Long Flamingo Poems
Long Flamingo Poems. Below are the most popular long Flamingo by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flamingo poems by poem length and keyword.
Behold how pleasure seeps through to the strangest places;
as if it's effects could make a river climb a steep incline.
A pink, feathered ball with a pipe cleaner neck and an old rubber nose, stands in stasis.
Or should I says hops, where exactly do we draw the line?
It's blinding pink is no sign of flamboyance nor an ostentatious display.
Flamingos are what they eat and what they eat doesn't give a damn about their mental state in the coming months.
Smirks creep, snickers descend, what colour of lonely shall it choose today?
Grey would be great but the grim reaper is not someone one confronts.
One leg to hold on and the other dedicated to keeping up appearances.
A stand-up has no chance against a desolate land with an estranged flamingo slotted in centre stage.
Spotlight focused, eyes agaze, feed upon this barren creature and forget common decencies.
If only it could choose it's colour...red, red with rage.
Silent sighs hide inside breath clouds
exhaled into sentimental air
as brisk winds summon twilight,
tinting innocent horizons.
Oxygen dances with atmospheric particles
creating a plethora of chemical reactions.
Enchantment illuminates in flashes of
colourful magnificence.
Celeste sapphire hints indulge
through violet shades of lavender hues.
Streaks of scarlet crimson petals
flow among coral flamingo shades
as golden streaks swim through
emerald crystallised skies,
seeking sanctuary within the realms
of infatuated devotion.
and that was the first time I saw her eyes
her perfect gift to the world.
Silent One
26 October 2017
Simple musing
His scarlet head droops
towards his soulless emerald chest.
Perched upon a fruitless branch,
his spiritless eyes stare
at the emptiness of freedom.
Above, streaks of ruby hints
flow among coral flamingo shades,
as golden streaks swim through
crystallised kaleidoscopic skies -
but he feels no enthusiasm to fly.
What he thought would set him free,
has left his heart a companion-less hostage.
A lovebird without a purpose,
he is unable to warble a melody,
nor whistle for the love he left behind.
Raindrops splash his forlorn feathers,
he is too scared stiff to spread his wings.
His heart thumps like thunder,
as flashbacks of sitting, singing and locking beaks,
with feasts of berries, apples and seeds,
are regretful reminders of his misjudgement.
As he falls,
his last thoughts -
maybe freedom is not all that it seems..
Silent One
22 September 2019
a remarkably clever young blue jay
had colorful feathers like egg faberge'
he was beautiful, amazingly gay
I saw him for the first time last Wednesday
Did not hear his name, but I think it was Ray
Did not preen or boast like the human Jay
His pretty feathers had a bit of fray
He has a reputation said neighbor May
Females love seeing him fly and sashay
I first met him at the Flamingo Bay
He has formed a mob that likes to laugh and play
I ran down to the bay to try and see Ray
I had heard that he sometimes is their Deejay
Have you heard him? Asked a family named McVey.
His radio persona name is Doctor Do So Ray.
"Don't Quit Your Daydream,"
I heard muffled
through the thick marshmallow.
Not quite awake,
I descended down the never sticky gummy ladder,
Never sticky,
Always smooth and gleaming.
Sunflower Jackhouse was still
Monitoring the monkey responses.
"Did someone call for me?"
I asked him rubbing my forehead,
Though when I saw my hand
It was on my belly.
"You look hungry, Titus," said Sunflower.
"My brother's name is Titus," I responded,
Taking my hand off my belly
And placing it on the feathered
Back of a purple flamingo that
Was just suddenly there.
"Don't quit your daydream, Titus," said Sunflower
Slyly sliding me a coupla tuna melt sliders.
"It was you," I said taking the plate.
Sunflower switched a few switches on the monkey board,
Smirked and looked back at me saying:
"Now we all become stars."
And then BOOM!
I think pink is a colour for the young,
It's also the colour of our tongue and lips,
And if we are
caucasian, even our hips.
Sugarplums, babies bums, shell-like ears are pink,
Some jewellery I think too,
Pearls, Beads and bangles, to mention just a few.
Pink champagne all froth and bubble,
Don't forget the pink flamingo,
Falling in love and all that trouble,
Of trying to hide that pink rosy glow,
Confectionery like candy floss,
That you can purchase at a fair,
Many other lollies are pink,
I'm sure you've had your share.
I can't think of any animal that is a shade of pink,
Except for the elephants,
One sees if they have had too much to drink!
Oh, what is the matter with me,
I gave my brain a jig.
Then I remembered, of course, the pig!
You can buy pink stationery,
Pink toilet rolls as well.
If you are young and in the pink,
Pink anything shops sell.
Pink bedrooms, bathrooms, kitchen
Curtains and manchester galore,
Light fittings for walls and ceilings,
Carpet and tiles for the floor.
Pink balloons and festoons,
Banners and garlands and bunting,
Although a fox-hunters coat is red,
It's called pink when he goes hunting.
I'm feeling quite nauseous with this colour,
Although it was my favourite, many moons ago.
When I was young and in the pink,
All the young girls thought it so.
Thou art no migrant bird, O Pink Beauty,
But forced art to fly many a long miles
Looking for fresh habitat and water,
In search of new breeding and nesting isles.
And in this search of a shallow wetland,
Ye fly hundreds of miles in patterned file.
Once there, watching ye take off on webbed feet,
Ah what a sight when ye lift off in style!
Thanks to vast wetlands getting polluted,
Despite thine number threatened art thou still,
What with habitats getting degraded,
Should ye lose out, oh what a cruel ill!
I watch when ye fly in flocks of thousands,
Then settle down sighting the right wetland
Or marshland, with friends and family bands,
What gorgeous a sight ye turn lifeless land!
And now a word about thine mating dance
That pairs of males perform to charm females—
Their magical synchronised head movements,
At climax a wing salute does regale.
It's strange, O thou Lesser Pink Flamingo,
Thou art no ‘lesser'— colour nor number,
Nor beauty, nor yet dancing style ye know,
Only size that thou art any humbler!
Soon as monsoon comes to its end, I think
Of thine flocks to turn wetlands a deep pink!
_____________________________________________ ____
Reminiscing | 21.09.2020 |
Entered for "All Yours (May 20) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
The Politician and The Musician--
See the stalking of the politician,
I think he's angry at the ammunition.
He finds it hard to see the fly,
Overshadowed by the evil guy.
Who is that calling near the kitten?
I think she'd like to eat the whitten.
She is but an amazing musician,
Admired as she sits upon a permission.
Her impatient car is just a lake,
It needs no gas, it runs on cupcake.
She's not alone she brings a lion,
a pet eagle, and lots of guyon.
The eagle likes to chase a flamingo,
Especially one that's in the bingo.
The politician shudders at the afraid lorry
He want to leave but she wants the category
3/6/19
Rhyming Couplet by James Edward Lee Sr.©2019
Last night we went to a caffeine dance-music rave.
It’s a wellness variation on clubbing where there’s
no alcohol. It was accelerated and ‘K-pop’ infused,
people in pastels of pink, turquoise, and chartreuse.
Imagine our favorite, legal, psychoactive substance,
rendered in a hundred mocktail flavors, midnight-mango,
pink-flamingo (cotton candy), sour-apple and Dream sickle.
Cats-n-boots and cats-n-boots and cats-n-boots
- can you feel it? A hundred people, juiced and loose,
energized and emotionally unbound.
The unity of movement is a caffeine improvement.
It was appetite, performance and pleasure at once.
The air smelled clean, sweet and sharp
and we were feeling a bit sharpened too.
The crowd roared, like hungry lions,
when the right song upped the mood.
We seemed to glide, like sprites
the night shimmered with flashing lights
- these feels went on all night.
Modern joys involve curated sensations,
heavily branded, with controlled stimulations.
Call it spiritual experience paired with self-management
- yes, we got sugar-rushed and genuinely intoxicated -
but a thin varnish of moral superiority came with participation.
Did I mention that the ‘new clubbing’ is hangover free?
.
.
Songs for this:
Lil Boo Thang by Paul Russell
Pull Up by Collect 200
Dear manipulative muse,
I have watched you calligraph your craftsmanship into oblivion.
I must say, your concoction is a wild enterprise,
Dreaming in the darkness, you have sketched me an aura of rose
From an oasis that sings a broken lullaby,
Playing chemistry with macabre metaphors.
Such a shame…
Did the bittersweet sun in your sky teach you only black and white?
Must a woman almost always be the mosaic mind?
Spare me the brain-blistering sad songs on the 1900 radio.
Now witness! Observe!
See what it means to be the dawn of pain in familiar torment,
Time stolen and a heart far beyond broken,
Dust lost beneath the hidden October embers.
Why wait for a volatile vortex?
When your indigo moonstone stirs up like a furious faucet,
Impatiently waiting to explode into the aftermath of a war?
Are you done keeping score?
Or does your pride need to see how I can walk out that door?
You are barely a quest,
You pathetic flamingo!
So get your head out of my backyard
And bury it in a forgotten graveyard.