Long Gloss over Poems
Long Gloss over Poems. Below are the most popular long Gloss over by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gloss over poems by poem length and keyword.
Sometimes I wonder if I look like her
In low light
Just bright enough to make out features
But not enough to notice it’s me
Maybe it’s the way my eyes gloss over in the evening
Holding the same simplicity
But mine are blue
And hers were green
We shared long, messy blonde hair
That always tangled in the wind
She had such beautiful hair
But I cut mine
And these days people say mine looks more red than blonde
Sometimes I catch my reflection
And see her for half a second
And for that half second
I let myself believe
I’m as beautiful as she was
But the older I get
The more I change in ways
That pull me further from her image
Still, for that brief moment
I can feel her living within me
Years ago, a young man in Brooklyn wheeled his bike out the gate.
His plan, to cross the land, exact route left to fate.
The first week was the hardest, scared, he doubted his quest.
It took all his courage, he says, to keep heading west.
To conquer fear, he says, we have to face it and just go.
Don't stop, commit, don't just drift with life's flow.
Ride a red road through a canyon and crest the next range.
Cross the river, flee the bear, embrace the change.
Much of bicycle touring is miserable, It's not all soaring.
Worse than miserable he adds, much is boring.
He doesn't gloss over this, he does confess.
But no better moments can you possess.
He advises you, when possible, to step into the unknown
Follow your passion, and someone might write a poem.
But while I admire Leon, and his trip does inspire.
He did ride into a real tornado, but there's now a metaphoric fire.
The jailbirds are loose, bad cartels cross the border.
To pursue freedom's road, you do need some order.
Myself, I've been warned off some roads in the Southwest.
Exploring is great, but prudence is best.
I marvel at the story he tells, of strangers trusting him.
Friends of friends gave him house keys, went out on a limb.
I admire that he could join up with new pals on bikes.
Or pause his trip for side-trip hitchhikes.
I couldn't do it, that's for sure
Maybe that leaves me bitter, maybe leaves me poor.
But the most amazing thing to me, that makes me shudder...
Is his diet on the trip - some beer, and mostly peanut butter.
Don't tell Leon McCarron that I wrote this rhyme
He had a great trip, why ruin his good time?
Sweat drips from little dust covered faces in the grim back-alley factories
No time for rites of passage other than fingers nimble enough to spin and
Balance wheel spool spin and stitch regulator to their master’s instruction
Anyana is not unique but one of the ‘fortunate’ ones
Gloved hands mop up droplets of perspiration from a lace veil and seduce
A myriad of lovers before she even enters an intricate parquet dance floor
Takes a cue from the orchestra and whirls on stilettos and rhapsodic flair
Chantelle did not purchase her dress at the charity shop
Their stories unite as neo-liberal gangsters spin a yard on wheels of fortune
While their procession fails to trickle down moderate glimpses of hope
Some stride on the cat walk of privilege and others are scavengers in rags
Exposed nipples are rather dissimilar but follow a different path
Anyana gathers her virtues and sends love across the boundary of despair
Her shoes bear no fairy tale stories when midnight strikes at the fashion
Of stolen passion from sweat shops for garments scented with perfume
Cause and effect cannot moderate nor gloss over amoral fabric
03rd November 2019
The falling man, one photograph captured in time
An unforgettable image, imprinted on this mind
He represents us all, weather we like it or not
His faith did not kill him, destiny was his lot
Spiralling out of control, once the planes hit
Acting purely on instinct, not champing the bit
Fire and terror stoked decisions, until overcome
Incinerating heat compels him, never did he jump
This was no leap of faith, Infinitely more than that
A transcendence into agony, he’s looks down at
I try to pen his plight, impossible as it seems
Of a world going mad, upon our Tv screens
I wish it was over quick, that fall to his death
Alas he suffered slowly, until the very last breath
I’m been brutally honest, won’t gloss over the facts
For we owe it to him, it’s with innate honesty, he acts
A picture’s worth one thousand words, some disagree
Falling man, gives nothing away, we can clearly see
My heart’s telling this story, his fall sets the stage
An immortalised snapshot of life, will never fade
For all other innocents, murdered that fateful day
If there’s a silver lining, it’s with confidence I’ll say
Your loved ones cradled you, as the towers fell down
Far across many nations, pain is felt inside every town
Sun and moon appeared together, purposely that morn
Heavenly bodies, bore witness to a new world reborn
And this occurrence, should give a tiny ray of hope
Not used as a tool of glee by Helios misanthropes
Below is a comments box will the Helios misanthrope set foot in it
not a cowardly chance
By
David Kavanagh
Eke out, O my living?
On what grounds do ye speak?
Based on our thanksgiving?
O turkey, through creek creak!
Wind atop the atoll low?
Steady, then first blow.
Ogre, ochre. Fast or slow?
Gold, give off thy glow...
Tyrant of the ocean deep;
Through dark chasm leap?
Horror, do ye find life cheap?
Challengers to creep...
Thought-light, gloss over the spark?
Fire, light up the dark?
Covenant? Communion, ark?
Hone, upon the bark...
Fill in, O ravine? Unseen.
Trail lead through the green.
Emptiness, fill each machine?
Will it work, I deen...?
Dismay, spring from dynamite?
Nuclear, gone white?
Pinholes, curtains, nine knives, night!
Rampage on the right!
Queen of civilized world, wait?
Hie across the strait!
O for those who prattle, prate!
Rage at higher rate!
Barbarians, gather?
Oppose such as this?
Well, we wouldn't rather.
Sail on, black abyss...
Life is all white butterflies and yellow flowers
For the rich and blue eyed you
You want for nothing except perhaps
Teal tribulations
What do you know of amethyst angst
How it reels from your gut
And paralyzed purple souls
Vomiting violet verses of pansy poems
You lack liquid death felt by
The mother of a soft stillborn infant
How could you know peach pain
When your long lashes flash as magic wand
Instantly your wildest wishes are granted
You’ll never know hunger harm or hell
And I desperately despise you for it
Because you lack emerald empathy
You gloss over others loss as “God’s will”
Disenfranchising demise of dandelion dreams
As if death is a green gift to be opened
Your happiness is snorted in white lines up your
Nose leaving psychedelic rainbows in your spirit
An artificial light illuminates your mind
But you feel elaborately enlightened even elevated
Your life is rich your words your food even
Your grief seems scripted by gold and silver pen
The soft satin lavender lies you tell yourself
Are a jaded justification of lack of life’s joy
You dig a grave for the less fortunate in
Your poetic world full of magenta misery
Dressed up as colorful inspiration
You feed off others like a blood thirsty vampire
Never quoting never worrying at all
That AI stole your doily soul
No your rehabilitation is red white and blue
A flag burned by drug paraphernalia and
False imprisonment in cranial concentration camps
False because your mind doesn’t have to be there
You have all the tools you need to bleed
Feel reveal and write truth but
You chose not to
Your verses in ash smell of smoky hell’s dissent
I woke up very early this morning, restless and bothered, itchy for the day to happen. As dawn broke orange, the city was revealed. I’ll never get tired of watching that. The snow was gone but a gloss over the city streets indicated ice. I scanned the landscape for movement - for life - like a predator.
Lisa and I are headed back to school today, at 11am, by air, which our parents feel is the best way to avoid our old, holiday nemesis omicron (doesn’t that make us sound like secret agents?).
Once everyone was finally up, Lisa and I got our busy-on, doing the last load of laundry and final packing. Lisa, packs a suitcase, by throwing clothes in without bothering to fold them, while I meticulously fold and roll my clothes, like a marine headed for deployment.
As Lisa and I worked, Leeza (12) was lying on Lisa’s bed, on her back with her head hanging over the edge - watching us pack upside down. Her red hair looked like a thrown plate of spaghetti.
Leeza was talk, talk, talking and gnawing on a toasted bagel at the same time. “How do you feel about going back to school?” she asked us. “OH, feelings!” I gasped, “A free therapy session!” “No, really,” she said, grown serious and rolling right side up.
Leeza is cute as a button and vulnerable - I could almost feel her anxiety. As the youngest sibling I’d been left behind too - you don’t want the holiday to end and your big sister to leave - it’s a singularly lonesome feeling. I wanted to grab her, like a puppy, wrestle her and tell her I love her and I’d miss her - like my sister used to do with me. I decided that as soon as we were done packing, I would.
“My GOD,” Lisa said to Leeza, “will you PLEASE shut up! I have to think.” Leeza blushed and shrugged “I’m just making conversation, grump-face, you’ve packed a million times before haven’t you?” “Does counting to 10 make murder premeditated?” Lisa asked the ceiling.
Suddenly, Lisa dropped the blouse she’d been holding and pounced on Leeza, tickling her as she squealed with delight. In a second they’d become a ball of flailing arms, legs, hair and playful noise. I slunk out of the room to give them their sister’s goodbye.
Besides, I smelled bacon.
For the shadow of death comes closely after humankind
though no one ever saw the face behind the mask, humankind,
from the unclear expression and vague outline of the mask,
must visualize the expression of the face and realize
the inner heart of the being behind the mask,
in order for survival. The uneasiness, therefore,
lies always with humankind
Not because humankind loves a peace, if a track is snapped off
from an armored tank that rushes through with a deafening roar,
the tank must stand still for a moment to gain time to repair it
or to rearrange its strategy to attack the foe. the uncertainty,
therefore, lies always with humankind
For the peace is a limited one, when the tank, a vicious killer,
loses its function as a ruthless slaughterer and stands still,
the peace conspires for another fight yet to be ought
though humankind is tired of war. The misery, therefore,
lies always with humankind
For the mask stares with piercing eyes, though humankind
dislikes the word 'nil' that brought in the world at the time
of birth tightly in the fist like a faith, shows the smile
to gloss over the heart. Nonetheless, the mask itself may be the death
the agony, therefore, is the life of all humankind
Skim this Substack poem
Three lines at a time
Catch every other word or five
Don’t notice if it rhymes
Coast through just the keywords
Or read only the start
If you don’t hate it by the second verse
It might be worth a heart <3
It doesn’t need your full attention
There are other posts to view
For opening this at all
I’m appreciative of you
Gloss over this bit and the next
Glide straight down to the end
Skip the bit about subscribing
Or restacking for a friend
Bounce, scan, read, skip
Bianca’s waffling on
This verse, at the very least
I expect will be forgone
If you make it to these final lines
What dedication you’ve applied!
You, my friend, are a real one
Thanks for joining me for the ride
She gazed at the looking glass, but the mirror refused to grant her a preview of what might happen, a clear picture of where she had been and if she existed at all, the spectre of the moment seemed to be disguised from inspection. Coming to terms with having absorbed and condensed too many of society’s norms and demands had seemingly been her duty and the prism of requests on her image of beauty had failed her inner Self. She drooled onto the spitting image of nothingness and the slobber ran down to the frame that upheld phlegm and contempt before it trickled down onto the baseless floor founded on hardcore delusion. Diet pills and dark shades had not relieved her from a succession of errors of reason and emotion and when she had blindfolded herself, the blinkers tore deep into her misrepresentation of surrender and cosmetic denial.
scanned in revulsion
vacant echoes burst the sight –
shards of glass splintered
So many fragments pierced into her eyes, that dry tears covered the pulverized viewing and heart-blood sprayed all over her soul. A point of no return, because if she failed to stem the flow and bandage the wounds, gangrene would set it soon and salving the lacerations would only speed up infection and purulent grime. The wall in front of her blurred out of proportion and there was nothing she could do about it other than retrieving bristles and paint from the storeroom and gloss over the shiny remnants of disrepair. And therefore, she entered into a journey of the unknown, drew rose petals and thorns onto broken canvas. Before she knew it, she decoupaged disintegration and fractures, glued a mosaic of imagination to mirror what should have been there in the first place. Sweat dripped from her forehead and smudged aquarelle shades which reassembled self-worth and confronted demons and abuse. An inner voice shouted, ‘all you need is a mantra to caption the artwork which you truly are.’ That is when she wrote her first poem and became free of doubts, oppression and cynical critique.
blame discredit reproach
failed to appease me in vain –
reflections can change
26th March 2021