Long Frequented Poems
Long Frequented Poems. Below are the most popular long Frequented by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Frequented poems by poem length and keyword.
I only tell of sunny hours...
for I can’t penetrate the dark.
Light is a weaver of colors,
whose rainbows clothe a naked sun...
I perceive shadows as they creep...
and set their pace, in league with time.
My gnomon, bathed in golden light,
imbues me with the time of day...
I track the sun arose the sky...
holding time hostage to its flight.
And basking in its rays all day,
I can feel my face glistening...
Animated by light’s warm touch...
it anoints my face with its rays.
And I can’t compare how that feels,
at least in my reality...
I'm frequented by butterflies...
licking the salts from my worn face.
And that bond between life and light,
makes me glad, I’m a sundial...
Water appeased her thirst momentarily,
would the dehydrated and weak lass
leave any dreg at the bottom of the glass?
With her lice-infested hair she strayed away,
by staring at the fence of barbed wire...
a wish for freedom scorched hotter than fire!
The teenager girl was not tied up, or held in chains;
neither she called for help, amid sun-dipped canyons
that only coyotes frequented: who would have heard it?
Years ago, she was abducted by a convict and brutally raped.
Before she drank the clear water taken from the rain-filled bucket,
she remembered how precious feedom was...having lots of fun,
running after a kite that flew higher than the blazing sun;
that was a beautiful world: this one was the ugliest place without escape.
Mohonk Mountain House is a rapturous place
where we love to visit and walk the long trails;
partake in its charming Victorian grace.
A mystical ambiance- there still prevails.
A manor-like hotel for overnight guests,
we managed to sleep there a Saturday night.
The hallways were long, and at once did suggest
past visions we'd seen which left us with much fright.
Contraptions, wall-mounted, held hoses wound up
with nozzles at end placed to put out a fire.
So much like a movie, we'd seen where setup
did look much the same and so dreadfully dire.
That night, we awoke with some noises we heard
that sounded as though they were right in our room.
A voice giggling loudly- now this was absurd,
as women-like shadows quick-heightened our gloom.
We managed to sleep, but woke up- from a dream?
Fire hoses were chasing us down the long hall!
The nozzles were faces with teeth, made us scream!
They smothered and bit us in that horrid brawl.
Next morning we saw, on the desk, a brochure,
a story which made our hair stand up on end,
that Stephen King frequented Mohonk- proved sure,
ghosts helped shape 'The Shining'- that horror he penned!
Nights of flying dream world,
who might chase a raucous laugh,
or seek indeed mirthful excitement,
the sort that has embroidered twists,
as is generally perceived by intention,
but epic hurdles formed in still frame,
city snores past midnight bell clang,
dare one ever risk a robust venture,
should I have said pursuit instead,
sleep is diversion in that steel crib,
that modern crib pillow we fostered,
an idiom that has it’s silken source,
on foot of rainbow studded home run,
as denizens of driven blissful sprint,
with that palette city life concocts,
waiting to arise from brainwave surge,
but toilers so content at last wonder,
can still find that extra zestful yen,
nocturnal misnamed down tool free time,
energizing hour filler may arouse,
around the ink drape walkways,
quite surrogate and surreptitious,
character one may mold from time,
spent as a regal rhombic chaser,
boundary scuppered plot by strolling fleet,
as creatively imagining might edge,
vast supply has penchant without dent,
zeitgeist flower of a fluorescent flag,
warning mask so deft but visible,
canopy laid beauteous black fringe,
alliance in shade infused etch front,
squeaky noising trickle eardrum muffin,
hear full dose of ripple muttering,
clued on obscurantist thin,
taut code evasive decipher ask,
float of urban mirror pool by pattern,
reflection, mirage, cocoon,
after midnight curtain draws,
to protracted claps evinced from,
squinting imp coterie on foot,
ricochet off Moroccan spice tint,
outside vivid haunt so frequented,
perchance, perforce, pertaining patois,
little seen scatter mice squeak,
analogy horizontal spurt funk,
if only these dart and dash clan,
midgets metaphorical so jubilant,
in sonic meddle near edge encounter,
it would be strictly beyond a dazzling cast,
from other daylight theater staunch queue,
when aiming for parallel experience,
performance nocturne wise deep art,
even rich fantasy has upper boundaries,
some grating gulley flake debris awash
Never seen beautiful angels
sprinkle angel dust on me
as snowflakes on a leafless tree,
and I don't expect them to alter things
when they swoop down with their long wings;
where were they when I faced fears and dangers?
Angel dust has another meaning...
besides the magical power to alter a destiny,
kids of my age used this drug
and went insane, not recognizing
themselves, their personality changed drastically;
some even wanted to jump out of a window.
Sweet angels, leave Heaven and visit me
on the days when wishes freeze on silent lips,
let them resemble snow falling on distant hills,
and deserted roads like the one I'm traveling on!
Let me catch many snowflakes softer than a baby
with soft skin...whiter than daises basking in the spring sun!
A boy, barely fourteen, has been found dead as a poisoned rat
on the bleachers of a run-down baseball field frequented by a hungry cat....
his red eyes were wide-open imploring a merciless sky color rust;
no angel came down to save him: he laid there and painfully died!
Who gave him that powerful drug? Did he want to bite the dust?
He has taken that secret with him...why didn't anyone listen when he cried?
Entered in Gail Angel Doyle's contest,
" Angel Dust "
Written by Andrew Crisci
on 10/18/ 2012
In Greek mythology Partenope was a beautiful siren
who frequented the shore of Cuma on warm days
to deride the strong and handsome Odysseus
who was madly in love with a very young woman.
On that shore of delightful scents there was a pristine beach
washed by a pretty sea and while Odysseus was eager to teach
love to this virgin....golden as sun rays, fragile as sunflowers;
a tearful Panepole watched them touch, kiss and close eyes.
Were rejection and resentment the causes of all she became?
Her anger was enough to disturb the noon's beautiful peace
and stop them from being two souls immensely passionate,
but she needed the help of Poisedoin who stirred many seas.
Poisedoin's voice echoed through swelling clouds turning gray to rave,
" How dares Odysseus court a mortal...a mere earthly worm! "
And with a furious gesture, he cried out and started a storm;
" Ignore the angry God!" Odysseus shouted running with her into a cave.
" I came to Italy with my fellow Cumans to find happiness by loving
this woman who'll bear my children! " He replied with defiance
to the angered Poisedoin who kept on rising waves disliking his rudeness...
" Tell Partenope not to stalk me...she's an envious siren without feeling!"
A loud earthquake shook the entire sea and Cuma was submerged in water,
but in his haste Poisedoin had forgotten to warn Partenope of the danger...
she was swollen up by a huge wave and washed ashore like fishes and shells;
Partenope's jealousy caused her own death and we remember her on stormy days.
Life’s Timeless Driftwood
Peering back at the shadow stretching,
continuance knows well the peaceful silhouettes from horizon's light,
ancestral sequences having frequented one’s shore many times.
All is as it has been.
One’s longevity holds firm,
like isolated fingers protruding in protest
from sequestered driftwood blanketed by sand,
unready to move on,
just yet.
Just as sandpipers scavenge wet bubbles along the beach,
furtively running zigs and zags,
avoiding swooping wings overhead,
we too avoid termination,
with luck.
Destiny continues to lap the shore,
its gentle hands tugging
into tomorrow’s warm waters.
man’s stubborn endurance.
So mighty…
This evolving limbed-strength,
accepting of journey’s tempest,
willing to ready again for the next leg of one’s odyssey.
Even as…
White caps thunder applause,
at the elongated shadow of remaining branches
fading into the day's dusk,
signaling a tide ready to lift
to carry to the next shoreline and beyond.
Roots have withered,
growth's ever changing leaves and bark
have become morsels of love and loss,
an existence mixing peacefully toward ghostly remnants.
At some point…
The water rises,
the fiber and strands of resistance soften,
dissolving into a new connection
as birth's salt and brine prepare the next iteration,
the next surge upward,
another tenacious wave of purpose
exploding its final power
into a mist imploring remembrance
before the oneness of completion
cycles again into its new existence.
Such is the gift of time and space,
the requisite condition for permanence,
where presence once created
evolves unfettered in perpetuity.
He dresses as the fool
But does he fool you?
In clothes of rent
Torn twisted and bent
He drinks to excess
His voice is loud
He spouts obscenities
But he runs like the wind
Catch, me if you can, he shouts
The maze of traffic makes his jams
He speaks in riddles
Like old men, from ancient lands
He collects bottles and begs for lamb
He mumbles, I am homeless, kiss me hand
He is crazy for this is sure
He lives in alleys like a whore
Jets above fly overhead
Their orders received from a street called Hamra
As their armies invade, so bold
The homeless man, their leader
The man from Hamra
Notes: Hamra Street is a somewhat famous street in West Beirut. It was one of Beirut’s trendy areas before the civil war, and was frequented by poets, writers, and intellectuals.
During the civil war, and before the Israeli invasion of 82, there was a bum who lived on Hamra Street who was really a spy for the IDF of Israel. No one paid him any attention, being a street beggar, at the time when there were many. Not only was he collecting intelligence, he was the running a network of spies at the time.
From a Lebanese restaurant/coffee shop I frequent, I am told many fascinating stories from all over the world. What a lovely feeling to sit among people of all religions, nationalities and opinions, and share life’s experiences.
Thank you Diwan
Anyone who happens to have any first hand experiences referencing this poem, I would love to hear from them.
She was that pretty female figure who dazzled every one
She would easily repulse advances while getting a load of the goodies
She could take the drinks you offered with a sublime smile for an apology
Many are the tables not to mention bed her essence has graced
She was the most skimply and seductively dressed on any occasion
Coco Mohan's Hagger Black pear Space Q campus clubs she frequented
Exchanging one dollar loaded Hank for another of her liking
So I was taken aback to a few months down the line to find her
On her knees begging her new hot loaded catch.. 'babe am not like that's
Babe am begging on my knees kindly understand and accept me
See She had found her Mr right but the environment was unchanged
So the ugly past head kept rearing up and disrupting her happily ever after
She had found love but fate and destiny was not yet done with her
Cupid had shot his arrows and softened this heart to a placating soul
We all watched tongue tied not intervening.. babe babe am not like that
She begged in earnest but her partner knew which emotional strings to pull
He used guilt trapping to make her clingy and an emotional mess
A part of me felt sorry for I noted this as emotional abuse
I fell short on naming this relationship toxic lovers web
I reprimanded myself on my psycho analytical approach to relationships
See I have been watching and I believe She is ready to settle down
That is if her prince charming doesn't destroy her emotionally
I pray they mature to a level of friendships and mutual care
Taking gentle care with each other's hearts while recognizing they all have a past
Shouldn't be too hard to forge a strong relationship with mutual love n care
She finally makes him stop his indicting words and offer loving tokens
She has a hand that gently pull his heart string but the emotional luggage
She will have to overcome and allow herself to forgive her own self..
While giving room for another to love her fully and unreservedly
I leave wishing them happiness in their utopian relationship
there is a brothel there down the street,
built like a palace three stories high,
hear anklets jingle on dancing feet,
with singing and drums as you pass by.
I have chanced within once as a youth,
to savour pleasures of sinful flesh,
in wine and smoke did not see the truth,
the tormented souls trapped in evil mesh.
pretty they who were plying their trade,
vibrant bodies in their early teens,
stained glass windows, moroccan lamp shades
a sale of bodies for living means!
men of wealth leaning on cushioned seats,
aged lustful men aim for a score,
clapping and rejoicing with the beats,
toss money up asking for encore!
men of high repute frequented the halls,
those who spoke morals and values too,
even priests, scholars bought at these stalls,
of suffering they caused, had no clue!
girls were from different parts of state,
some sold through poverty by their own,
some stolen from home or lost to fate,
some orphaned young, some reasons unknown!
here was a trade all chose to ignore,
law makers, elite just let it go,
each year the numbers grew even more,
bodies sold, though their young hearts cried ‘No’!
religion morals preached everywhere,
man’s hypocrisy in full display,
parents showed their own children love, care,
suffering of these girls none would say!
late one autumn I stopped to enquire,
found doors locked, no lights, no sound, no sway,
said one “come morrow, if you desire,
Brothel is closed for Gandhi’s birthday!
4th placement in Premium contest
written 13/02/2021
They closed the brothel contest
Kai Michael Neumann Sponsored
9 syllables each line
7 stanzas!
abab.... rhyme