Long Fanned Poems
Long Fanned Poems. Below are the most popular long Fanned by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fanned poems by poem length and keyword.
~The Rhinoceros That Roared~
The Wrinkled skin of the Rhinoceros
Steel hard, no man can penetrate
The young buck on the tourist bus
Thought if he killed one, his lovers heart he could take.
He wanted to be a macho man...
But he was just a spoilt rich boy
He took his souped up jeep out there
He roared the engine of his favorite toy.
The horn of the Rhino he wanted to win
To give to the girl he loved, as a prize
It is supposed to be an aphrodisiac
But he was in for a great big surprise.
He faced the Rhino in his souped up jeep
The Rhino looked bored, if one can, so to speak…
Pedal to the metal, head on towards the horn
The wheels spun, the earth showered, the Rhino looked forlorn.
The jeep roared at the Rhino, who opened his mouth up wide
Just as the souped up idiot hit-and he drove on right inside
The Rhino swallowed and walked away with a jaunty gate
The girl he lost, he disappeared, for them it was to late…
Tales are told in whispered voice still through out the land
They tell of a Rhino who does strange things when his temper is fanned
His eyes flash, his feet spin, a horn beeps, and more
Just don’t get in front of him, because you can hear an engine roar…
©~GG~ 19/08/2012
In bridled hovel on denuded strand
Tanned damsel loiters on barter stand
Waiting for purloined fealty her title to brand
Festooned in ritual garb, decked with lavish garland
As noble peacock, her fecund colors are fanned
Waiting eligible suitors her utility, virility to scan
Her father a lofty price doth rightly command
To root out pilfering charlatan, worthless brigand
A reputable family with aspirations noble, grand
Bids for the honor of reticent, sheltered hand
Her elder for propriety doth initial offers withstand
Until the esteemed value of his ward family doth understand
A suitable piece of fertile lowland he indignantly demands
In order his tribal status and perpetuity to expand
With gratuitous stipend in token parlance panned
In customary deference, contrite bride accepts husband
Too late Cock, too late, dawn missed.
Your 'cock-a-doddle do' laments in the mist!
For your alarm is set too late to matter,
Too late, to make selfish greed smash and shatter.
In days gone by, humankind once believed,
That common good by proxy could be achieved.
To stop climate change with a united stand.
To end the endless wars that hate fanned.
But when the day dawns it's all for one,
Not one for all that we could become.
The tragedy of the commons always has its sway
And real hope of for change is swept away.
For we always delay what we need to do,
Until its too late, or almost too late to.
"The face that launched a thousand ships ..."
Helen, bright accompaniment,
accouterment of war as sure as all
the polished swords of princes groomed to lie
in mausoleums all eternity ...
The price of love is not so high
as never to have loved once in the dark
beyond foreseeing. Now, as dawn gleams pale
upon small wind-fanned waves, amid white sails, ...
now all that war entails becomes as small,
as though receding. Paris in your arms
was never yours, nor were you his at all.
And should gods call
in numberless strange voices, should you hear,
still what would be the difference? Men must die
to be remembered. Fame, the shrillest cry,
leaves all the world dismembered.
Hold him, lie,
tell many pleasant tales of lips and thighs;
enthrall him with your sweetness, till the pall
and ash lie cold upon him.
Is this all? You saw fear in his eyes, and now they dim
with fear’s remembrance. Love, the fiercest cry,
becomes gasped sighs in his once-gallant hymn
of dreamed “salvation.” Still, you do not care
because you have this moment, and no man
can touch you as he can ... and when he’s gone
there will be other men to look upon
your beauty, and have done.
Smile—woebegone, pale, haggard. Will the tales
paint this—your final portrait? Can the stars
find any strange alignments, Zodiacs,
to spell, or unspell, what held beauty lacks?
Published by The Raintown Review, Triplopia, The Electic Muse and The Pennsylvania Review
Find the missing courage to stand,
together a crowd well endowed;
A globe in the palm of your hand,
now what we need is to get loud;
Neighbors have become divided,
no matter if either side tries;
They call each other misguided;
clean shoes never fix the wrong size;
Hastily two hands become one
within the confines of my mind;
Holding peace like a loaded gun,
just think if everyone were kind;
Imagine a coast of rose quartz
where we understand each other;
Domestics the same as imports,
we now press forward forever;
Revolution ‘Desperate’ fanned,
the bourgeoisie have become proud;
A globe in the palm of your hand,
now what we need is to get loud.
That sweet Christmas announcement, that I'm recalling yet
A beloved son had gifted and the date already set
Gift given in December, 'A Weekend to Remember'
In love's anticipation, and plans for participation
Hearts set for pure elation, was without a hesitation
A time to fan the ember, with that weekend to remember
We've been wed awhile now, approaching 46 sweet years
For better or for worse, through laughter and the tears
The years we've walked together are paths tred long and sweet
And lo, though that is precious, takes its toll on aging feet
We walked along together, along a desert lane
Oh wait, that's right, he walked, I limped, my foot was in such pain...
You see I'm in denial, and I've tried hard to ignore
The fact that I should rest awhile when feet are getting sore
Traipsing 'long in darling shoes, oh, I hate to bring such news
Had us both singing the blues, in shades of sunset's
fading hues
But I'm still in love's sweet clutch
Though now I hobble on my crutch
For when one more step was just too much,
I was steadied by my husband's leading touch
Does aging love still stand a chance
When pain replaces sweet romance?
Sometimes it shines ever so bright
In disappointment's painful night
Although those dreams made in December
Lay in ashes; Love's sweet ember
Fanned to the highest timber
Through our 'Weekend to Remember'
Having an inflated ego is detrimental to living a good life
It's a self-serving trait that can lead to tragedy and strife
One who's overconfident is arrogant, his hubris is rife
Overplaying his hand will cut like the blade of a knife
Some think they're better than the rest but should beware
of what happened in the race between tortoise and hare
When a hand is overplayed, there are screams, "Not fair!"
Pompous are those who are caught in their own snare
People who are uppity and conceited are easily derailed,
throwing a hissy fit when they find their ship has sailed
Dealing themselves a hand, but overplayed, it failed
They'd not be in a fool's paradise if modesty had prevailed
Narcissistic egotists seldom change. They don't understand
that when losing cards lie on the table, openly fanned,
they'd have been better off if they hadn't acted so grand
Those who overplay a hand, need a rebuke of reprimand
Taking everything for granted, with pleasure they boast
With excessive vanity, they need attention more than most,
but if I were to lift a glass, as if to honor them with a toast,
it would obviously be satirical and more indicative of a roast
November 21, 2022
Pick-A-Title, Vol 33 Contest
Sponsored by Eward Ibeh
Take me back to them days in the fall
When we spent our days breathing each other in with the air. Entranced. In thrall.
Where I held you beside me stood out in the entrance. Like them towering pines we viewed. Stood tall.
A walk in the woods. In the company of trees. Singular, familial yet unadorned. In that there loneliest place of them all.
Sat by the fire ; fanned by soft whispers, stoking stories of old
Kindling carried in kind by the wind; Words full of warmth in that glorious cold
Our inhibitions setting, our shadows cast as one. No care for the dawn with the night taking hold
In that moment time seemed still. A book cover framed in my mind so we counted stars in the sky writing chapters untold
The night settled in. We swayed beside the flickering fire. Not a word we spoke.
No music played. Like those fading flames we danced slow; in time with natures notes.
The moonlight took a shine to us then. A spotlight on my favourite autumn dress of flowers; filled with summer’s hope.
I’d fall asleep on your bed of flowers. Your scent of promise. Fragrant. Those days of fall when by each other’s sides we woke.
Mid-life street woman from red town
she was...I grew up with her under
mango trees now softly drooping
their shoulders much like hers.. but she,
still contoured like a Paul Gauguin urn, is wrapped
in arms lovely in flesh and heat: fanned banana
leaves swaying to samba notes while cooking
fried bamboo roots; her fragrance buzzing along
summer's exotic beat. How she then pinched
my cheeks with her tapered fingers still
pink on veins floating through her quivering
body…
Somehow, she gave me this epiphany of touch;
the slow wave of body rhythm lightly fondling
the rosiness of my adolescent skin. If i knew how
to pivot in the wakening garlands of Latin
steps, it was her ample hips winding and bellying
in nights and morns of her own wanton sashays...
Oh how I long to climb her mango tree,
her waxing then waning shape still blazing among
bursting seeds of female treachery or finery.
I tell myself, there is no age when her fire sways
in places where tropical eyes dazzle with her
near flowing, soaking limbs…so tenderly
wild because she, Livia, nymph of the forest raw,
has nothing else to lose.
©
for Debbie's Women, and SKAT's Poem #2
by nette onclaud
I was a classic 1957 Chevrolet Bel-Air, in mint condition, admiral and white.
My owner had other beautiful, classic cars, like stars sparkling into twilight.
My owner loved his old cars, saying 'they don't make them like they used to;'
And I enjoyed getting out upon the open road, to show him what I could do.
My fellow cars and I saw lots of sunny days, in bliss freedom of the flowers,
Traveling the length and breadth of this land, in the clasp of jeweled hours.
Flighty friends and I recalled 'good old days,' in rosy sunset times of finally,
Laughing and talking our memories in darkness, as moon shone, indefinably.
Forever friends were like feeling family, in the floral days of fuchsia's reign;
When flitting, green butterflies fanned for long, and falcons flew like a train.
I lived in the house of pleasant shadows, which didn't have many windows;
For it was one huge room without a view, like a path without the primrose.
Sparkling summer sauntered in silently, creating such scenes on my street!
Silken clouds roamed, when Sam ran his errands. Traveling was ever a treat.
Neighbors made admiring noises about me, going off on rides in neon night.
We cars were the toast of the neighborhood, nice nostalgia, in a golden light!
Clown orchids had ceased performing, in gone days of purple, beard orchids.
Now their summer relative had the holy ghost, like bliss from many sources.
Mask flowers held beautiful mystery, in alluring hues of pink, cream and red;
Like sweet secrets of moonlit shadows, and violet dreams after going to bed.
Once, Sam and I were cruising Sunset Highway, for it was my turn that day;
While dear friends waited in the cool, quiet of home, for their chance to play.
I felt a sudden impact on my left, and I knew I was hurt! There was damage;
But if not for Sam's expert driving, we might not have been able to manage!
This had happened to me times before. Such is to be expected in a long life.
As ever, friend Sam was my Superman, my mechanic in times of cruel strife.
My convalescence didn't seem so long, as I laughed about old days with pals.
When streets were not very busy, and many listened to front porch musicales.
For we were darling, daring trailblazers, quaint old paving way for all modern,
Leaving lingering feelings of fond nostalgia, like lovely fall leaves which yearn!