Long Guzzles Poems
Long Guzzles Poems. Below are the most popular long Guzzles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Guzzles poems by poem length and keyword.
Back, back to the joyful wood
where once you played at Robin Hood.
One-time playground, a beauty spot,
is now an Asda parking lot.
Back, back to the school bike shed
behind which you kissed or smoked instead.
You could buy a pack for half a crown.
The school's not there; the shed burned down.
Back, back to your very first catch,
together you were the perfect match.
Wonderful days and nights that were hot.
Now they are married, with children-a lot!
Back back to the car you first drove
that set you free to roam and rove.
Lovely then, but now you're aware
it guzzles gas, pollutes the air.
Back, back to the friends you once had.
They were young, weird, kooky, and mad;
what a gang, you were all wild and crazy.
Now we are all old, fat, and lazy.
Back, back to the old hairstyle,
it was a glorious purple pile.
Your mother and father were both appalled.
Unfortunately, now, you're primarily bald.
Back, back to relive your past,
those times you were having a blast.
Life was fun; it was all about play.
Why did it stop? Can no one say?
Sentimentality Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
Date wrote: 31st May 2022
THE UNCOVERED ....
Blunders draped in bundles
of clandestine regalia
Passing each aurora, simmers
obnoxious guilty flames
Seized are its weapons
Silenced is its voice
Water-tight , to the exterior,
Access denied....
Conscience asphyxiated
Stupor it lay , simmering flame
deep inside......
The glittery outside
Embezzlement fills treasures
Tactfully guzzles glorious peace
Marbles conceal the blood
Glitter tantalizing the inner peace
Constellation of cromulent folk!
Tantamount to a golden knife
Sagacious choices crushed,
pulverised under heels
Brushes of pseudo smiles paint
the phoney pictures!
Remorse has gone to retreat
Armageddon struck...
Raging guilt, rising conscience
War they wage as they dare a battle
Before they fall and fade
Muster all might, they burn
Cellars melt to molten
Huge uproar and war cry
Burning splinters!
Cinders remain .....,
as unmasked truth!
© Anulaxmi Nayak, 2015
Fed but little, I have still written much,
Not bound to some code or a stale cliche.
My poetry springs from organic touch.
How odd - for 'tisn't my usual way.
When I speak, I treasure truth beyond all,
striving for a crystalline clarity.
Proper words, direct, simple, without stall ...
Poems - do you betray sincerity?
Hardly so. We poets produce puzzles
to ensure some time is taken by you.
Truth is wine one sips; not swill one guzzles.
Dance with our minds if it's worth it to you!
Art is a bride that one slowly unveils.
Such beauty! Adored in all her details ...
3 August 2023
Beyond the relics stance tainted feigned glory,
the achievers had gifted us their puzzles,
speckled based best in their field of theory,
like Baia hot baths, can't stomach its guzzles,
aloft or cavernous, or in a quarry,
like those Pyramid guys fuss up their fuzzles,
as rock piles escape while history depicts,
the bookshelves leave those green stains with those quick picks.
Millenniums, centuries, decades, plus years,
anthropologists helped by benefactors,
busy in their research before disasters,
like Baia downed in Naples Bay, off its shores,
letters for funding by their alma maters,
reach prosperous grads where old money outpours,
and achievers will have their dribblings published,
skilled wins the Nobel Prize as greatly cherished.
A love burning bright
A hatred bringing fright
It ends in a blaze
Two hearts trapped in a maze
You loved your puzzles
For the masses to befuddle
Our blood forms quite the puddle
And the monster guzzles
La, la, la, la, la
You were my first
La, la, la, la, la
Watch my heart burst
When you let go I knew
And the reasons left me blue
Fight after fight I sought reasons why
Not to tell you goodbye
You loved your games
And tricks made your day
These would be your greatest shames
Because eventually you had to pay
La, la, la, la, la
Don't speak to me
La, la, la, la, la
Please set my heart free
La, la, la, la, la
Don't
La, la, la, la, la
Speak
La, la, la, la, la
Please
La, la, la, la, la
Don't
La, la, la, la, la
Speak
Please speak...
If Tears Could Grow Flowers
If tears could grow flowers
I’d grow fields for you
When I think of how far away you are
I become very blue
I’ve cried more for you
Then you’ll ever know
I just wish where they fell
Flowers would grow
With a silent shudder
A tear lands on the ground
I’d be happier if in its place
A flower would be found
I’ve cried fields of dandelions
Which could have been wine
If I had you by my side
I’d be just fine
If a tear was a flower
I’d have an Aster so blue
A flower for your hair
Picked just for you
There are no flowers needed
On days when we are in the same spot
I don’t need flowers
Because crying I’m not
But most weeks I cry fields
To heal my wounded heart
Those are the weeks
When you must be apart
So as images of you
Leak out of my eye and roll down my face
I’d be so much happier
If a flower would grow in Its place
When you find your true love
And it is impossible for us to be near
There’s nothing to do
But shed a tear
When the thirsty ground guzzles the sadness
And nothing grows in its place
Sometimes it’s the harsh reality
We must face
Alas, my love I know you’re not going any where
I know exactly where you’ll stay
So my tears continue to fall
And I’ll have to pretend they’ll grow those flowered fields of May
As much as I hate it
And it makes me want to die
I can’t help but
To continue to cry
No matter
Even though we will be miles apart
I have you right next to me
Right here in the flowered field of my heart
"Just take this chalk," (so went his talk,
to servants sent before):
"And do not balk. When you uncork
good liquor, mark the door."
This way, the churchman planned to pass,
when pausing for a rest,
fun nights in vino veritas,
partaking of the best.
"So, sup the wine, and if it's fine,
write on the lintel (lest
I miss the sign and fail to dine
there) 'Vinum Bonum Est!'"
Off went the servant at a trot.
Would we were in his shoes!
To earn our pay, we play the sot,
by "testing" all the booze!
From bar to bar, he wanders far,
obeying that behest:
but "Vinum Bonum" starts to jar:
He shortens it to "Est"!
He sips this wine, he guzzles that,
and if he is impressed,
he makes a holy concordat,
and marks the doorway, "Est!"
Down through the Alps the servant wends,
to tread Italian soil:
so many blends, to greet as friends!
Unto his task, stays loyal.
Both white and red, their bottles bled,
are flowing like the Arno:
by destiny, the servant's led
to Montepulciano!
Volcanic slopes (some are the Pope's!)
make wine that's heaven-blessed:
and, titillated as he topes,
he chalks up, "Est! Est! Est!"
Some days elapse -- a week, perhaps.
Beneath the tavern's eaves,
round Bishop wraps the sweetest of traps --
he arrives, but never leaves!
The wine is fine -- almost divine --
Soft, like an angel's breath;
To toe the line, he's disinclined --
and drinks himself to death!
And though this tale's beyond the pale,
a moral you may wrest --
each holy grail's adorned with nails --
go slow with Est! Est! Est!
I set the table; I did not.
The pourer did. The poor did not.
The seats are cold; merlot is warm.
The pourer asks; there are replies,
sips, guzzles, sighs, manners.
I am satisfied as each one’s drunk.
The pourer leaps from spot to spot,
wincing, squinting, craving approval.
I smile; I nod; with each intonation, accent,
sound of a lady and a gentleman.
The table is set quite elaborate; each course,
choice: salad, pork, dessert.
The hour becomes late;
drunkenness from each glass poured.
I am satisfied by the pourer; rich
with the scent of merlot and more.
He’s the only one left of my friends.
The seats are cold; he is warm.