Long Flaps Poems
Long Flaps Poems. Below are the most popular long Flaps by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flaps poems by poem length and keyword.
If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor – Desmond Tutu
The Trumpet of Parrots
Patriots rally to the trumpet sound,
its blare echoes the lies that bigots breed.
Perched in power, pipers, in pretence gowned,
their hatred spreads, disguised as noble creed.
They stoke the tribal fire in ancient scars,
while hissing hypes to mask the stench of greed.
Their chorus of lies taints Venus and Mars,
who like pawns follow blindly the king’s lead.
Their victims vilified and ridiculed.
Protesters branded as dregs of the state,
by troops of diehards loathsome and unschooled,
As crony capitalists preach their hate.
So, mark the flock that flaps where conscience sleeps:
A nation full of parrots gently weeps.
the roaring sound rejuvenates my heart
wind whips,
bells tinkle,
flag flaps
thought i
needed to change
into shorts
but my
just bare feet,
thin sweater blue jeans
perfect
for this early Spring blustering
lilliputian tweets and vroom beats
such temperate tempest jubilation
lifts my spirits
if
the sea were involved
with
its swanky salt I’m seconds away
from
the pearly gates
Turn to quenching winds; cherish what you can't see.
Learn to study vastness rippling at sea.
Birds watch you from high as they tranquilly soar.
Words elevated mend a heart that's sore.
Songs of praise are the greatest compliment.
Strong and gentle, our natures complement.
Thoughts of gratitude charm, expressed aloud.
Cots, blankets, and laughter are allowed.
Shells cling to sea rocks; we harvest mussels.
Swells hug your tee shirt, revealing muscles.
Pull me close like friendly breezes that blew.
Full of mysteries are diverse realms blue.
Sky's palette blends at a quarter past eight.
Eyes twinkle from marshmallows we ate.
You strum your ukulele; we become a band.
Two voices that melt cannot be banned.
Seagull calls merge in a tune that's choral.
Regal beauty flaps around hidden coral.
Sway like moonlit, twinkling leaves of beech.
Stay with me tonight upon this lot of beach.
7-14-2021
(Rhyme beginnings, homophone endings)
I built a cardboard house
that came with four large flaps.
And when they're folded over
the roof it over-lapse.
I have to crouch inside it.
It's not made very tall.
But when I go to stand up
the roof gives way and all.
It hasn't got a window.
It's dark without a light
and nothing to be feared
when nothing is in sight.
I can't lay down inside it.
It's much too small to sleep
and if I start to nod off,
I'll hit the wall and weep.
I live alone inside it.
There isn't room for more.
And if someone came over
they'd see there is no door.
I haven't got a mailbox
and live with no address.
And if you want to find me
you'll simply have to guess.
I move around quite often.
It's not my place to brag.
But you won't say I'm rich
when I grab my house and drag.
I'm happy once inside it
and live from day to day.
And if you should come over,
I'll flip it and we'll play.
An exuberant falcon she is, isn’t she?
Being the aviator of my flight of thoughts.
Cares less she to heed, whenever in adoration, I
Do call her for a chat - she is a mischievous trickster.
Every time she dawdles, I give her a gentle prod;
For then, she arrives in ripples of reasoning,
Gleaming in reflections of my own contemplations.
Hues of insights kindle my mind’s spectrum as
I follow her to the unexplored layers of landscape - a
Journey for the moment - as we drift across the
Kaleidoscope of nature, when through seamless
Loops of thoughts, I crochet and disperse my ink
Meandering over dreamy mangroves of my mind.
Now she’s disappeared, but where’s she gone?
Oh, she can vanish in a flash like a lightning! - a
Playful penguin - it’s hard to grab her attention; the
Quick-witted queen of my boundless imagi-Nation, who
Refills my thought pot and sows fresh seeds of fancy.
Sometimes with her capricious flaps, she glides away
To coax her to stay back more is beyond my ability.
Upon the labyrinth of life, we travel together.
Voices of many a mind, whispering and rumbling,
We hear as we ponder on the vast sea of life. My
Xanadu of inspiration, when she appears out of nowhere.
Yes, she feeds my brief reveries with pearls of perception - a
Zealous advocate, she is, of my passionate ink.
Auto-da-fé at Plaza Major
Sixteen-Eighty was brutal on saints and their hissing cats.
A turgid June, thickened as it was by an immature sanguinary wine
that failed to quench the civil mob.
Above the birthday cake façade, the pink and cerise porticoes,
the heavenly-frocked casements, the stucco -
a tiered sibilance rises where the throng in a sportive sweat,
begets its feverish desires.
The accused stand center-stage, as hairless as Sphinx
garnished with sheen's of fear.
Some contemplate the ornate state of their theatrical ruin.
Some already lash their minds behind unfocused eyes.
That was then; I see all this through a blood spattered prism,
the square still seeps
through a crimson varnish of time.
Evening now flaps a checkered flag.
The plaza is now a pitch for celebrating revelers.
Real Madrid fans have surged out of the barra.
Soccer balls are dribbled over cobbles.
I imagine my hapless head plunging in and out
of the heedless crowd. I am their sport,
a candidate for a mocking inquisition perhaps?
Meanwhile, the cats stare patiently,
squeezed as they are into strips of sunset,
a pink Iberian tongue of light that streaks the floodlit scene.
This place could be a plaza for jubilation, were it not
for the sotto voce hissing of these time-stretched
unforgiving shadows above us.
A broken bird repeatedly tries
to leap into the wind to fly away
only to have its freedom denied.
Desperate, it forcefully flaps its wings,
propelling itself to sever the string
that tethers it down to earth...
but is continually shedding its feathers
And no one is around to see it struggle,
no one to cut the string binding its legs.
If only this songbird could speak,
it'd tell any soul in sight its true plight
This helpless bird, a lonely woman...
trapped with man she doesn't love,
and vice versa. She longs to fly
the coop and finally taste the open air
but is tethered to controlling husband
with money to burn; she cursed
by financial dependency.
Date written and submitted: 08/22/2019
Murmuration of starlings high. I’m high!
Low stars twinkling with wings. The trumpet’s call!
As winds of war, incline, in warm wind sigh,
the flock, a shock, sans enemies appall.
These friends do fascinate, heard like bombers,
like Japanese over unsuspecting
Pearl Harbor fight ~ these darling bird-balmers.
The nudge of melodic buzz, quite affecting.
Not of national consequence, abuzz
not with politicking but peace of soul -
remains of war pittance, the scrawling-t’was.
My awesome sight, this di’mond-bling of coal.
Mere humans offer crumbs ~ my heart flaps wings.
With murmurs high and low, communion springs.
Blue Jays on a branch practicing what they sing
Lions roaming the safari proudly acting like a king
Leaves falling down, back and forth they gently swing
Listen it is Mother Nature that you are now hearing
Winter melts away and rain washed into the Spring
Two squirrels run up a tree for a little fun-time fling
The wind whips in the canyons, off the hills it pings
This beauty of our world is uncomparable to anything
Within the darkest night glowing eyes are always peering
With sounds that have their own special sort of ring
The Worlds way up high back and forth the stars they sling
So many unanswered questions the Heavens always bring
The falcon in the sky up and down it flaps each wing
Searching the field below for it's days first offering
Even sometimes the act of a kill is still a wondeful thing
So grateful to be blessed of something so awe inspiring
Written for Monorhyme Poetry Contest 05/25/18
Theme: Nature Hosted by:Shadow Hamilton
untangle,
leave the shadow of Death behind,
at Death's dark door.
Filled w/ Light
the Heart grows wings,
flaps up into the sky free.
Below, She moves,
a dance, through soft, dappled sunshine.
The Five Imperishable Gnostic Trees in Paradise
stand along the roadside, on the Way out of the city.
The noisy crowd still passes by.
The storm is now faraway, retreating, invisible over
the horizon, but still booming and crackling as
it rolls along:
Motion in Rest
in a remnant, Baroque sky -
royal purple, light and dark blue,
grey, white, deepest golden.
Back there, over one's shoulder,
hills slowly, almost imperceptibly darken.
W/ cold night unstoppably approaching,
the good, wise serpent
stirs on a black, wet bough,
due pagan canniness.
Nestled hidden in heavy, quivering leafage,
the serpent hugs His Tree even tighter,
slowly, methodically, tenderly.
Gilded, scaly coils flare softly,
then blaze brighter than any sun.