school
17, '79
books in the bin
for burning
never once looking back
through the gates
collected by aged wisdom
the cat leaves,
doesn’t listen
never once listens
to grizzling whiskers
driving in pajamas
for the love
of it all
the cat is out
on the prowl
Tzuke purrs
racing
against time
still breathing
live wire
crackling
look but don't touch
the touched espouse
heaven can wait
just a little bit longer
heaven can wait
for those who
need you tonight
in the aether
the missing
watch on
by the missed
they are well worn
the lost
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)