Long Gris Poems
Long Gris Poems. Below are the most popular long Gris by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gris poems by poem length and keyword.
Android, light a fire!
Melt down metal and stone.
Forge of these a wire.
O hateful, hold thy own!
Hordes of havoc, ride with fate!
Loose thy battle cry!
Warrior, thy will is hate!
Compel these to die!
Sigh, O waiting ladies?
Not readily, good sir.
Look up at the Pleiades!
Reality, just blur...
Automaton, black abyss!
Apocalypse; kiss.
Flock of pelican, fish. Grow, gris.
Serpent coiling, hiss.
Bile and blasphemy, break. Be.
All tomorrow, flee.
Beat of my heart, suddenly!
Vision means to see...
Cold confusion, coffee cake!
Help a brother out!
Vampire, do ye fear the stake?
Dragon, do ye doubt?
Flame eternal, burn within!
Blanch, O fire of Sin!
Scorching heat of oven? In!
What ye dream, begin!
Light of spark and intellect!
Brilliant is thy glow!
Raven of fate, how you pecked!
Necked and tossed below!
Chain unbroken, forge. Deep gorge.
Weathervane, point. Sight.
Unit twenty, thou art corge.
One it takes to fight...
Trudging up a slate strewn track,
storm clouds gather.” Let’s turn back.”
As expected son slips over,
knee is cut, face like thunder.
“We should have turned left by the wall,
but, as usual you know it all.”
Two hours later find the path,
grimy rings around the bath.
Muddy boots line the hall,
grubby hand prints on the wall.
Sipping on some Pinot Gris,
his lordship states, “That was a breeze.”
“Tomorrow I want to reach that rock,
the escarpment at the top”.
Puts down her tea with Bergamot
“Do what you like, do what you want”.
Plasters on a mud face pack,
rolls her eyes and turns her back.
GRAY - For: Color My World - Nette Onclaud
by Patricia Lucas-Clarke
One day while fishing on the bridge,
I hooked a gorgeous speckled trout,
Reeled it in and pulled it out,
Carried home, stored in my fridge.
The trout it was prepared next day,
Two large filets cooked and eaten,
Flavor intense could not be beaten
By any chef, no how, no way.
With spinach green, tomatoes red,
Sautéed perfection in olive oil,
Potatoes piping from the boil,
A perfect meal left us well fed.
A glass of wine, a Pinot Gris,
Washed down the food with complement,
The nose? Fresh flowers, a lovely scent,
Pure vintage, two thousand and three.
Relaxed, forgetting all our sorrow,
After such a sumptuous dish,
I long to catch another fish,
To the bridge again, perhaps tomorrow.
2/3/2019 - Enclosed Rhyme Poetry Contest - Emil Pinet
Magnus Annas
Summer's sensuality
New leaves green with love
Mark the ritual's beginning
A ritual old as the unmarked time
That passed before us all,
In which we were called to spring, to dance
Butterflies and mindless acrobats
Like flowers silently chanting Carpe Diem,
Like Chinese paintings, sense and shadow
Or in the guise of neolithic figures
Scratched upon rocks -
This is what we are,
What we became.
The question asked: Did I love you in the Summer,
Only Summer, when you traced yourself
Upon my skin, my burning skin?
Mon Amour,
That's when I loved you most,
Perhaps, perhaps - this question somewhat answered.
All this and more
When Summer comes.
Play the flute she hands to you.
Pick the fruit from off the altars.
Whilst living in the hic et nunc,
Live also in the there and then.
All these things you live,
If only for the time
You think of them.
Often Summer is the coldest time,
Before the Autumn reigns.
Old Dion is a madman then,
A madman, and he loves to dance
Upon the still soft Winter's graves.
The young all follow Dion,
They laugh and jeer,
Tugging Winter by the beard,
Forgetting all the while
That with each day
They die a little more.
But Dion always lives.
Dion outlives them all.
"Catch me a star!" she'll say,
While you stand gazing at your own reflection,
Whispering,"J'amour toi".
Oh, now comes the rocking-horse time,
When all things grow anew;
Be kind, be kind -
You're fragile as a shard of glass,
Youth's shadow bared before the gaze of wisdom,
Begs sufferance for a few more moments
To bid farewell to Dion
And the girls he checked out on the bus to here.
Before we etch ourselves into the rocks,
Be kind, O Time,
For you are just un beau cheval gris,
Leading us from what we know
Into what we cannot see.
I Roundly Square Prayer...
Despite imprecations
yielding "FAKE" impact
upon the head of this atheist,
especially when thy
(untamable) shrewish wife
takes umbrage against this beast
tee boy up hoar excuse for a
husband precariously
bass (sic) lee perched
on a figurative
tightrope in creased
when withering tension (such as
chronic money woes
raises an ugly head
imploring a sudden cosmic deist
convert to pluck me
out this marriage well greased
with decades of vitriolic
verbal eminent amber gris,
where envisioning being swallowed
by Moby Dick haint half as bad
as incessant thrashing from spouse,
who expatiates, then gets cross
at this near expired dad,
when aye experience her
off fish shell reel
(hook, line and
sinker), where (when),
she looses (and loses) wrath
of Queen Kong sprinkling
unladylike cringeworthy
four lettered laced profanity largesse
(Sargasso Sea sunned)
favorite foul mouthed fad,
which "sailor blushing" gasp
finds me swallowing
hard syllabic retort (consonant
effe f**k hay shuss
m*th*r - f*ck*r) "EEE GAD"
bringing to ma mind, how parents
used to bad mouth me
(their only son),
when he hapt tubby
a passively aggressive lad
where booth me
late mum, and papa
got red red hot
poker (faced) mad
cuz, aye got born this way
at those accursed moments
futilely half heartedly praying
aware oye vey
knowing full well beseeching
divine alien abduction
all for naught!
Hmm, perhaps titled,
aye poem already didst aired
though revisiting said theme
downplayed as thoughts blare
though similar con tent
invariably communicated
sans, trademark pi Seine fishtail career
as applies to other questions,
this chap asks himself,
an immense task I dare
unleash unbounded kickstarting euphoria
within psychic calm'n weal
with a healthy dose of logorrhea
scowl unintentionally reader
mine re: noun verbosity doth ensnare
though oft times obfuscation veils merely
a black hole sun (son) prominence
asthma faux eminence amber gris
long ago didst flare
aware if chance encounter
in a dark alley coal less sing
burning eyes fiercely glare
yet, an explanation
would be proffered to hear
this penchant spurring confabulation
explaining (feebly) zest
yours truly experiences
expatiating honest to dog ness
figuratively go win west
word ho seeking me own mother lode acquired,
via verse a tile materiel undergoing
electric kool aid acid test
incorporating rigorous (mortise
and tenon constructed) adverbial quest
which wondrous, whirled,
and webbed woven semi colon aided nest
reinforced with double entendre
tongue in cheek jest,
whereby multiple interpretations
(ala mode literary splotchy Rorschach test)
tenants in common beau geste
ma own home spun faux
cambridge analytica gimcrackery defaced book best
bite, with absolute zero
data snatched aye evasively attest!
5
N’essayez pas de faire courir
L’âne gris ou le puissant zébu,
La girafe folle ou le poète,
Vous perdriez votre temps,
N’essayez pas de faire courir,
Chacun doit respecter l’autre,
Le cheval court, l’âne brait,
Comment cueillerons nous ces cerises ?
N’essayez pas de faire courir
La girafe folle ou le poète,
La lenteur les inspire plus,
De tout ils gardent raison,
N’essayez pas de faire courir.
Don’t try to make them run
The gray donkey or the powerful zebu,
The crazy giraffe or the poet,
You would waste your time,
Do not try to make them run,
Each one must respect the other,
The horse runs, the donkey brays,
How will we pick these cherries?
Don’t try to make them run
The crazy giraffe or the poet,
The slowness inspires them more,
Of all that keep reason,
Do not try to make them run.
In vertigo of night, in their riddled trance
Boldness of petals melt on washed-out shades,
As faces etch a quiet gloom in varied hues
Capturing splashed oil, neutral and bright
While I gaze longingly at a portrait…
Man and wife , as if holding a child almost
Unseen …hidden through a float of blue-white.
Through dimming pain, a view lights up for a time
Where orange of moonlight quietly slips
Amid this rosette outburst and aching gray,
With blossoms strewn along pale candlelight…
How languid colors begin to mold my thoughts
Drowning in a pang of loneliness… I ask
In silence..are the couple ,the babe dying?...dead?
And the fusion of tender, lonely motif allows me
To weep inside, captive in a gasping moan... the kind
Which shapes a tone between life and elegy.
---------
Frank Herrera's Contest: YOUR PERSONAL BEST of 2016
Written 5/09/2016 Re-submitted 10/18/2016
POTD Awardee
------------------
Inspiration from the painting, Les Amoureux en Gris
Artist: Expressionist, Marc Chagall ( illustration included)