Long Flouncy Poems
Long Flouncy Poems. Below are the most popular long Flouncy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flouncy poems by poem length and keyword.
Fantasy sold on a 50’s bottle cap;
a party-girl side-saddle sits
on a double-edged crescent moon
up high—a silver scythe in glamour-night-sky
corners of her cherry mouth tilted up
her left hand raises her glass a toast to the stars
frothy head of champagne-beer flirts
with lips spooning the rim
right hand holds the bottle instead of reality
look! no hands on a razor’s edge
precarious hilarious
a redhead with bouncy-curls and a flouncy-skirt
boot-heels over head when she laughs and Oops! falls
clouds catch her without friction and pillow her fiction head ~
but you—with wild escapade eyes—fell hard
far beyond Earth with not a soft cloud to cushion you
glam-allure just a sexy lore a filthy lure
but once you’ve been star-dusted and angel-dusted
it’s all the same…
vintage Miller bottle cap
a perfect circle like the fattened moon face
leering through broken windows
shards glitter the floor like fallen constellations
your black pearl eyes two muddy puddles
life drained through rows of tiny needle holes
slip-knot above your elbow just tight enough
your pulse beats its fist against the restraint
pounding—pounding—pounding
impatient to be bled and fed
you and this dragon’s den a dilapidated pair
abandoned and without family
you share the blank stare of broken windows
veins collapsed like crumbled staircases
empty inside of empathy and dreams—
a junkie’s spot where shooting stars crash
embers in your bloodstream turn to dust
you cook in a rusted bottle cap by candlelight
candle’s glow your Sun in a dirty universe
you pull back on the syringe with your teeth
this house unused by the living—a cold corpse
but in the warm rush of your skin’s flush
your gaunt gray body melts like hot wax
pale horsehair walls a slouchy silent witness
... your soul escapes as it scrapes across the floor
flurries blow in through broken windows
whirl of wind whistles on its rounds like a jailhouse guard
rattling beam-bones jangling ghost-bones—
user-litter scattered
like broken-wish bones
burnt fingertips and a "High Life" bottle cap
all that’s left
Ending in a flouncy ruffle, I married in a brown crushed velvet dress
This was 1971. Only six people were there, maybe one less.
My groom was nervous, I had sweet talked him into eloping with me.
I was confident this was the way God meant our wedding to be.
This was our second try at finding a justice of the peace.
My husband’s pants were ironed into a straight down middle crease.
He had a big hunk of dark hair that fell across his left hazel eye.
I believe I heard a secretary give a little sigh.
These people had tried to talk us out of this quickie wedding.
Strangers to us, they had a deputy give a little sing.
This was during the awful horrible Vietnam War you realize.
My groom was number thirty-eight in the draft, danger could arise.
We have been married fifty years, so things worked out rather well.
My husband never had to serve in swamps of that foreign hell.
He always says that I looked beautiful on our wedding day.
When I look at him, he is nineteen. What could be better anyway?
Sunday was patent leather shoes, white anklets with lace
Starchy petticoats, flouncy lavender dresses with huge bows in the back.
Sunday was Sunday School, where everyone in the church knew us.
Singing so loudly in the pew during church our mother was shushing us.
Sunday was roast beef and potatoes with chocolate or lemon meringue pie.
Sunday was a day for Daddy to stay home all day, show us his sense of humor.
We looked forward to this day all week long; it was almost our favorite day.
It would have been our very favorite if Saturday had not been cartoon day.
Sunday was singing along with The Lennon Sisters,
Sunday was singing along with Mitch Miller
Sunday was eating homemade donuts and popcorn for supper.
Childhood Sunday memories make me smile to this day,
Fifty years since I had one of those childhood Sundays.
Ode my Deer
My special deer, you jump so high in air flight.
So I love the way you fly, soar and run,
Invading my mind days and through the night,
Always dreaming about falls bright red sun.
Let me compare you to a dove ember?
You are more gentle, flouncy and bouncy.
Kind fogs hides in rotten forest timbers
as autumn time has you frightful raunchy.
Look out hunters comes to kill wounding ways.
Love I your delightful eyes, hooves and fur.
Thinking of your timid grace fills my days.
My love for you is the spiteful inter.
Now I must away with a mental heart,
Remember your leaps of joy whilst we're part.
1/9/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©
My soft panda, you inspire me to write. Indian Summer
How I love the way you call, walk and sleep,
Invading my mind day and through the night, In midst of summer
Always dreaming about the bouncy peep.
You dance away tapping feet
Let me compare you to a quiet pie? Indecent proposal
You are more mortal, yellow and clever.
Light drought dries the old picnics of July, Indifferent disposal
How do I love you? Winter's swing.
I love your feet and personality.
Thinking of your dear fingers fills my days.
My love for you is the partiality your cute ways
Now I must sway with a flouncy heart, Indian Summer
Remember my calm words whilst we're apart In midst of summer
2/2/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.2023©
Spelling, syllable count, vanity, too simple, Simon! Be prolific, cruel, smart, up to par, above the bar, fit for the stage. Tap, tap, tap…
—by poet
The Prismatic Self
See the wooden stage, markers for my feet, bright lights, great expectations, critical analysis. Curtains will open any minute as my words make an entrance. Will my opening lyrics draw a crowd? Who will be in attendance? The theater’s not likely sold out.
Backstage, the sponsors, who are they? ATTENTION! As if a teacher wields a pointer, tapping at my feet. Will the audience throw erasers?
On the palm of my hand, the rules - perhaps strict, but I’m not in fear of a stickler. Trained by the nuns in love and hate knuckles.*
Lots of rules, I might have to practice the act for quite a bit longer. I practice in my dressing room, trying on outfit after outfit - those flouncy forms or something simple and succinct.
Am I a people pleaser? Do I perform at the pleasure of the King or Queen? Or am I my own worst critic?
Yes! Yes! Yes! No!
I desire to be seen but I will yield. There is something more important than being the lead. Still, I must confess, I must run back to my little box, mime my tears, dread my limitations, take a breath and when I am ready - take a bow.
At the onset, I must build my own backdrop, backstory, be vague and understood. I run my lines quickly, slowly, go over them again and again, even as I recite them freely, as a monoku or Shakespearian sonnet; or get even more elaborate.
I labor over each word, its placement, its meaning. I don’t care! I do care! I must feel it practically perfect; though I will let it go. Eventually, it will be a comedy of errors, erroneously erupting past the stage, in the rubber hands of cause and effect. The sponsor’s Marlboro ashes fall on it, without understanding my heartfelt meaning; my wings clipped as I await the list…the dreaded and dreadful list. Most surprised when I am the cream, alone - floating at the top.
**Fastbreast, blushing, aghast, euphoric. That sponsor is exact. I do not grow prideful. I do glow. The tip of the iceberg shows, all other words sunken, below. In leotards, the ships pass by, having a look - one clips itself.
*conceit
**Fastbreast - heart beating rapidly (Neologism)
O what a time we had,
we had a time of it didn't we,
you in your stripy flouncy dress
and pink kneed splendor,
and I dragging a foot behind you,
as callow and unrisen as
a half-baked pudding.
We between us
had the blindly brilliant knowledge,
of everything not worth knowing.
We had textbooks and crayons,
to color bluer an already blue sky.
Our heads held high,
in the fancy hats of headlong youth.
God, I loved the smell of you,
not your dabs of perfume,
but the buttercup musk of you.
That afternoon I played rugby,
while you watched your bruised hero,
galumph and totter all over a muddy field.
God was kind to us wasn’t he,
he made every chicken dinner sunny-side-up,
he tinted our eyes with a simple wonder
for a while,
didn’t he?
Can I love you again, just for a moment,
love us both in this dumb poem,
that I hope speaks for everyone
at least once.