Long Garde Poems
Long Garde Poems. Below are the most popular long Garde by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Garde poems by poem length and keyword.
Gravitational pull like quicksand, her ebony eyes
Ripping into his outer space. He tugs at his collar,
Eking out the empty space of honeysuckle perfume.
Avant-garde arrest of his indeterminate heart -
Time like scented petals pauses — a prop
Entertaining the thought, the mockery of bachelorhood
Sought for too many years. Scented petals fall like snow,
Captivating the soul — love at first sight, can it be?
“Ariel! O Ariel!” I tunnel my way to find out your name.
People like me rarely jettison to the Milky Way.
Eagerly he made quick the great escape and married her.
1/15/2020
Ten words ten lines 2-Big Surf Competition
After a long ennui of big wave competitions
surfers take to Oahu's North Shore "to go for baroque."
For these bonafide big wave riders hanging ten
is party time, cake frosted with elan and deju vu.
Waves peaking it's face into the eyes of the brave,
with carte blanche of fifty footers, part of the sugar.
All eye candy are on the Hawaiians, lipping alley-opps on the curls,
showcasing avante-garde to the diletttante's and spectators.
As waves keep pounding the shore to the cacophony of applause,
to tats, tongs and tans, big wave riders take to this anomaly waving.
Anomaly
Avant-garde
Baroque
Bona fide
Cacophony
Carte blanche
Deja vu
Dilettante
Elan
Ennui
connie pachecho
1/20/18
"Possums on the Run - Part 1"
Well she ran away
danced the F.U.
Revolutionary Dance
Jokers are trumps
Euchre, 500,
Queens Slippers
no Deuce, no Romance
Holey holy
blue jeans torn and buried
underneath the house
with uneaten sandwiches
going mouldy in plastic lunch bags,
old unwanted items, school books
torn pages, hessian bags, burnt pots,
newspaper wrappings fading
tales of the city with
dreams of necromancy.
She’s upstairs deliberating
sitting at the kitchen table
writing her stories
Over with doing the dishes
done with Rainbow Princesses,
homework squats and
buried small town garbage runs
over strawberry jam and creamed up
Sunday Cream Buns.
A good day out
some holiday
collecting cut grass
she stands watching
red skinned motor mower man
barking orders
while the other daughters
stand en garde cross-armed
no hat, sun burnt,
barefeet, blistering in the
boiling Sun.
En Garde, patiently waiting
watching Frilly Lizard Black Boy
Kangaroo Paw Hibiscus
“There’s a tortoise under the
outside dunny!”
there’s a flaming tortoise
on the run
slow mode
totally bizarre,
wonders where
it came from…she thinks,
“run tortoise run”.
She knows better, she’s 17,
she’s the Dancing Queen,
she’s Top Gun.
(Lovejoy-Burton/Jan 2018)
1. .... x
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ZUX3j6WLiQ
Tie my hands,
so I may not touch others
with potent realities
Bind me from
what transpires about
Shackle my passions
of indignation’s
Muzzle my voice
meant to bellow and not lilt
Blindfold me not see
with a painter’s eye I rely
The art you’ll recognize,
warscapes that captivate
Hinder me from
perceiving what to navigate
Shield me from
poet’s stories begging to be told,
like the Buddha confined,
b’fore escaping his privileged environs
Shroud what are already
squinting eyes kept from comprehension
Gagged and kept in ignorance
and with festering hypertensions
Cover my mouth for
I shall not speak what is called truth
Crush my spirit in defeat,
trampled since my youth
What is left for me on this earth?
Taken a fin d’une époque,
an end of mine mirth
with a madcap army closing in,
and a harsh prison penance
a desperate gaiety leaves its efflorescence,
crimson wall art stains
no more shall be a poets words
and nothing beautiful remains
ergo focusing on the vanguard
this rendered impotent,
when the rearguard deserts
Lavender lovers are fine
they share a rapt audience,
tho we need to discuss
harsher matters with more gravitas
For this is chattel slavery, is it not?
Man enslaved like cattle,
let me speak out for my heart is worn
My tears run dry, free me
for life has taught me that when
there are many coincidences, they are not
Excessive serendipity harbors
an urgent message
speak softly at me be aware
I scream loud from the top of my lungs
ask questions not to be in the dark,
my spirit cast a monochromatic
stark palette of black, white, and gray
keep my spirit free respect me!
Jail me in the dept of dungeons
like the poets of yore,
Tho stone walls do not a prison
make, nor iron bars a cage
War is this fellow poets,
if you want to see a man
returned from the dead
if you wish to confirm
with your own eyes
that someone escaped the claws of death,
then I’m sorry to disappoint
The turning wheels of time crush and rattle
life in the arena of strife fighting a constant battle,
I try to win rising from the dismal depth of ennui,
wonder if living is a wandering notion in time’s continuity.
I give my motivated avant-garde mind carte blanche
to make for me a metaphorical mask at least for once.
I wear it to act in the show of my life with elan,
and would secretly smile even after I am done.
I transcend the delusive time playing the part not new,
for I perform from familiarity under the spell of déjà vu.
______________
February 18, 2023
Contest : Deja Vu
Sponsored by : Unseeking Seeker
Muscle-bound goons. The kind that rape the world. Self-satisfied, in no hurry to devote their remarkable faculties to understanding another’s mind. Such wise men. Stares as blank as summer nights, red and black, tricolored, golden star-stung steel: twisted features, leaden, pale, inflamed; hoarse guffaws. A grim onslaught of pretense. To hear what these kids would say about Cherubino in their rough voices and violent ways. They’re heading to town to get it from behind, all decked out in sickening luxury.
A violent Paradise of runaway sneers! But no match for your Fakirs and hackneyed theatrics. In costumes sewn together with all the taste of a nightmare, they strut through assorted laments, tragedies filled with all every brigand and demigod missing from religion and history. Chinese, Hottentots, bohemians, fools, hyenas, Molochs, ancient lunacies, sinister demons—they slip savage slaps and tickles into your mother’s old chestnuts. A little avant-garde here, some three-hankie stuff there. Master jugglers who use riveting comedy to transform players and scenes. Eyes ignite, blood sings, bones stretch, tears and red rivulets run. Their clowning can last minutes, or months.
Only I have the key to this savage sideshow.
:: 07.31.2022 ::
Wear a salmon on your head,
the wild Orca said,
make it a big chinook
or perhaps a steelhead.
It's very avant-garde;
it makes a fashion dent,
and kittens think the smell
is heaven sent.
A salmon hat is a cultural fad displayed by orcas, where they wear dead salmon upon their heads. It was first observed in 1987 with southern resident orcas and was a relatively short-lived phenomenon. In 2024, the behaviour was observed again with orcas in Puget Sound. The motivations for salmon hats are unclear, but other orcas will mimic the behaviour once it begins. One hypothesis is that orcas wear salmon hats to display high food availability, or that the same individuals that originally started the trend revitalized it. It may also indicate playfulness. ~Wikipedia
This article is about the avant-garde poet, playwright and memoirist. For other uses, see Otis Trench, Brent Scorn, Lydia Fox, C. Günter Marrow, Elzbieta Bienga (disambiguation).
Zoltan Goliath (?????? ?????) has long been considered an enigma; elusive and indistinct with an uncertain heritage and vaguely defined borders. His past is shrouded in mystery, myth and legend. He is believed to have started life as a shallow, hard-boiled stereotype of a cynical private investigator in a trashy dime store crime novel, but he stuck to his guns and eventually metamorphosed into a tragically complex and conflicted character in an obscure psychological drama that was burned by the Nazis on the Opernplatz in 1933; now he’s all smoke and ash, indecipherable. He is rarely seen in public and often makes it a point to have his own obituary printed in certain small town newspapers. He is rumored to possess a large collection of rare idioms as well as many volumes of arcane criteria. There is good reason to believe he spent some years at sea aboard a tramp steamer smuggling contraband to the underdogs during the Cold War, his travels being extensive. None of this can be verified, however, since Mr. Goliath is notorious for agreeing to meet for interviews, only to send a chimp wearing a deerstalker cap in his place, or other some-such nonsense.
rainy season
grief, white hydrangeas
hungry caterpillar
In part, The Haiku Society of America’s definition of a haiku reads, “Usually a haiku in English is written in three unrhymed lines of seventeen or fewer syllables.” Further, Japanese scholar Shigehisa Kuriyama states, “The 5-7-5 pattern by itself does not make a haiku.” (Gurga, p. 1). Contemporary English language haiku have departed radically from the 5-7-5 convention, including the Beat haiku of Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, and Gary Snyder, the latter awarded the Masaoka Shiki International Haiku Grand Prize in 2004. The haiku of Robert Spiess are especially experimental.
I recommend two sources for further study of haiku: “Haiku: A Poet’s Guide,” by Lee Gurga, addresses haiku in it’s traditional form; “Haiku Poetics in Twentieth-Century Avant-Garde Poetry,” by Jeffery Johnson discusses haiku as realized by modernist poets.
Speaking personally, it is most important for me to enjoy writing a haiku, correct form or not, and for my haiku to be enjoyed by the reader.
"Calamus gladio fortior"
O noble scribe hand me your quill
I will sharpen it for you with my wit and brill’
For in truth it is your real sword grows large and mighty with every word
Joust not with me surround yourself with my noble stalwart gallantry
Thee will find dark and light joie de vivre
between the weeds and daisies armour comes off freely
En garde walk the Road with courage and dignity
For we will inspire revolutionary legions together
On our march to
"VICTORY"
(Lovejoy-Burton/Feb 2018)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dAv4bHtobP0