Long Flurried Poems
Long Flurried Poems. Below are the most popular long Flurried by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flurried poems by poem length and keyword.
A girl was walking through the night
Afraid and all alone
She sunk for moments of respite
Upon a blackened stone.
What flakes were these that sparkled bright
And flurried in the breeze?
What specks of gold did grace the night
And rest upon the trees?
Up from her perch she stumbled on
Into the silent black
But 'twas in vain, the specks were gone
So then she foundered back.
She found the stone on which she set
All laid with dust around
The stars of heav'n the earth had met
And blanketed the ground.
The stardust, now a handbreadth thick
Had melted from the sky
She saw a once sedate old crick
With flames now floated by.
She gathered stardust in her hand
And held it by her face
It hovered there, in ways unspanned
Held up by empty space.
Her face did glint with motes of gold
Her wavy hair did gleam
The stroke of twelve the townclock tolled,
Around her shone a beam:
She looked to see its molten source,
The sun had joined them too;
In place of burnished bronze its force
Was emanating blue.
With both her hands she caught the sun
And held him firmly there
She shook him gently just for fun
And threw him in the air;
"Oh, Sun, how come you left the sky
To be a little ball?
Wherefore from glory did you fly
And now art pale and small?"
Then said the sun, " The stars had left
They had a merry time
And all alone I felt bereft
So moved to sweeter clime;
Said he, "It was so cold and still
Without my fellow stars,
All scattered 'round upon this hill
As far away as Mars;
So here I came to be a ball
Of bright electric blue
My starry kin with wit appall
And have a chat with you."
"Oh, Sun, you do not understand!
The day is black as night
Now who will fill this darkened land
With rays of warmth and light?
"And what of you?" she asked the dust
That sparkled at her feet.
"Back to the sky I think you must
Your twinkling forms repeat."
"Now truth we see," quoth ev'ry star
In one according rhyme,
"Back to the sky we'll roam afar
Until the end of time."
Then said the sun, "Oh, now I see,
I thought that I was trite
So back the way I was I'll be
To shed abroad my light."
Then off they rushed in waves of flame
Their rightful place to gain;
No man can e'er the heavens tame,
That surely isn't plain.
Whene'ere alone in dark of night
That girl recalls her friends:
And now I think the time is right
So here my story ends.
~Written December 25th 2012
(literary nonsense)
the winter was so long ago, burying the world in snow
rabbits hop where rabbits go, here i sit to-night
and the day i hath long dreaded which hath left me much beheaded
worn my sanity unthreaded as i sought the sun's warm light
said the rabbit, hopping past, to my thoughtless face aghast, "lanterns are a great delight."
but my mind hath never shown me, nor my pinched, weak thoughts have grown me
anything which should beknown me: that a rabbit never talks
of a lantern, never falters in his steps to break the halters of the sacrifice on alter (of the wolf who nightly stalks)
just to speak to one who sulks under skies my soul doth mock
have you ever seen a rabbit come to break his daily habit and commence to speak as if it mother nature's natural norm?
and if by chance he mentions 'lantern' just to break your flurried pattern just to knock you off your rocker whilst you dream away a storm
does it leave you cold or warm to have a rabbit which informs?
if you haven't it is likely that you would not see me brightly
but you'd find me quite unsightly as most men find the plain insane
if you have i think you'd find it quite amusing for behind it
there's a joke that doesn't mind it, for jokes minding is inane
still i laugh at my poor brain for losing every bit of sane (to see a rabbit speak is strange)
and if i could see it logically; if possible biologically, i might function neurologically, but remember, brain twas dead
and the sky was growing longer, growing longer, ever grayer, and my mind was never stronger for i lacked a bit of bread
and the rabbit's words he said, hopping circles in my head
still it was that long i pondered, of a rabbit, yes i wondered, speaking to me while he wandered of a lantern bringing joy
and so to a barn i stumbled while the distant thunder rumbled and i felt so very humbled, being, a moment,a rabbit's toy
and i, my words, employed, to ask a lantern from a boy
it was kind of him to light it, and i journeyed back, excited, to the place where i was seated, seated in the dark of night
and there, i sat and waited with my trembling breath bated, and my mind was still sedated with the numbing lack of light
there i sat waiting in the night to catch the rabbit in my sight
The Snow that Flurried like Chatting Kangaroos
Ramah Prince was thinking about Suhail G Faizal again. Suhail G was a remarkable rover with pretty hair and wide lips.
Ramah walked over to the window and reflected on his magical surroundings. He had always loved chilly Newyork with its rapid, roasted rivers. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel shocked.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the a remarkable figure of Suhail G Faizal.
Ramah gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was an incredible, greedy, tea drinker with feathery hair and handsome lips. His friends saw him as an alert, afraid author. Once, he had even helped a relieved Baby bird cross the road.
But not even an incredible person who had once helped a relieved Baby bird cross the road, was prepared for what Suhail G had in store today.
The snow flurried like chatting kangaroos, making Ramah active. Ramah grabbed a peculiar kettle that had been strewn nearby; he massaged it with his fingers.
As Ramah stepped outside and Suhail G came closer, he could see the yarbing glint in his eye.
"I am here because I want revenge," Suhail G bellowed, in a kind tone. He slammed his fist against Ramah's chest, with the force of 479 gerbils. "I frigging love you, Ramah Prince."
Ramah looked back, even more active and still fingering the peculiar kettle. "Suhail G, I am your father," he replied.
They looked at each other with healthy feelings, like two outrageous, oily ostriches loving at a very lovable Holiday, which had reggae music playing in the background and two admirable uncles shouting to the beat.
Ramah studied Suhail G's pretty hair and wide lips. Eventually, he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, but I can't give you revenge," he explained, in pitying tones.
Suhail G looked lonely, his body raw like a rich, ratty ruler.
Ramah could actually hear Suhail G's body shatter into 1698 pieces. Then the remarkable rover hurried away into the distance.
Not even a cup of tea would calm Ramah's nerves tonight.
THE END
Author: Runping Chen
The desk sends forth its particular fragrance
That gladden people’s hearts.
That is the sweet-smelling of the old camphor bodies
And into the impression of my childhood immerses.
The shade extended my fellow villagers’ strolling;
Countless summer nights embraced people’s joyful cooling.
The huge and tabescent trunk held up
The wind and frost for generations’ living.
The refreshing breeze was kissing the head of the tree.
Kindly pulled the old camphor closer
Some strands of cooking smokes
Vaguer and vaguer.
The production teams’ whistles were resounding over the village,
And grownups shouldered the sun and moon
Hurrying to the hills and fields
While the old camphor collected the children’s imaginative yields.
--In its chest
The childhoods would not be lonely and flurried
Counting from the stitches of leaves
Thousands and thousands of suns.
Many rivers of time were flowing around;
With no sense of time, the sadness I’ve known.
Since I was away, many shifts of the sunrise and sunset
I came back home and found the old camphor fallen on the ground.
It’s lying on the ground with no voice and sound,
Being dying and breathing
The merely last fragrance of its life
In front of the horrible carpenters who circled around.
The carpenters held their stainless saws
Ignoring the old camphor’s itches and aches.
On its shoulder was an owl
With the mouth open, and family ruined after all.
Prizing up the mouth for no use of vomiting sadness,
The birds sang no songs any more in the sky
Because they could hardly find back
Houses and household articles among the green leaves.
Children carried in both hands the remains of the old camphor’s bones,
Hating to pile them in the firewood house.
When the setting sun was sliding down the west hill ridges,
I walked back and forth around the old camphor tree.
She bounced right off the inkling
. . . . . . . . . golden rings and tinker bells winking
on tiny toes zzzzzzzzinging
through the galaxies spinning
. . . . . . . . . aglitter aflicker ~ her heart
atwist amidst anticipating ...
on Halley’s comet tail she flew
. . . . . . . . . in the genius of a snowflake parade
in search ... in search
. . . . . of something he once said
to the atmosphere on a cloudy
. . . . . . . . . day
over rooftops flurried in December snow
in a glance of her cosmic smile,
. . . . . . . . . she ... perched on the cusp of an eighth of a moon
sang songs of fields of poppies soon
budding beneath the snow,
. . . . . . . . . and she opened her tiny fists and let go her angel dust
upon the world
and the earth shimmered in many colors
and gave praise
. . . . . . . . . and the angels came and fetched her up ~
and He smiled.
x
What lies before us is not always certain,
This world is full of obstacles and branching paths that we could have never imagined
Our plans are set in stone, forthright and true,
Then along comes chance and our love anew.
Confused and trodden becomes our focus,
Our plans and certainness all but tarnished
What is this epiphany that fate has spoken?
Are morality and conviction to be broken?
Eyes exchange glances and hearts begin to race,
Time has stopped and is now our servant,
Passion takes hold but could it be real,
Could this person truly feel what I feel?
A body warm and full of affection,
A face that God emulated ‘perfection’,
A touch so soft to ease flurried emotion,
A hold so captivating to enchant devotion,
A kiss that makes all the angles in heaven stop and stare,
A kiss that somehow makes this world worth it,
A kiss that shows that souls persist,
A kiss to show me love exists.
Reality snaps back and we look upon our created wreckage,
What we have done and morals we have shaken,
Existing upon this planetary system,
Are our man made codes and laws of action,
But how small and minuscule upon the greater picture,
Are these moral obligations to what could be true heartfelt passion?
I know how I feel and I know what I want,
And I know it hurts you to think of your loss,
Sometimes loss is the greater good,
As when a forest burns to ash for the greater good,
Rebuilt and strong it becomes renewed,
My forest is gone and waiting for you,
To become something greater then I could have ever imagined,
To be the love that I always wanted,
Feel my heart and how it beats for you,
You are the life that makes my world true.
What does your heart tell you?
I only hope you listen.
Form:
Ramah Prince looked at the warped ruler in his hands and felt sparkly.
He walked over to the window and reflected on his pretty surroundings. He had always loved deserted Kenya with its ordinary, open oceans. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel sparkly.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Suhail Faizal. Suhail was an admirable rover with grubby arms and squat toenails.
Ramah gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was an energetic, patient, squash drinker with solid arms and moist toenails. His friends saw him as an adorable, ancient author. Once, he had even saved a wet puppy that was stuck in a drain.
But not even an energetic person who had once saved a wet puppy that was stuck in a drain, was prepared for what Suhail had in store today.
The snow flurried like chatting frogs, making Ramah stable.
As Ramah stepped outside and Suhail came closer, he could see the attractive glint in his eye.
Suhail gazed with the affection of 3867 incredible moaning monkeys. He said, in hushed tones, "I love you and I want closure."
Ramah looked back, even more stable and still fingering the warped ruler. "Suhail, what's up Doc," he replied.
They looked at each other with stable feelings, like two panicky, petite puppies loving at a very tight-fisted wedding, which had R & B music playing in the background and two splendid uncles shouting to the beat.
Ramah regarded Suhail's grubby arms and squat toenails. "I feel the same way!" revealed Ramah with a delighted grin.
Suhail looked happy, his emotions blushing like a numerous, naughty newspaper.
Then Suhail came inside for a nice beaker of squash.
THE END
Three lying deacons
swim in a handbag -
and a lone, celibate pastor
paces longingly bemused.
Michael, the Arc Angel,
poses silently,
in dusty Gabbana drag,
cursing the lipstick-painted laymen
writhing in rancid attar -
naked
and intentionally
unused.
Four wide-eyed boys
dance on a daydream –
kissing ripped posters
of a white collared rapist.
Saint Peter understands
the jovial jokesters -
the foolishness
when blackened specks darken the void;
the flurried flutter of his eyelids
casts a tainted shadow
upon a fractured sexual ballet.
They continue to kiss
below the waist.
Three lying deacons
and a pacing pastor resides –
five lip-smacking nurses
massaging your head.
Four wide-eyed boys
caress your knuckles
as the well-trimmed priest
pronounces
a poorly
scented infant:
"anally dead."
Seven cardinal sins
slip and divide
into 3 venial ratios.
"Hi, Sonny"...
Greed, lust and vanity
are mortal crimes;
Father Fragrantly Fresh...
quietly proclaims:
"snuggle a bit closer and
sniff a hint of Genesis."
Say I’m to blame
and cause-count the afflictions –
smaller undetected lumps
hump the jaded addictions
brain dead and haughty –
the zombies
circle and laugh!
I wasn't born in a dark discarded
Parisian tunnel but -
can you Roman Polanski me,
please?
Kill the poet...
and make him pay -
below the waist.
Crushed words embody
a forgotten loner’s
epitaph!
(force him to stutter stupidly)
and within a last breath -
and within a last breath -
and within a last breath -
GOD...
"the string-strangled
puppet
conventionally chokes -
and quietly succumbs
(to a textured landscape)
of a youthful
silenced dying...
...swaddled
and swallowed
in a heavenly -
haloed chosen
death..."
Well..he would practice his trade,
Just like he practiced his life.
Practical! With cold precision,
Never made time for a wife.
He woke precisely at six,
He wore the same suit and tie.
But, mumbled under his breath,
When any neighbors passed by!
He was of the opinion,
That "He" was better than 'Them!"
With his fine, manicured nails,
And a fresh shave and a trim.
Never flustered or flurried,
Never scuttled or scurried,
Caught the shuttle...never hurried!
On the clock...never worried!
At work by nine...precisely!
He meandered down the hall.
His tunnel vision blinded,
He would jump when "Brass" would call!
Went racing down that fast track,
Just to see how fast he'd rise.
He'd slobber down their backsides,
With his eyes stuck on the prize!
He smiled and fetched their papers,
He smiled and wretched their gas.
He smiled and fetched their coffee,
Puckered and kissed their ass!
He thought that would impress them,
He thought the "Brass" would call.
He thought this with precision...
But, was heading for a fall!
Confident of ascension,
He was laid off in the Spring!
He saw his future falter,
No gold watch or diamonded ring!
His ego couldn't take it!
He planned his retribution!
With crafty, cold precision...
He planned their execution!
He arrived at work at nine...
Precisely! With cold desire!
He chained up all the exits,
Lit the whole damn place on fire!
It seemed to ease the tension,
With no pension left to earn.
Saluted and flipped the "Bird!"
Then he stood and watched it "Burn!"
With no one there to witness,
In the end, well...no one knew!
With his cold and crafty smile,
Knew all his dreams just came true!
The memory in need
Is the implacable enemy of the creed,
Waits and watches its foe
The all-clawing frenzy on tip-toe;
Quiescent in the instant's repose
The thud of flurried gnawing years evoke.
The poet in his solitary moments, spoke
Those whispered words, memory's secret ear yoke.
His wares, his scares, ailments and balms
Suddenly at the oasis of his thirst, awoke
Transilluminating the hard wad of his private notes,
Clutching at the infant's murmurous innocence
The clear innocuous dogma of cries;
While his immodestly preened notes of travesty
Hark back; and the first poem playfully struck
Teaches him now too late the laugh, the critic's qualms.
Just as the poet had wandered away from childhood,
So will the child thwart the unspoilt man
And shyly, shyly he turns away from the poet
Coming in like a stray camp-follower to brood.
For who may ask which the supreme poet
The child's sweet ineffable musings disrespect
While language etherises meanings proudly sown:
The title in two is halved - one the art, one, lone.
And the man, memory's ill-begotten infant
Lurking round the corner, pranks the urgent moment
Or two - then restores the poet to the poem.
© T. Wignesan, 1957 - First pub. in "Diskus", University of Frankfurt-am-Main, 1960 (from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961)