Long Handheld Poems
Long Handheld Poems. Below are the most popular long Handheld by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Handheld poems by poem length and keyword.
SPONTANEOUS ART
My spontaneity
of pure chance style
is to use
paper on a handheld
A4 clip board as a work board
&upon it
use a 6 pack of 'primary
(no smudging/quick drying)
paint sticks)
then
to experiment
therewith randomly
exploring abstractly
with these colours
¬ caring if I
overlapped onto
the underlaying
smaller sized
paper beneath
in addition to these sticks
using other media e.g tippex,pencils biros...
(whatever came to hand)
Sometimes
using the smaller underlying
smudged artwork to rub( when wet)
. randomly upon the others
to create
'spontaneous' effects
& also cutting out shapes
therefrom
that appeared to me
as something ie animals faces
or whatever.
Cooling off in falling months, approaching dusk.
Coordinated chill and quilting of snow, brusque.
Cooking lots of soup, beating down dough,
as the wind whoops on a weeping willow.
The sky blue sheets aired out on the clothesline.
Coordinates of beauty in her decline.
Cooties shots on the medical menu…sigh.
Cooperation of dirge, the woe-filled cry.
Co-occurence of life and absence of fog
on the handheld mirror, down by the bog.
Cookout of fried boughs and its vestment.
This particular parish was not a good investment.
Autumn’s turning down the soil - leaves
storm in turmoil, slowing down what it believes.
The coos of despair…her ring rolls off finger.
Her dreams of love no longer linger.
Cool when Autumn clashes with Winter
and the clash of letters are placed by printer.
The clouds are snow white, they get the scoop.
Doves cry and hover - eyes droop.
We’re having a heatwave
our clothes are all sweat-stained
Everyone’s dressed to the minimum
my board-shorts are all dri-wick fabric
and a bikini top hides my little secrets
How hot is it?
Standing still counts as cardio
Still, everyone is suffering beautifully
I’ve got a handheld fan that sprays mist
and getting some rewarding second glances
Those coming ashore from yachts
dressed in Missoni and Camilla couture
act like perspiration is a styling trick
but they’re casually hugging shade,
like vampires avoiding sun
If fashion is fantasy. Sweat is reality.
The heat is very democratic.
.
.
A song for this:
heat wave by Bing Crosby
.
youtu.be/lMwZ6LvY7NM
*Image of Lovers Night by Pinterest.
Tale of The Night Movers
Hail, a phantom moon
traversing its cloaked
chambered recesses
of her prevalent crown.
Unspool gently and host
minding eyes immersed
within your ethereal pull
exacting Cupid's pursuit
impresses dependably.
Slay suspicious initiatives
yond hints of their riddled
hearts pausing serenity
and tryst capers a fullness
until dawning climbs to a
whispering.
Anticipatory confidences
secure immature adoration,
gift a sense of a certain fling,
for shared planned proof that
sensorial alliance is immortal.
Abiding hearts, minds, and
souls and that its permanence
lingers in all three entities to
be truly entrusted versus all
hardships that dare.
Any challenge purposeth
distraction swayed to disrupt
sanctioned harmony and
impose their nightly fight and
an easy win over the weak.
Lovers supposed union is but
a temporal existence, and
Cupid's aim slumbered apiece,
held in stasis as hostages host
for thoughts to fester.
A mire of serendipity and wished
upon measures of advice, out
from this unlit pullback of the
unimaginative lost, but hail to
the victorious and glorious.
Righteous grit encountering the
opaque influences of damaging
desires to hoodwink the candid
that wore down night's ethical
battle and fortuitous claim.
Justified inevitableness outlasts
twilight's hold by conquering the
gloaming tripped-upon dawn's
call ends nightmarish corps to
collapse.
Cherubs reward a star's chariot
ascent who condones a handheld
coursing and are hereby blessed
with a kiss of permanence and a
dreamt descent.
2022 July 30
beauty is memorable —
a window with a view.
a sandy beach,
where you drop two red shoes.
where your slip slides
on rendezvous.
you release bare feet
that hide, under pale socks
into a starlit zenith,
under the nonjudgmental moon.
beauty is memorable,
on your wall of fame,
where smiles tame the workday,
with sultry tan and sunbright hair.
and your footprints are buried
in the hourglass sand.
beauty is memorable,
wrought with handheld bridges,
blue steeds of Aruba,
a shared crepe topped
with luscious whipped cream
and a strawberry kiss,
and night after night of frolic.
beauty is memorable,
in his relaxed, and her sexy eyes.
for beauty surely journeys home,
in renewed vows of happily ever after.
2/10/2018
I miss the electric hum of a landline.
Some long nights I could hear it listening to itself
as if plugged into several minds all at once.
It was sound without daylight,
night echo’s that lingered into the day.
The words were fragmented, but not garbled,
they were just degrading through space and time,
but all seemed so urgent to be heard
above the droning silence.
Smart phones, those handheld headstones,
so pockmarked with an un-nuanced gossip
that floats away from any precocity;
they lack the twilit conveyance of language,
the sense of passage and auditory peregrination.
Those old telephones had something else,
a kind of life beyond any address - a journeying
of oral acoustics.
There were always voices speaking
in a far background,
from a distant planet or from the past or the future?
I could hear them
as if they were communing through the conduits
of some invisible travelling machinery.
Sometimes it seemed that they were in my ears,
my mind, like a dead vocabulary
that only I could read upon the air,
words wanting to enter me, make me hear
the nearness of them,
on those occasions
I wondered if it was actually
my voice answering my onw thoughts,
calling me,
demanding I bear witness
to everything I was ignoring -
including myself.
The Art of a Dying Man
David J Walker
The dam was broken and
The man trying to save it
Worked alone
As we watched
through the lens
of an iPhone
hoping to capture
the moment of collapse
As the names of hero’s
have changed on plaques
of a media enriched society
Where watchers become stars
in the constellation of
the unintended casts of extras
Hoping for name recognition
in obscured credits as the
handheld video ends
I am the fireman
I am the cop
I am an opportunistic
photographer
The chronicler of
Interesting misery
I can be the medic with
A bandage for your
Sucking wounds
If you sing a death rattle
I will shine the light of
My iPhone to help you find
The way home
I will document your parting
Where it will be viewed
In the Wake of social media storm
Entitled the Art of a Dying Man
Divided droplets formed handheld mirth tames,
for they beheld Earth in their gentle fall,
like stars drop the night, all is heavens call,
know their named true, they'll climb make good their claims.
American Beauty Rose, blossoms art
exhaustive, and as there's none to question
thou hast finds that clear a room's impression,
thus, to heaven astir, shines through your heart.
Lily, my dearest, how befitting of
names of one who vigils cemeteries.
Thy reach of yourselves from commentaries,
'tis naught ours but be thine, think of thee, my love.
Thy tendril's secrets aire are more sublime
Forget-me-not thy scent hast taste of time.
Hail, the doorway keen on the known world ... theme wails attention,
time of roses' blooms cower ... usurped magentas, aloof maroons,
for the flight of the gossamers ... assume benefits of the whole.
Latial premise culture ... tastes upland and coastal regions,
a frequency of single-mindedness ... surrendering taught thoughts,
as the virginal breed ... practices gifts unerringly.
Motherly cling to the high order ... the lap of power,
Emperor Augustus's Agrippina ... hails a league lineage,
the first passed adoption papers ... history at two years of age.
Emperor Claudius handheld Lucious ... heir apparent,
timely obligations convene ... Praetorians and the Senate,
youth rules ... Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus
A singularity ventures ... shadows accomplish deeds,
airs cultural growth, diplomacy, trade ... and games of sporting chance,
distractions for feeble minds ... a mother, a wife, bled graven vows.
Minds of the destitute clamors ... affluence hushed from rears,
slaves dying daily ... entertained popularized its purposes,
at slave's expense, and Rome's aristocracy ... via taxation.
Rome burns for Nero's 'Golden House'... Christians blamed for flames,
rumors swapped clamors ... Emperor Galba aids Senator Vindex,
Christian deaths were wrongful ... Nero lost popular support.
Nero ruled known enemy ... condemned to death in absentia,
negatives fly ... as tyrannical, self-indulgent, and debauched,
he flees Rome ... 9 June AD 68, commits suicide.
Billowed in black by my schizophrenic ponderings, these personalities are somehow resolute.
Within a matrix of survival; they coincide.
Fractals of quanta and wavelengths that fall from grace, will soon depict a Homunculus face.
Spanning out into oblivion as it gestures it’s courtesy beneath the world sheet.
By Orch OR, my loyalties are reduced to inconceivable amounts of ones or zeros.
When they do reduce, why is it a woman's face I see him seeing?
He watches a holograph of her, looking with a handheld azimuth to turn its view.
Sleeping in a hole of shambles, I see them seeing myself see nothing, but I feel my hadron body shrill.
Shadows like carbon fiber polymers are threaded intraosseously, trimming my astro-man's shins and knuckles with dark armor.
He now stands fortified as a hominid of diamond; surrounded by a phoxonic shield.
He protects her in his holon cocoon of qualia; it cannot be computed by perturbation, heuristics, or algorithmic affronts.
All but to fight back a bad dream, one that could harm the face we saw him seeing.
For better or worse we shall remember the sentiment.
To record this exert of love, he wrote the whole thing down as I thought it up.
Doing right by the left side.
Before I turn the light on, I put his clothes on inside out and tags back.
As if by coincidence, it was an imperfectly perfect fit.