Long Ferments Poems
Long Ferments Poems. Below are the most popular long Ferments by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ferments poems by poem length and keyword.
Seed - scattered strewn or downtrodden.
Grain stuck on passive flytrap mucus.
Wild life biomes ripe with open sesame.
Frantic birth pangs stiffen their gestations as green leaf ferments bubble underneath.
Mother of all wombs, diva pulse or fertile runner bean.
Maternal youth.
Eternal youth.
Bamboo shoots that wave their infant tassels
in a windmill vane.
Future plant life leveler a wobbly wellie earth crunch.
Squelching noises tower over brown air pigment mulch.
Sweet pea treasure’s
plot or topsoil script, ploughman’s pen an agri-birthmark issue.
Acorns cling to feather beak and claw with migrant species casually dispersing airborne clan.
Pity the poor bacteria as they bear their own strain.
Mediators in regrowth,
life cycle go betweens who skirt around infinity.
Pregnant life force signage points at blossom, branch and blade.
Father sky, whose azure blue tarpaulin watches blithely as we earthlings bloom like algae.
Captain chlorophyll, the sunshine nabbing pirate rules the waves.
Sugar dazzle booty on display for fortune hunters everywhere.
Placenta of the rural outcrop overstretched.
Nourishing, replenishing yet prematurely procreates its progeny.
Compost layer genus code emulsions where thorny splatters worm themselves inside.
Gene pool mirror drapes its vibrant colour wash on foetal lime bow and arrow twigs.
A prism to some rainbow tint or shaft.
Muddy waters percolating sluggishly through all those clay born matrices below.
Our natural breeds now wet nurse turf ground offspring.
Nutrients absorbed by network carriers- sprout and stem WIFI eco-mates.
Elevator of the undergrowth in embryo.
Going up going down.
Timeless womb your time will always come.
Posted 13 th August 2021
Today wasn’t a good morning at all for Hassan,
a victual merchant in Baghdad
Thirty four customers got killed by a suicide bomb
A jihadist Arab wearing an explosive vest,
proclaiming to be fighting against the west,
ended up only murdering his own people
The sun rising on the eastern horizon
cast a bloody pale
Screams and sobs, weeps and wails
Ambulance sirens blaring ... death is a hard item to sell
Innocent people shopping for meat, dairy, nuts and fruit,
in a tragic transaction bought the farm
The sign outside the market said half-off,
it didn’t mean exiting with half a leg or one arm
Somehow, Hassan in dust-covered anger survived
He was one of the fortunate few to make it out alive
with every body part intact, except his calm Iraqi mind;
it keeps expanding and contracting
in violent, kinetic convulsions a million times
from such a vile, humanitarian crime
Anxiety fruit flies hover over unsold crates of apricots,
seething vengeance
ferments the not bought bottles of apple vinegar
Mass killing is always bad for business —
a lot of potential repeat customers will only
come to the open air stalls one time
Nobody wants to buy ripe pomegranates, fresh goat milk
and vintage premature dying
Terrorism is bad for consumerism,
fanatical death wish ain’t good for the merchant gift registry
Not when buying a bouquet of flowers becomes a morgue delivery
Suicidal shrapnel kisses don’t welcome tourism,
foreigners eschew dying on vacation ... death ain’t an easy item to sell
Prayer vigil purchases of screams and sobs, weeps and wails
Hassan says business has been bad
ever since that fatal, holiday dawn mourn
Only rueful disaffection comes
with the bagging of the cabbage and corn
In the orchard of opalescence
magnificent myriads of mellows
fervently flow in fountains
breathing beguile blossoms
a forgotten fable ferments,
in haunting hollows I hear.
My heart is a restless garden
with varying pulses of penumbra
conflicts caressing cuddles
tenacious tattered thorns
singing to sumptuous serenades
where brisking bubbles burst
butterflies spread beautiful wings
bees buzzing like ballerinas
to ballads in pirouettes--
a symphony calms my anxieties
descending from azure skies
but my vineyard wilts in agony.
A bird drops a seed of hope
from a foreign land in my orchard
sprouting to strive in storms
emanating exotic effervescence
ballerinas pause their buzz
butterflies flee in fear
serenades slip in streams
out casting the stranger seed.
I touch the seed with curiosity
blissfully in my meadow
melancholy melts to melodies
auspicious aurora allures
tender bud in lavender hues
drenching my dulcet dreams
in showers of chrysanthemum whispers
draping my fears at dusk
embrace my weariness with love
Is this what I'd been awaiting
a stranger I've always known
Aphrodite in lilac curtains
blushes to unfurl the petals
my fingers touch her musings
her fragrance blooms my orchard
ensnaring my sapphire senses
sparkling in emerald dew drops
I plant her beside my window
she's my fable of felicity
vineyard reviving to life
as tendrils ascend to witness
her velvet lullabies
"Sleep my love
another garden awaits me"
July 30, 2020
Petal, buds, blossoms, bees, birds, butterflies! Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Silent One
~Winner: 1st Place
Twist in your dark deep eyes flit me, your body engulfs the thoughts.
Crazy upstart, floating lock, graceful body dexterous striptease dance,
Walk me to your room, steroid zombie in moves, rave, exult to crave.
I hold the forbidden fruit to bite; learn and cry out in feather’s touch.
My breath lingers, sighs in your aroma as our veils take the back seat.
Arms cradle the drill, nudged lips endearing wild crush probing flares.
Tongues mating, breasts clubbed together in palisade seeped passions.
Promise flatters the spreads in your comfort, a delicate position I take.
Juices built, my mouth throbs and fingers crawl each nook and cranny
Sighs as the lobes are puckered in hot breath behind the trumpet lines;
Tweaks and trembles shake innocence within my initiated fracas cries
Shivers the warmth, in instinctive survival cascades in torments I trace.
Edging shudders as they trip the navel into wet paths of errant tickles,
Frenzy flutters, yearnings, murmurs the bud as twilight parts the petal.
Moist condensation decries raptures in the flesh tortured in circle sips.
Inventive curves temper g-spot hardness within twin finger work outs.
Heat ferments you to fume in breathless erotica; surmounting your joy,
Struggling chaotic flaunt chastise your legs in silky stretched insertion.
My sword engorged in blunt confines paces with the spreading tussles
Sheathed in soft ecstatic layers; mugger’s the little fellow in sweet love.
Crossed fingers for you to kiss, ears as I nibble, rub this bite in whispers,
Harnessed fingers madly nick each other, engraving rasps in fierce ties.
Form:
Happy May Day, all you PS boys and girls...EVOE!
Squeeze a cherry and let it sit,
And don't forget to take out the pit.
Let it ferment,
At least a day as a rule,
To give it some zing
And a kick like a mule.
Do the same with the blackberry,
There on the vine,
Then fill full the flagons
With festival wine.
From cherry to berry
We'll ramble along,
Our cups full of hooch,
Our young hearts full of song.
Inside the tubs
The fruit still ferments.
Those juices have uses
To enhance our intents
To revel with Bacchus,
The god of the vine.
With each quaff of the vino
We erupt into rhyme.
Be it barley and hops,
Or cherry or berry,
Let flow freely the brew
Whilst we drink and make merry.
Tomorrow's regret
Is tonight's joyful song,
The flesh may be weak, boys,
But the spirits are strong.
Author's note: I'm just doing a bit of reminiscing with this one, dear readers, remembering all those Sunday afternoon "beer busts" and "ice cream socials" that added so much flavor to my university experience. Also suggested by a story on the local news some time ago about the theft of a great number of cherries off trees in a private backyard here. No evidence to suggest if they were destined for pies or, perhaps, spirits like Kirsch or Maraschino. A Wikipedia moment for those who don't know: Bacchus is the Greco-Roman (Dionysus to the Greeks) deity of the grape harvest, winemaking, and wine, and of ritual madness and ecstasy. He was a real party animal.
Peter Beechey capped the last bottle, of the latest Lager that he'd brewed.
He's changed his recipe this time, so the argument will be renewed.
He say’s the Lager that I make is not near the standard that he sets,
now we'll argue this for hours until we’re finally making bets.
Stout, lager, bitters labeled; the smell of malt drifts through the shed.
Air-locked and popping through the water; a brew ferments below a head.
Us pair have now refined the art; our little breweries come of age.
No longer do we show impatience - we've stopped bottling hand grenades.
Both of our stocks have built up now and so of course the word soon spreads.
This means the visits from the connoisseurs; blokes each home brewer dreads.
On weekends we roll out 'Hilly' - insensible - to which beer is best.
Even the local cop and publican closed the pub to take the test.
Water, yeast, malt - but no sugar - clarity and flavour of the hops.
The head, right down to the barley, but the disagreeing never stops,
and 'Hilly' never cleared one point; our beers were locked in similar status.
We need an independent to give a true scientific basis.
I suggested what we ought to do, is send samples to the public analyst,
for he will clear the finer points; the ones that obviously we missed.
Three weeks later in the mail, his analyzing caused a further strain -
'Gentlemen, I regret to tell you - that neither horse will race again!'
I write about the things I know,
The things that give me pleasure.
I write about the things I love,
About the things I treasure.
I write about what bothers me,
Which trouble and annoy.
I write about the things I hate,
Which rob life of it's joy.
It helps me to examine life,
To listen, look and learn.
It teaches me to deal with things,
Situations of concern.
It's good for our mental health.
It helps us to relax.
It relieves the built up tension,
When we express the things that tax.
Often things that bother us,
Never get expressed,
Because of certain protocol,
They must be repressed.
There's no place we can vent our rage.
No one wants to hear,
The mental and the physical,
Anguish of their peers;
So we hide it all inside,
Where it builds, ferments,
Because we have no outlet,
No place where we can vent.
Writing helps us vent our rage,
Our pent up fears and anger.
It enables us to speak our minds,
Release the prison of our languor.
It helps us see the beauty,
That surrounds us every day.
It helps us to appreciate,
And value work and play.
It teaches us to value,
The simple things of life.
The lovliness of nature,
The unworthiness of strife.
It teaches us to concentrate,
On that which pleases us.
To count our blessings every day,
Not that which stresses us.
It's not just an outlet,
That helps us to vent.
Writing also teaches us,
How to be content.
By condo fence
Bird choir melody;
Song of July
Marriage banquet
Hosts in finery;
Guests and feast sparkle
Gratitude speaks
Spilling fond banter;
Bride and groom delight
Distant laughter
Prompts curious eyes;
Ears on the prowl
See moments crisp
Potato chips tasty;
TV sitcom drama
Evening comes around
Rare red sun horizon;
Daylight waving goodbye
Nonsense can talk
Crude noise intrudes;
Calm thoughts watch
Moment to commit
Territorial glimpses;
Takeover bid
Deep design motifs:
Extravagant ideas;
Simple illustration
Talk is cheap
Only execution matters;
DIY moments
News flash outcry:
Commercial plane shot down;
World mourns tragic murder
War decides death
Destruction forces pain;
Revolutions change nothing
Sad story
Death by fire bombs;
No one spared
Headline news
All over the world;
297 dead mid flight
Such inhumanity
No cause for concern;
Warring fractions impasse
Today's world awakes
Weapons of mass destruction;
In small hordes
Tension escalates
Man versus man;
No one wins
Sooner not later
Change intervenes;
New gremlin harvest
Morning coffee
Aroma of wakefulness;
Prelude to day's onslaught
Once upon a time
Spring held sweet ardour;
Today, old age ferments
Words speed along
Congestion impedes;
Word craft evolves
Leon Enriquez
28 July 2014
Singapore
He’s a bandit on barstool a writer in possession,
The recreation of life lived hating his self image A rocks on cause he just got his rocks off,
That’s all he ever chases,
A deserter of instincts,
A man without his values
His hurt inside is something that will grow,
It’s his world unless he’s talking feelings, It’s a full bottle one that can’t be opened,
His pain inside ferments until its poison,
It’s what he knows as coping,
It’s a closed door one that he can’t open,
It’s a mask worn to hide inside his humor,
His work life really isn’t working,
His bills paid to a life that ain’t worth living
It’s his job to keep it all together,
No matter what the reason,
His value……..seems only paper deep
Cause a rock should never roll
If that chip he has is wrong
It can turn a boulder on his shoulder to a weight that he cant hold,
Talk about your problems is a truth he’s never lived,
Getting rid of things he’s wanted since a kid,
The feelings he’s been fighting got him thinking bout and end,
Substances flowing heavy it is more than just a trend,
Addictions takes his peace he is searching for answer,
38 and lonely with a family left behind,
Suicidal thoughts played out outside his head,
Depression isn’t real it’s a story men are told
Middle aged and staying young,
Until we drop the trend,
Plagued by incandescent ferments I grapple zealously,
with tower blocks of titan topsoil myriads,
and melange of eccentric foibles,
considered by some to be a minus,
but without this composite what is my real nature?
reflection on a manifest mettlesome being,
leaden skewed traffic jam’s tailback of relative prospect,
normalcy a supernatural synonym,
apperception fringed by lambent twinkling,
that tantalising twirl of clustered countless spirits,
quirk-some inklings seem a weakness,
whilst chasing galaxy of plus point,
self-ostracised by atypical apparently conflicting plethora,
grave as in shadow id, tombstone stark exit but salutary motto,
etched eerily by one staunch depiction,
on catalytic other form of self,
unresolved human traits in multiples,
indicative of lack, lack of bearing?
me that nutrient rich plot that has,
this wondrous green blade potential compass,
me as sumptuous summer gust freshener,
of inner coastal home philosopher’s dwelling,
me an endless random version,
of charcoal midnight gleeful ghost,
blithely skimming chimney tops on deep quest,
yet nascent dawn usher lurks within,
augurs well for that sound ultimate coexistence,
despite an underbelly of niggling doubt
Hopefully I’m kind
at heart but rare traits might just
scupper thoughtful aim