Long Furred Poems
Long Furred Poems. Below are the most popular long Furred by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Furred poems by poem length and keyword.
(what...me write vernacular English???)
Okay, the gist of anemic
checking account averred
asked from one
FaceBook English Literary bird,
I could plainly enumerate
Sachin be cured
of spellbinding nightmares,
and not accused
of acting demurred
the esse cent chill
dime a dozen premise ensured
prime merrily to discover
visa wells Fargo
sieve err (ala Eratosthenes) forward
solution, whereby means
to save money
against being gored
no...no...no...not to be stingy,
nor selfishly hoard
meager unearned social security
monthly allotment, aye ignored
to mention as key piece
of information a dub bill
lit tete ting bout with anxiety,
obsessive compulsive, not cavil
air lee shaken off and schizoid
personality disorder like evil
mailer daemons, which
undermined ability to full fill
quality existence, and even
prescribed about,
a half dozen
medications help ill
psyche, though nonetheless mill
yens of precious moments pill
furred with pro
fuse sweating still
interferes supplementing,
stoking, and socking
away reserve till,
last creased furrow sought out
here in Schwenksville
Pennsylvania most likely, where
one last gulp of oxygen will
finally deliver cremated ashes
into eternal void
where psychological state
free from being destroyed
and forever exempt trying
to be write lee employed!
The cold comes
following an endless spring
that lagged forever into summer
where it could not keep its hold
then returning again in autumn
to linger on the trees and low in the grass.
Now, comes the cold
chills dropping twenty degrees
barely reaching thirty
with frost forming on the vines
along the silvered rooftops
wrapping around fallen leaves.
Tight, full and unrelenting
crab apple and sugar maple
hold firm their form
paling yellow greens
tatter edged ochres tinge crimson red tips
rustling, wrestling with the windy breeze.
Squirrels wait patient
thick furred and bushy tailed feathers
running to and fro with acorns nd walnuts
clutched in their mouths
searching for that perfect spot
to dig and bury next years saplings.
The cold comes,
chilling both body and bone
enveloping this hideout of the world
wrapping round the trees and brush
marking my corner of the earth
as life slows down embracing a winter watch.
At the estate sale, among the widow - things --
mourning brooches, teeth in a saucer,
a fur stole shedding its cloak of moths --
the mirror lay wrapped in black silk.
The auctioneer would not touch it barehanded.
Even through gloves, he held it
the way priests carry difficult relics: at a distance from the heart.
I bought it because it was drawn to the way it ticked.
Not loudly -- a patient little sound, delicate as an insect worrying the lid of a coffin.
The frame exhaled the smell of rain-rotted cellars,
mold climbing the ribs of old houses,
wet roots, photographs glued together by floodwater.
It showed no reflection. Instead: the room emptied of me.
My lamp furred over with dust.
The fern beside the window sagged into threads.
The chair beneath my living body rotted into its patient skeleton of wood and springs.
I watched snow collect through a crack not yet born in the ceiling.
And behind the black glass—
not mirrored, but embedded impossibly within it—
the silver pendulum swung. Left. Right.
A small immaculate metronome
keeping faith with something terrible. Hours passed.
The future in the mirror altered by increments.
When my pulse quickened, mold flowered darker along the walls.
When panic seized me, another century seemed to enter the room.
Neighbors claimed she fled.
But I think she simply reached the end of herself.
Because the pendulum is not measuring hours - it is spending them.
Each swing subtracts something minute and irreplaceable—
not seconds, but permissions:
one more breath, one more swallow of sleep,
one more astonishment of blood.
The mirror does not show the world after your death.
It shows the world as death prepares to remember it without you.
Tonight the pendulum has grown almost still.
In the glass, the dust has settled completely.
Even the curtains hang with the composure of the deceased.
And there in the ruined chair
sits the mirror alone, awake in the dark,
waiting for whoever next mistakes its ticking for a clock.
A torn tale ere was sewn b' time's tool;
''f haggard hemisphere 'n' nocturnal nude,
'n which porous promiscuity 's oft draped -
furred fabrics, scales embroidery.
This tale 'n which cursed clothing was hexed;
porous past oozing sassy spell.
Makes marred maidens scarce behove laud,
but fractured flaunts cum odds grilled galls.
Tell those who 'gain sew this torn tale,
that nosy needle anon 'll break,
'n' sewn sanity would foster pawn
''f bruised beauties, gaunt graces 'n' plagued pores.
Let throbbing themes ''f this taunting tale
'n' wools ''f sewn silk canvas wits, fame 'n' shame.
'20:07:23:13:41
Note:
a) Of fractured fashion.
b) Written apace with Middle English lexis:
i) Ere - before
ii) oft - often
iii) Hexed - cast spell
iv) behove - suit
v) cum - and
vi) galls - biles
vii) anon - soon
c) The following are used with no syllabic consequences:
i) b' - by
ii) "f - of
iii) 'n' - and
iv) 'n - in
v) 's - is
vi) 'll - will
Though the eagle needn’t worry,
For its place is still secure,
A new symbol has been chosen
And expected to endure.
Now the huge and shaggy bison
Has been picked to represent
This great land of ours where thousands
Grazed and wandered, quite content.
Since the bison is a mammal
And the eagle is a bird,
Both may symbolize our nation –
All the feathered and the furred.
But who stands for all the reptiles
And the fish with shells or scales?
Maybe there should be anointed
Some symbolic newts or snails?
I have nothing ‘gainst the bison;
It’s a fine majestic beast
But I wonder who decided
That our icons be increased.
Ah, sweet slumber of nip-laden dreams;
the milk of mother moon bestowed,
a blessed drink and lactose-free
to this mine humble, feline throat.
Running freely through outer space,
I touch upon thy blessed universe.
My home of emerald and lapis lace,
is where in I lay in furred repose.
Chasing neon rainbows in nebulae bright,
my dreams are filled with gold doubloons.
I’ll spend them on treats and nip-delight,
and chase away any greedy tycoons.
A feline black as obsidian night,
in a home filled with human love;
among the faeries and tree sprites,
mind flies just like the doves.
I believe, I may have missed the boat
The water’s deep, I couldn’t float
Perhaps the marks I set weren’t high
The tide’s in now – I’ll wave bye-bye
I read Thoreau and Frost, I know
Of wilderness and falling snow
Of Roads Not Taken tongue in cheek
Of singing trees and babbling creek
With pomp and ceremony flyin’
I stopped to sniff a dandelion
To watch a honey bee rejoice
At making such a tasty choice
I sit beside the croaking pond
A heron blending with the frond
A muskrat watches warily
A dragonfly upon my knee
My pants are frayed, my kayak weathered
I share my time with furred and feathered
Visiting these woods, their home
Leave them, as I came, alone
I don’t want to walk to the front room
Can I have my dinner on a tray?
I wept inside for he could hardly eat
So thin I thought his backbone might well break
I’ll get you a small table, honeybun
Just a mo, I’ll put the oven on
I want a steak ,he called another day
If he could eat it I would be God’s prey
I can’t chew it, pet, my stomach’s full
The fluid from the blood, I knew it well
The valve is furred, his blood is being pushed back
Fills his inner organs swells and racks
I was almost paralysed and stunned
Putting him to bed was quite a pun
Then he woke up from a little sleep
Spoke to me in words so clear and sweet
You have a personality so bright,
The sun must envy you your brilliant light
After that he scarcely used his words
We did not need to speak, it wa
Dogs dogmatically guard the home
Sounding the alarm with a growling bark
As owners are alerted to the threat
Miscreants flee into the dark
Cats are categorically useful too
Their mouse-tracking skills renowned
When a feline is prowling on patrol
Rodents scurry underground
But rabbits are a tougher sell
Their herbivore hunting skills quite moot
Unable to save the day or keep vermin at bay
They mostly sit there looking cute
Rabbits are thin-skinned as well
There's one faux pas you must not commit
Please do not call them rodents
Order Lagomorpha is where they fit
Why then do we delight in ours
The doe we call simply “Bunny” ?
It's cuz her antics provide comic relief
When she yawns it looks so funny
Bunny blithely flips her little plate
A curt review of pet shop food
She’s holding out for blueberries or kale
Depending on her mood
Baby carrots and parsley sprigs
Make for a tasty Bunny lunch
She regales us with her table talk:
Munchity, crunchity, crunch
After a hard day’s work, I come home
To my gray-and-white-furred friend
She’ll run to be picked up and petted
And my stresses are at an end
Yes, Bunny is priceless to us
And she certainly earns her keep
Familial duties done for the day
On a little throw pillow she falls asleep
_______________________________
for contest: Furry Friend
Sponsored by: Royal T
Silver eyed blackbirds from above
and beige browned turtle doves
stake out the yard searching in need
between the fallen leaves for seed.
Red winged orange cardinals appear
calm awaiting their turns to spear
as burnt umber wrens rush
with burnished sparrows hiding in the brush,
A half dozen burly furred squirrels race
with each other straddling trees in the chase;
peeking in and out the thicket for cues
where tag and play ensues.
Aggressive blue jays screech
pushing everyone aside in their reach,
pouncing on squirrel and bird alike
save the dominant silver eyes blackbird spike.
Few are brave enough to stand and hold their ground
taking in the yard that abounds
as they run or fly rather than stay
to quick escape to sky or tree away.
With the sudden early wintry chills
each recognize the familiar thrills
no longer come at dawning
skipping in the earlier mornings.
The yard is still alive
with chatter and play
as creatures of the garden thrive
ready to greet the challenge of the day.