Long Gloats Poems
Long Gloats Poems. Below are the most popular long Gloats by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gloats poems by poem length and keyword.
Stoked and stirred up, fire flares,
If provoked, cobra scares,
Hurt by loss of glory,
Startled, beasts show fury,
Goaded, ego gloats in thin airs.
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Translation |11.01.2025| ego, self, fire, snake/cobra
Poet’s note: Sanskrit has thousands of verses of wisdom called Subhashhitam. Ego identifies with (lower) self--man, bird or beast. If hurt, it reacts. When stoked fire flares. If provoked, cobra tries to scare. So does human ego. The transliteration of the Sanskrit verse follows:
Jvalati chalite indhana agnih,
vi-prakrtah pannagah phanaam kurute |
Praayah sve mahimaanam kshobhaat
prati-padyanta jantavah || 218 ||
Fickle sunbeams tickle fluttering daydreams...…
Lyrical lapping lullaby encores...
Gingerly stroke sandy shell shattered shores..
Starlings spy…sky high murmurations...
Skimming stones....slicing silky sheens..
Voluptuously verdant riddles…islands within idylls...
Scattered daffy darlings..dilly dally...
Sunshine splattered chlorophyll candles...
Animosity as an ersatz monstrosity shines…
Saluting highfalutin pomposity..devouring skylines..
Notes of cut grass gloats floats from..
Middle class mowed manicured marvels..
Criss cross collaborations… surf the tailored turf....
Billiards baize ablaze with petrichor whiffs
Festooned with afternoon nana nap snores..
The radio's heavenly hum of cricket scores...
A duvet of familiar riffs...murmurs of what if's..
An inkling..whispers of summer's sprinkling serendipity twinkling..
Though your eyes may not see it
when you look at me;
I am a child at heart.
Into my Crayola box of colors
I dive and dance;
my crayons, my best buds, shout,
“Pick me…pick me!”
I can’t decide and close
my eyes and grab one;
how it haughtily gloats upon the
page I am coloring.
I get excited when I color;
my crayon shouts,
“Don’t squeeze me so hard!”
I nearly drop it; I wasn’t expecting that;
crayons don’t usually protest.
When I am finished, there’ll be
jealous crayons who weren’t picked but,
I tell them, another picture is for you;
and they calm down.
Coloring releases my muse to play.
Children laugh when I tell them about
my competitive crayons;
It inspires them to color-dance
along with us.
2-4-19
grief lies on my back
pinning me to the bed
I am exhausted by her
she is a master manipulator
she follows me to the bathroom
in the mirror I see my father’s face
I have his chin, eyes, hair and bad teeth
grief gloats
she hits me whenever and wherever she wants
is this the fifth?
she hits me more than usual on November 5th
Daddy’s death date
Leave me alone, I yell
I splash water on my face
she waits for me in the bedroom
the first thing I see in there is Daddy’s red plaid shirt
grief is still in charge
not all the time, but often enough
I crawl back into bed,
she has won again
That's the Venice door showered with beauty!
Where loneliness is daily on duty,
By its side, a small pool just sailed two boats,
The occupants are most probably ghosts,
If they're humans, they must be real cuties.
First I saw of this was in Djibouti,
But that was left decrepit and sooty,
So, for elegance that beauty denotes;
That's the Venice door!
The decorations are made quite pretty,
It's like from a last century movie,
Flowers even near the pool that boat floats,
It's the clean surrounding that makes wealth gloats,
Stamps of opulence colors it pretty,
That's the Venice door!
A fable of worth weaves a fair tale,
that wealth possesses and not possessed.
A quest to feign means forges a trail
long jaded by the marks they unveil.
Though blind seeker's minds a treasured chest.
The hope for glory gloats jealousy,
the more the merrier, too cliche,
counting amounts to a specialty
until idle growth reels entropy.
Insignificant be, sensed doomsday.
While the moment ill-timed takes pleasure
as imbalance shortchanged one's fortune.
Debt collectors knock at their leisure
of court rulings, list your worth's measure.
It is beyond the call of margin.
Though street level, not truly gutter,
err midst a fool lacks austerity.
Low-life address as a deal cutter
a debt paid in full hangs aflutter.
A world minus dreamt prosperity.
Sense true story in micro tale,
Set sights surely on profound sale.
Word signage cites how feelings move,
Draft in fond write strides sensuous grooves.
Thought winging here tells many things,
Deep fine thinking mellows warm fling.
Stop, start and grind and polish change,
Wear frame of mind with ample range.
Words come alive with clear meaning,
Sift as you strife to reap feeling.
Moments now moot that fragrance fine,
Word sculptures root as message lines.
The story sparks an inner boost,
A tale now marks a concrete roost.
Words now breathe life to journey quest,
To dare arrive stray echoes fest.
Jazzy feel floats upon these shores,
Poise of voice gloats to channel more.
Each rise and fall of vested words
Spill sweet and gall of poise and berth.
Tell in words brief of poignant fest,
Stitch joy and grief with precious quest.
Leon Enriquez
06 February 2017
Singapore
The Whos down in Who-ville have no reason to dread
The fake skinny Santa wearing a coat colored blood red.
They sleep soundly, delighting that tomorrow is Christmas Day.
One tiny Who, Cindy Lou, comes up to fake Santa to Say,
“What you doing? I need a drink, Mr. Santy Claus!
He jumps back in horror, putting up his Grinch-like claws.
He puts her to bed with a lovely pat on her head, fancy—free
Then he steals all their presents, and takes their beautiful tree.
He is angry at Christmas, for it humiliated him once upon a time.
He goes house to house, taking all he can get, stealing everyone blind.
His sack gets bigger and bigger, and he gloats as all through the night,
He takes all the ornaments and gifts from Who-ville, even their lights.
As he is starting up Mount Crumpit to dump all of their things
He hears the Who’s come to the town square, and all of them begin to sing!
His heart grows to three sizes, as he hears those happy sounding Whos.
With the strength of ten grinches, he grabs the sleigh he is about to lose.
With a flourish he and his reindeer-antlered dog, Max, decide to save the day.
They head down to Who-ville, and I mean right away.
To his delight, no one is singing “You’re mean one, Mr. Grinch.”
He stops the sleigh next to Sally O’Malley, her admiration a cinch.
Cindy Lou Who yells “There is Santy Claus Now!”
He is photographed with her; their shoot a big wow.
The town gives him a medal and brings in a band.
He is regaled a hero that day in Whoville-land.
Fondle fine flame
Nurture nice name
Speak sultry sway
Wise words work way
Feel fragrance free
Sanguine sight sees
Dream dizzy dance
Cheer crazy chance
Feisty form floats
Guilty gaze gloats
Niche naughty nice
Seize sizzling spice
Big blossoms blind
Know keepsakes kind
Watch wonder walk
Subtle sounds stalk
Think touching thoughts
Ply poignant plot
Chase curvy craze
Dance distant daze
Mind motions mull
Cream crafty cull
Looks lifting loft
Stillness sounds soft
Soul slumber sweeps
Daze dazzles deep
Dance deep delight
Sense sublime sights
Leon Enriquez
29 June 2016
Singapore
ghostly bones lie in wait in the swamp of New Orleans
the plantation home understands their keening and wailing
who else hears? is there anyone left to mourn for them?
the wind rustles the cattails, mosquitos are rallying
murder city, some call this place; especially the sign readers
occasionally visitors will pay the price by being inquisitive
some leave; others are condemned to stay with the others
the house gloats at the demonic powers of her land
girl in white sits in the reeds, watching the visitors
making decisions as to whether she will release them or not
she was the first victim of the killer who lived here in 1903
today’s visitor has lovely blonde hair, she always was jealous of this.