Long Flanks Poems
Long Flanks Poems. Below are the most popular long Flanks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flanks poems by poem length and keyword.
Panning in frigid water for a nugget called freedom.
The seed of the dream sprouts in the mind.
Deserts are brimming with icy coyote eyes
The mountains, though lovely, grow higher.
Barely alive, the hopeful lies battered
Dust devil dreamers - roses tossed into the fire.
The worthwhile journey never has an ending.
Tough miles gather like sparrows on broken fences.
Cartels and sex barons thin out the flanks.
Hope waning-wailing-chalk hearts in the rain.
For the worthy, lady liberty patiently awaits.
Those with clean nails and fine fancy homes.
Shove barbed wire agendas down blue-collar throats.
Buzzards hover above, dreaming only of dead meat.
Anarchists and pretend patriots bloody the streets.
Front page nuggets whittled down to fine print.
Only rattlers and God know where dead dreamers lie.
The masses become immune to imminent death.
Dust devil dreamers and roses tossed into the fire.
Running on cliff edges cranked her adrenalin
Stagger of gravels' release, tipped in avalanche
Scared her terrifically, able to surrendour then
Driven to dare's taunt irresistible, emancipated
Victims of her craft came willingly to her dim den
Always too enthused, wiped smiles with debauchery
Fools drooled like puppies, helpless lap belt men
Guzzled foggy grape juice, succumbed to her sorcery
Smoothly blended purple potion contained correct mix
Floppy neck despondent combined tiger voracious
Aphrodite's ribs thronged with rotten achievement, a fix
Light in guy's terrified faces fed her climb solacious
Absolute conquer of weakened ones, without any speech
Gleam in their pupil huge grape gluttoned eyes, pleadingly
Waist up incapable, claimed her pleasure self beseeched
Entire body force in their groins satiated men immediately
Squared claws clamped concave flanks, rose from exhale
Her wearer's temperature sat at forty degree celcius fever
Tigers never went down without a fight, Aphrodite impaled
Traipsed her way stickily to the tip, slide down took forever
Lame, head spin sickened, next hour's lure gladly drags
Fish lipped flung fellow to her front yard, under a shrub
Sombre, cynical, sneer mouth man, her true rival, perhaps
- maybe Aphrodite would let this one remain undrugged
13th September 2020
My Way
When I hear the song, “My Way.” I think of the narrow road I used
to walk in the valley of my Shangri-La, with lions in the tall grass
green crocodiles in the ditches and wolves in the woods
My dog came along on my wandering, she accepted the wildlife but had a fear of sheep that stopped feet when she came near
Behind a low wall, an ancient mule lived, belonged to no one but itself; the animal was glad to see me, knew I had a few slices of bread and kind words stroking its flanks, to my dog's annoyance.
So, we lived, the grapes on vine full of juice and free to eat, what more can anyone ask for.
One day, when the mule died, they came put a rope on her hind legs, dragged her to a hollow
a digger dug a hole; I mourned her passing, but the next year an abundance flowers grew on her grave the nature honored her passing.
Oh, how old we grow, the dog preferred sitting on the terrace when
not sleeping on the sofa, I had a scooter and drove every day to my secret paradise, but my visit was much shorter than before
The wildlife had been in my mind.
My dog died, I buried her in a cave between two sandstones; our time together had been too short, but happy.
I continued to drive, but the road was dusty, the wind blew and I had a wintry heart.
So, old man, you did it your way, but who is going to bury you?
A divine blacksmith didn't forge winged hearts of gold,
to soothe the burn of others.
Nor mold my body into a scratching post chant.
Where others can shed their dying dream ghosts.
I was conceived from the sable fingertips of Dali.
Flint-hearted, with a sheen of midnight black matches.
Straddling devil's dunes, in an upside-down desert...
My heart wields a wicked chain, with selfish yellow teeth.
It billows like an old factory,
discharging microscopic monsters,
easter island heads
the bones of carbon and oxygen
a pure oasis of death...
Ride these ragged flanks
eat the melting clock
roll the chipped-toothed dice.
Turned from flower to flamed-out rock...
If you want.
The snake slips through its own ribs.
It surges away accelerating within its length,
a self-winding mind
pumped through muscular hoops.
A sharpshooting tongue flicks, drilling space,
muscular chains propel scaly flanks.
That elongated, rippling cage,
creates side-winder tractor-prints,
a pattern
etched on the surface
of its underbelly belly.
Its swift purpose now
is to out-speed the threat of my eyes.
I kick some dust up,
the serpent freezes,
then turns to face,
not seeing but tasting,
a scent that could be
the enticing blood-heat of a rabbit,
or the stabbing beak of an eagle,
yet it hesitates, sensing
something alien, different.
If it had shoulders, It would have shrugged,
Instead, I shrug for it,
then walk quickly away.
Blithe notes of Twilight's symphony alight
Into occluded abyss spindled cords take flight
Duller shades into harmonious bands unite
Grainy film spreads o'er recess a dank, dingy kite
Initiating eve's wake, ethereal blinds shut tight
Midnight's, chilling vigil stills darkened night
Nyx's, silver, pale orb mystical procession doth ignite
Twinkling pallbearers on flanks shoulder the blight
Ghostly-white planets from distant corridors observe rite
Pleiades' sisters' glowing blue embers provide candlelight
On bended knee, Perseus the glib eulogy doth recite
In the somber parlor, Orion with satin bow stalkers doth fight
Tears from Aquarius's drawn bucket salve Night's dreary plight
Mystical beams from Southern Cross emptiness doth requite
Dusty books of wisdom
prayer wheel not spinning
retreating from one another
stars shedding their satin skin
maelstroms of unbridled egos
the asp kisses the sleeping eagle
oil slicing the throat of the people
the people await the hand of the son
who says you haven't suffered enough
the desperate sinking on islands of needles
a range of golden law mountains are shunned
spinning blades of greed, the hell with need
gone is the silver oasis of shimmering faith
shallow promises spilling from burlap faces
parched souls hoarding rain from the poor
rivers of sin slapping at Saint Peter's door
the four horsemen spurring fiery flanks
the future will honor the lowest of rank
unleashing justice-plugging heart leaks
the inheritance will cherish the meek
what the heck are we really seeking
I think of those who left their home.' To fight on battlefields
Unknown.' In mud and blight against Gallipolis heights
At Beer Sheba and on Tobruks deadly plains.' Where they
Lay low; and let those tanks, roll over them front and flanks'
Then arose to put to shame.their foe' These Men
Of the the flats..Of wheatfields and cane.' From harbours
And citys made forever a name.' Reknown for igenuity for
Resilience wordwide.' Steadfast our bronzed battlers who
Took all in stride.' As the bugle notes ring out today in the
Dawn.' I remember.. I remember.' In gratitude mixed with awe.! So today as i face the struggles that come I shall
Draw strength, and inspiration at the rising of each sun.'
And it will remind me.' That whatever is to come? the
ANZAC spirit is my mentor, i vow to hold it to my memory all
My days on earth, until my final hours beneath the setting sun'
~~A chess match is an opaque mirror into societal clash.
Slippery rules and taboos playing upon a checkered past.
Balcony kings and queens glaring down on the lower caste.
Ramparts buttressing crooked flanks, serfs in the murky front.
Devouring dirt, taking the brunt of many skirmishes to come.
Senators riding sky horses, gliding so high above the fight.
Neighing nonsense -fanning their brand of hellfire lies.
Speedy-tongued bishops blitzing on the slanted slide.
In our faces, showcasing only the wrongs of our lives.
Black and white toppling ungracefully to the side.
Flimsy smiles and flint handshakes without dialogue.
Another fiery stalemate on the blazing horizon.
I wasn't born with long, elegant God-limbs.
To race across the flowered plains of heaven.
I was conceived from the hammer and anvil
of a gray-witted, quick-to-anger blacksmith.
My shoulders will never feel a spray of red roses.
My only friend will be a bucket of secondhand oats.
No soft palms will stroke my dull-matted flanks.
Only whips of attrition to hold me to this lowly rank.
I'll spend a lifetime plowing uphill and moving stone.
Loyal to a fault at the expense of my soul-bones.
When my days are sprinkled over with ice and snow.
When my back is beyond bent and ribs start to show.
There'll be no tears-accolades or sweet eulogies.
Only harsh words and sharp tug into the darkness.
And a long bumpy jaunt to the glue factory.