Long Fantasymay Poems
Long Fantasymay Poems. Below are the most popular long Fantasymay by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fantasymay poems by poem length and keyword.
if the sinking-of-boat …ice-cream by name
be deducted from the swept-off-in-flood … by name roll no 31
then would the wings of the comics
cease to exist
what says the uninterrupted sound of water-falling
from the stomach of the moon
what writes the pus and blood
what writes the fuming-hot rice
the creepers and the herbs grow continuously
in the insomniac bath-tub
the sounds of the horse-hoof floated by the river
used to change the velocity of its clothes
both in the morning and evening
the birds from the cornice go to school
by dip-swimming
it may come one day when the fishes
become very angry and in the tale of the sweet-meat
the potter will destroy the jointly-built bee-hive
then all hurricane would be habituated to dinner
sans saliva
then there would be no such morning-walk
in the body of the trees
from which such a bore could be found out
through which an elderly saral may fly
into the blue translation of a squirrel
the magnetic field of the orange-pulp
and the productivity of the open window
reside in the same locality
if their frequency be touched
then the the antenna of the mermaids
speared with sleeping-oil
may be injured
by burnings their eyes
the crow-birds knocks at
in the soap-foams
produced by the afternoon
the pond with a jumping deer
wants to make bite
it is not known by this way
when a white hyphen
sticks to the palate of the shirt
now put off all the whispers
and let it be talked on the will-paper of the bees
why the pages from the honourable ash-trays
be excluded
those bunch of waters
that come out from the churning of the anises
and the jumps born of their semen
also make friends with the group-photos
now let this other night sends its best wishes
to the future candles
through a cell-phone
you may say now
those demerits relate to the seeds of the gm oranges
but just think the scanning of hibernation of the philtre
or of the kite the thread of which is cut off
they can’t escape their responsibility too
then tell me to whom i could give
my sad melting point
but then to do any work means
this trigonometry
outside the territory of copyright
then the connection of the biscuits
with the thoughts of the fire-works
is clearly dismantled
the border-zone of all relations thus keep themselves apart
and due to a sharp difference in the chromosomes of sand-stone
our dwelling-house becomes a museum
to build a hospital with a big moustache
at last within the hypnotized company
the shadow of our bed-room appears
then the light of the social moon is like the materials
with which the inner parts of the sorrows of the pomelo
is made up
it may be well for making great
the art-work of the horse-rider
that is wrapped with the handkerchief of ocean
it must be waiting for my shampoo-power too
some cure may be offered by the paraffin
and her open hair
but one deed of the rose-petals
and the convex sweet drops of molasses
is the flame of thumb-impression
that is born and brought up by the pan-cake
in-between sauce-pan and peter pan
in this all-pervasive panorama of slang-opera
Where did you come from my precious sprite?
You live as if there is no tomorrow.
And still somehow you are bluntly interrupted.
You may come inside and warm yourself for a bit.
Maybe we should act upon nothing at all.
Welcome to my world, please stay a while.
Warm your hands by the fire and close your eyes.
Memorize your collection of thoughts.
My discontent has eluded my nature of being serene.
Something has been added to my sense of calmness.
Perhaps it is your presence and your beauty.
Shall I wrap my cloak around you please?
Let me comfort your shivering and frail body.
My looks are powerful as bolts of lightning.
Feel my willingness to comfort you.
My touch is soothing, your eyes remain closed.
A moment to cherish as fresh dew on a leaf.
Try as I may to remain in the moment, your eyes open.
You jump as if to flee, then you stop and look back.
Your soft gentle smile has an obscure captivity.
I stand and reach out for you to no avail.
You fly as fast as the wind wisps through trees.
My mystic eyes are no relief to your naivety.
Like a wild horse senses the harm...you are gone...
Sleep is good.
but when sleep brings nothing but fear, and hatred.
weeks go by, you forget the weeks.
when the weeks, become years it maybe to late.
So, when the door opened, i saw into hell.
but was it real or was i still dreaming?
It's now into what feels like many years, but how can i tell?
it's so dark, i can't see my hands, but i'am not sure, i have hands?
I hear low moans of suffering, as i hear the pain, and feel the dampness.
i can sense i'm not the first, the smell of death is all around.
If your eyes could open, you would know the death,
and wear the fear.
Your eyes may close, but will they see forever?
When they go dark, can you feel the life?
The life that died with the arrival of the light.
do you see the rainbow, as it shines from your eyes?
So, may the shine stay with you, if it fails to reflect from your soul,
death is all you have...
i may call it a leaflet
i may call it a handbill
but don’t you notice
a large number of gossips
is natant in the air
do you admit that the fuming heart
that’s glorifying the plate
should be made a must-read
for any seed-bed
the sun tells that to keep-fit
the health of the clouds
the instigation of the perfumed-soap
is required
with that pituitary
some neighing of horses
that is fastened tightly with cork
now see
if you can offer pregnancy
even to the barbie doll
by the by
it should be informed here
if the question of roaming in the woods
is raised
the highly-educated bathroom
feels very helpless
and taking repeated somersaults
in the sunshine
in the rains
the folding umbrella
also have got very much out-of-temper
‘twixt grassy tuft and bark of ancient oak,
as silky dew collects in crystal pools,
the chosen eye may witness faery folk,
though must remember ne’er to break the rules.
An honour and a charm bestowed upon
a child, who secrets promises to keep;
as dreamland calls and daylight hours are gone,
bough’s silver dust is sprinkled in her sleep.
A passage safe, both to and from their land
of harebell hats and wings of filigree.
In twilight dawn their blessing is at hand,
to keep her safe wherever she may be.
If of her precious gift she speaks, alas
she’ll ne’er see fae again 'twixt oak and grass.