Long Flapping Poems
Long Flapping Poems. Below are the most popular long Flapping by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flapping poems by poem length and keyword.
You look sideways at me
I look straight on at you
You glance towards me
I stare at you
memorize the stiches of your coat
they are uneven
it must have been handmade
You look up at the sky
I look at your shoes
They are slim and obviously Italian
You've been traveling in Europe
I look at your cheekbones
You stare off at a tree
It is a beautiful tree
though I cant see why it has captured you
I' look at your hands
they're nice hands
expressive hands
strong enough
big enough but not too big
kind hands
You turn to the left to look out over the gray blank sea
I know we're not going to see each other again
Even the stark greyness of the Cape in late November is more compelling to you in this moment than I am
I am dancing colors
I am a fragrance
of clean smells
I am sauce and sassiness and ideas and concepts
and wants
God how I want you
But you would rather look at greyness
I will never see you again
Thank you for the kiss on the dock
Thank you for the dinner and the dance
Thank you for the moment in the library when you looked into my eyes for one very long minute and I felt alive
Just before you asked me to the dinner dance
But you seem to have lost your moorings
You are like a boat
A buoy
or a wooden raft
floating
you don't know North from South
East from West
Now your sails are not catching the wind
You are sort of flapping
carelessly
aimlessly
I watch you like watching a crab scuttle up the beach
Fascinated
I will never lose my way
( That's a lie)
Tonight
You were simply a dock
that I pulled up to ...tied off
Tomorrow the sun will rise
and I will feel full and excited
I'll move on fast
throw off your bow
You were like the wild north wind for me tonight
for about 5 minutes
The wind is fickle
When the wind changes I tact
While you were in my sails I did love you
Like any sailor is impassioned by the beautiful wind
that suddenly drives him forward
the exquisite unbelievable .... unspeakable
tarp full sail pulling hard
I will miss you
But only like I always miss the wind when it dies
No more and no less
my sails will be full and my beautiful ship will be headed out to God knows where
But you my questioning friend will not know enough to follow
You will be still looking left and seeing only the gray of Cape Cod in Winter and
Descending,
I manipulate and manoeuvre for the updraft
Spluttering,
I spiral down, then briefly up again, to glimpse a glowing sky
Flapping,
I fall forever faster, flat-eagled
Plunging,
I watch the unwelcome gloom envelope my horizon
Tumbling,
I twist, turn and turbulate, ... then the thudding thump
Gasping,
I groan and exhale, a noiseless moan
Curling,
I recoil as innards become outward form
Emerging,
a base inside-out creature crawls and creeps
Tasting,
the tongue-tied intestines and the unseeing socket eyes
Groping,
a gruesome grub befriends the worm and slurps the slug-slime
Engorging,
as flaunted members flail blood and flick licky, sticky fluid
Reforming,
dim visions populate carnal shapes with awful movement
Gaping,
a fearful half-formed and startled face averts its gaze
Residing,
in deep gutter niches... these are my companion dwellers
Wallowing,
I sniff a redolent upswell of dank fissured earth
Disturbing,
I scrape, cleave and wipe away a smear of covering soil
Trembling,
I sense a warmth of body, a stretching of exotic wings
Enquiring,
I mutter clumsy overtures and crude enticements
Retreating,
I hear unmistaken rebuke and a sigh of disappointment
Imploring,
I elevate my utterances and seek a further hearing
Caressing,
I feel a welcoming and forgiving response
Pulsing,
the creature's cocoon gives way to nebulous female form
Ascending,
at first a cherub woman smiles playfully down on me
Transforming,
a stimulating and sensuous siren cavorts and teases
Uplifting,
wings gather me in for a swooping flight of fancy
Revealing,
from above, her intimate view of dwellers in the hinterland
Coaxing,
she fills me now with empathy and understanding
Alighting,
my body-mind lies prone beneath her
Tingling,
I feel her form and thoughts slowly enter and encompass me
Exploring,
I arouse and we gently probe between lips and sphincter
Delving,
I follow our rhythm of kiss, taste, touch and thrust
Wandering,
I experience our ambiguous male and female desire
Playing,
I laugh at how we tickle our innocence and sophistication
Loving,
I know for delirious moments what it is to be another
Consumed,
lost in coexistence with a like- but more extraordinary- mind
"THE BIRD CANNOT FLY"
No matter how hard he flaps his wings body won’t lift,
is it obesity or small wings?
He shouldn’t devour the food mother
fed him but do some exercise for flying,
worse yet,
he pecked on and bit siblings
in order to snatch all the food
the mother brought back causing them all to die;
his gluttonous appetite and cruel treatment made
him incapable of lifting his body in the air;
if a bird cannot fly, he is not a bird anymore
then, where to go and what to become to fly in the air.
"THE BIRD LOST SONG"
Although he had a beautiful voice
he drank sweet wines to have a more beautiful voice,
he smoked marijuana to have a more voluminous voice;
blinded by brilliant stage lights and fancy spots,
intoxicated from the shouts of fans, he ruined himself
in the tremendous popularity,
his fame made him arrogant, he fell into narcissism,
he jumped up and down on the stage and soared in the air
to tear down the floodlights hanging from the ceiling,
foolish enough to think that his feathers are brighter
more luminous than the floodlights; flapping his glittering wings,
he fell from the ceiling and was sucked into a bottomless pit.
"THE BIRD WITHOUT FEATHERS"
The starlight reflecting on a treetop is so beautiful
though he knew he couldn’t fly anymore, he stretched
open his old and infirm wings and flapped, looking at the sky,
to soar in the air; alas, Zeus’s thunderbolt struck him that moment.
His body was torn to pieces, his feathers were plucked away,
and because of all his cuts and bruised body, the remaining plumage
lost its splendorous colors; no matter how well he took care,
lost glossiness never to be restored, no matter how gently he combs,
his feathers fall out feebly;
when he looks back, he was a prisoner of vice
he was obsessed by insatiable lust,
the flower is so colorful
it smelled so sweet, he kept following
bewitched by the beauty of its alluring looks;
before he was aware of it, he got stuck in the mud, sunk into
the depth of vice; and though, he got out from mud just before
he was suffocated to death, his entire body was covered with
the scabs of evil,
the water flows, though he has no strength
to cross the river any more, it’s time to, he may be
washed away by the water, or dip himself in the water
to wash his scabs of evil out.
MESSAGES ( PT One )
A Poem by Debbie_Philly
THE MESSAGE
The room is black,
except for the faint glare of the TV in the background,
something to make me feel safe in some small way.
Hints of noise to drown out the silence--
such deafening silence, though not from within,
there's always noise within.
It's the kind of noise that keeps one awake
until early dawn.
No-- it's not the sound of the bathroom faucet running,
that would be a more pleasant sound--
(but what to do about that running.)
I slip into unconsciousness,
an unintentional state of suspended animation ,
very welcomed-- despite my objections.
Now the play begins.
The unfolding of the conscious mind.
What hides behind is much more revealing,
the actors are stacked and the story is unfolding.
Help in the telling comes from a unique source,
buried deep in the mind?
Maybe?
I believe it to be much more spiritual in nature,
supernatural in it's feel.
Lucid are the colors, real are the people.
They come from places unknown yet familiar.
Some I know by name,
some I love-- they are missed beyond words.
They come with cryptic messages,
with stories of treachery, lies and deceit ,
mapped out in vivid imagery of objects--
with meanings that I am not sure of.
I would dismiss these things if...
it were not for the repeated fashion
of how they were told.
An object here, a relic there,
I don't understand the meaning of it all, at first.
Are these apparitions conceptualized by own mind?
NO! I know these dear ones,
they love me, still-- even though
they no longer roam with the living.
There are too many signs to digest.
I wait for morning.
Sometimes I awake with a jolt,
(always remembering what I dreamed
in the haze of the pitch black night.)
I piece the puzzle together-- bit by bit,
I must decipher through the cobwebs
of the mind with some clarity; a daunting but amusing task.
I will heed these warnings,
warnings that come to me in dreams-- and beyond.
I Plan to embrace solidarity--
leave behind the flapping of malicious lips;
cling to the gifts bestowed upon me
through the handing off of the torch,
which once shined so brightly
in my loved ones soul.
I will stay awake--
be aware of my surroundings,
yet step over the boundaries
I have set for myself.
Meditate in solace
while letting my essence flow through my pen
onto white journal pages
that waits for me...
on my desk.
By: Deborah Mills-Kelly
Exracted from Gerald Nforche's Epic, The Slave's Tale
-Duala, RIOS DOS CAMEROES, 1787-
One fine morning, when love birds flew and sang
And the valleys with every gaiety rang,
The sun just setting from a misty east
We had visitors from the waters’ midst.
Our fishermen were out spreading their nets
Though broken, could entangle fish’s legs
When they saw at the horizon, approaching
A large house, like none ever seen, smoking.
Smoke exited from large horizontal
Mouths, like some fire within wood and metal.
Very huge flapping leaves hung on large ropes
Made us shiver, staggered with every lope.
And as the large house ebesse approached
Our fine archers were ready for the broach:-
Scouts scanned from the nearest hill and informed
The djanewa for any quick reform.
Village criers had announced the fall ’f war
Within which those who could lift arms no more,
Women and children wide-eyed with fear
Were evacuated to our secret lair.
And in the waters deep ebesse stopped
Emitting a loud cry: come watch us hop
Our blood about to clot from our within:-
Wood and metal kicking, crying in the wind.
Many canoes splashed into the waters
And creatures with sacks fell in from ladders
And rowed towards us, towards our very shores.
We kept the watch, canoes following a course.
Minutes soon, at the very shores they came
We watching baffled, belligerent lame.
Fifteen they were, hairy, brown and long nosed
Not unlike pale pigs in the valleys noosed.
Large brown bowls perched on their massive heads,
Noted by us as they poured out in herds
From their dancing canoes. Pipes hung from mouths
As tobacco was devoured and feet jingled loud.
And we understood they were some traders:-
We had heard their chilling news from gossipers
Who’d spoken of the magic of these men
Who had come by wind, traded and returned.
And from the gossip that ran a-wild,
We‘d gathered the name made for them from sight:
They looked burnt, like they were once like us
We called them mokala for we were at a loss.
With the prodigious group were our brothers:
We shared the same skin, they were no rioters
Save they spoke with mokala like mutineers:-
We watching, bemused straining with all ears.
A troop marched forward expressing might
Mokala watching unsettled, wide-eyed
Befuddlement on their very black lips:
Pity spelled in their eyes, daggers on their hips.
Here lies papa, the bravest warrior
Who turned the cats back to the ground.
Whose mighty sword slain thousand soldiers at a sight
And his presence calmed the snarling hyenas
Salute to the mountainous beast among humans
Salute to the king tree, the iroko.
He, who fought the wind in a physical combat with a fist,
Oh papa, enfolded by glories, demon, flapping fans of war.
He walked with the lions of the forest
And his eyeball sent fears into the elephant’s heart.
Wolves trembled at his sight, here lies his corpse unmoved
Now,
He has gone to meet his ancestors
His glories diminishing unnoticed;
And his honour with held.
Death threw his door wide open to receive him
That glories Eke morning.
His bony claws were outstretched to hook into his heart,
And plucked out his life.
His cavernous mouth was determined to drink his blood
To the last drop.
Freedom! Papa cried and fought but the hands were too strong.
Stronger than the winds
Later,
The ground protested for freedom from his grip
As he joined them.
They kept moving on razor edge to penetrate him
Mother earth wept for peace.
The worms hastened in
Alas! They all bleed the day to death.
Suddenly, the underworlds stared at the body
I understood their plight
Papa was stronger than them all.
Ogbuefi, my elegy burst in the name of isieke
Your ancestral home land.
The iroko has fallen.
The fallen iroko was once upon his glory
And men dared not look into his eyeball.
But here lies he, unmoved.
Feeble ants now laughed at him scornfully
Yes, we dreamt of conquering death.
So lives could live and grow sore not.
I remembered the lures of that ancient call.
Of what importance is life any way?
That man stumbled and struggled for evil.
Vanity, it is, vanity upon vanities.
But men understood not the call there of.
I will walk through the pains
Promising with all hopes
Not to turn down men of good will
For I pass this road but once.
To wait on this great green side
Till the coming dark clouds have cleared
Then, death be no more
And, father emerged in joyful smiles clothed in white
To welcome me home to dwell in his bosom with his Chi.
ALL RIGHT RERSEVED(JOHN CHIZOBA VINCENT) 2013
"That's a dead triangle" the boy proclaimed without even a mention of his good name.
"Gotta smoke...?" the old man asked as he unlatched his case at hand. Pulling out sticks.
His time at the table to challenge the band, was upon him soon. His pinkie ring has an
onyx moon.
"You shoot lefty.... and a bridge is the quarter turn of a One"
"Seven sees four eyes of a sun....! You're good to move on."
What? There's a quarter turn on the horizon?
"The Angel isn't dead and the Dead aren't done...."
How many games have you played I asked him. His blue jeans were dirty and his hair was
thin. His hands were shaking as he drew one in... a long and steady breath, full of smoke
while his eyes sat firm. The hall was dim and around me I could hear the echoing players
call. I could hear clashing of the solidly striped balls.
Then without a reply, the old man turned his back to the wall. Removed his eyes from my
questioning stare and lifting his arm, took a shot through the air.
"Why am I here...." with the angels again...
Hey little girl, did you watch me play? I won that game the red head said. All I could do
was smile. Not knowing yet why once in a while, I'm confronted with strange realities, not
especially mine, but yours you see?
In her face with just seconds to spare I saw her life in a flash of red.... bloodshot.
Eyes in her head were not the kind I'm used to. Something about her ruby lips too.... the
elevator moved ever so slow as we stood there. Her towering height became quite,
apparent, my eyes to roll from my sight as I'm staring. Click please! Let the elevator
floor ding, I'm praying. I see her knees am I shrinking? I start blinking and breathing,
just waiting for the door to start dinging.
And then it did.
And the air finally came.
"Love an Angle and be quick on your game!"... her ruby lips flapping.
Then the red head was gone and I was still.Left standing.
76 tables in the den remaining...I'm exhausted when came
the first of a dawning while driving away in the morning, I realized...
I was called to the table, in play for their lives.
"But I'm not a man..." a whisper cried....
"Only sLight of a human inside...."
A fractal of Light now....
As homeward I drive, wondering how can it be?
As they're not alive. So what exactly, does that mean about me?
Form:
I thought poetry is
-name of Mesopotamia which was the first civilization to emerge in human history
-ancient cave peoples surviving life struggle
I thought poetry is
-an immortal love story of Yousuf- Zulekha, Shirin-Farhad, Laila-Majnu or Romeo-Juliet
-a telephonic or open love conversation of smiling postmodern girls
-drying wet colorful clothes of beloved in the courtyard of the house
-haring of beloved with tuberose garland before a mirror
I thought poetry is
-lizards chirping from the deserted house; cockroach flying
-quarrelsome cats in the black dark or barking dogs
-the struggle of mosquito for human blood
-traveling of the arrogant indecent animals all over the night
I thought poetry is
-thrilling venturous ghostly stories of J. K. Rowling
-self-expression of known-unknown writers
-unspoken tale of a war-wounded soldier
-the regret of the thousands of dead soldiers
-the unwritten fantasy of an isolated poet
-the lonely guitar or ektara of dead singers
I thought poetry is
-without reel tie an independent flying of a kite in the sky
-in the blue sky sovereign flapping of birds
-movement of invisible winds everywhere
-hearing story of fairytale crossing of green forest
I thought poetry is
-handmade airing of newly married girl to a new groom in lunch time
-dyed hands of nubile girls by mehndi,
-captivating sounds of jingling anklet and kamarband of dancing damsels
I thought poetry is
-classic music of Pandit Ravi Shankar
-immortal tune of Ustad Bismillah Khan's shehnai
-compilation of humanitarian lyrics of the legend Bob Marley
-heart touching reciting of the Holy Quran of Qari Abdul Basit
I thought poetry is
-unforgettable philosophical discussion of Socrates with his disciples
-the philosophic lineage of learning such as Socrates-Plato-Aristotle
-immortal scientific creations of Newton, Galileo, Einstein, Nikola Tesla, Hawking
I thought poetry is
-unremitting prayer or worship of any prevailed religion devotee to get heaven
-inhuman history of bombing on the Hiroshima and Nagasaki or brutality of 1st or 2nd World War
These all are just my thinking,
my thinking is free
on my path
but poetry is poetry,
more than any thinking, many more;
on its path
Poetry is independent fully
-June 27, 2019 Chattogram
Fascinated by a word ‘lofty solitude’
I, as a tall and dignified pine tree,
once stood high on a mountaintop
that stands there from a time remote in antiquity
the unfathomable height.
However, I have burned the pride of the pine tree
to ashes in the sunset glow
because no one ever noticed the trail after trials of hardship
the pine tree underwent to sustain the self as pine tree
on the summit of mountain, and, therefore, I felt offended.
Bewitched by a word ‘tragedy’
I was, as a fluffed giant rock,
stood on the cliff no one ever stepped on
in one of those stormy night,
the roaring thunders, dazzling lightening
and the darkness reigns with flapping huge wings.
However, unable to hold own weight any longer,
wishing to mount on the back of a cloud,
I tried to hold a drifting cloud struggling with tiptoed stretches.
Becoming a captive of a word ‘anguish’
I wandered the wilderness
with thirst under burning sun
and hunger in chilling air at night.
However, the word anguish was the fierce torture
the whip inflicted on no one but self,
and, therefore, the deep wound never be healed
gives sharp pains unable to bear.
I thought the word 'loneliness' becomes to me,
I sat by the window counting a lot of stars in nightly sky
heaving with sighs as many as the stars I have counted.
I spent the sleepless night longing for an unknown love
in the ripples of moonlight,
the breaking surfs by the window.
However, throughout a night’s loneliness
I was overcame by sorrow, and became the drops of tears
and heaped up to overflowing in my heart’s river,
the solitary stream had nowhere to flow.
For a word ‘moksha--spiritual awakening' is so awesome
I roamed here and there wishing to find it the meaning of life,
and when I found it, I have collected it with joy
and packed it in old beaten knapsack I was carrying and returned.
However, when knapsack was unpacked and found was,
neither the will nor the way as I was expected all along,
but full of useless stones the darkness that is darker
then the raven’s feathers.
After all,
I think I do understand the meaning of the word ‘life’
though vague and fragmentary, now, I am standing
as a stem of reed in the marsh by a river
while swaying about in the wind
to tattoo the word ‘life’ on my sick and weary body.
stay tuned we'll be right back so don't touch that remote
a word from your sponsor is coming of which you should take note
God said to be of good courage and to have no fear
and that's a direct command that He wants us to adhere
everyone has a choir of critics, a bunch of nitpickers
never a word of encouragement, a bunch of bitter snickers
folks will always have their opinions be they bad or good
and if you're in a position of leadership to tell you they think they should
they're just like an old shoe's tongue always flapping when on the go
but a word from your sponsor is what you really need to know
your sponsor is your Savior, the Master Potter of Life
your sponsor is the Holy Lord, Jesus the Christ
three times Jehovah told Joshua to be courageous and to be strong
and don't worry about what the world has to say for I know where you belong
listen to My instructions for this is a direct command
just listen to your Sponsor and get with the program
it's not about your credentials, your experience nor your resume
it's not about any plaques or awards that you've received up to this day
a word from your Sponsor is all you ever need to hear
as what the world usually says is shrouded in discouragement and despair
when you think back over your life and all that you've survived
you will see that it was the grace of God that kept you alive
strength is the inner connection to God that you've been given
and courage is the outward expression of how you should be living
courage is the thing that made a young David realize
that Golieth was just another target only bigger in size
courage is the thing that will stop fear in its tracks
and make you more focused when the enemy attacks
a word from your heavenly Sponsor goes beyond human understanding
so do whatever it is that the Lord God is commanding
a word from your Sonsor is playing on the spiritual channel
so don't touch that dial, the remote nor the cable TV panel
a word from your Spnsor will stand the test of time
the everlasting bread of life on which you should dine
to eat of the Daily Bread that God has in abundant supply
to meditate on the word of God on which you can rely
a word from your Sponsor is what you need to hear in life
the eternal word of God and the gospel of Jesus the Christ