Long Harkens Poems
Long Harkens Poems. Below are the most popular long Harkens by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Harkens poems by poem length and keyword.
(Me slippery fingers slither,
slip and slide splashing ala
Jackson Pollock), sans slap
dash experimental, swiftly
tailored and harried writing
style, yes on par with purging,
spewing, venting...unexpurgated,
unexpressed, unexplained...
words, which this Engelbert
Humperdinck singer/songwriter,
(whose name inexplicably popped
into the mind of this Dadaist)
offers "FAKE" apology for any
self inflicted, or sadomasochistic
flagellated cranial contusions
out of utter futility to make sense
regarding following gobbledygook!
GOOD LUCK!
Mine groovy palmar flexion creases
forever moistened by porous size
damn leaking levees provoking deluge
outranking Biblical flood - handy history
(in miniature) replete with Ark keel
logical artifacts discovered by hall n
oats marked wainwright - about 10 stone and
5 pound huckster, circa Fin de siècle,
when callous ten hooks (calisthenics,
eh) caught without Noah shadow of a
doubt proof positive by Matthew Scott,
(amat sure his surname) linkedin to storied
testament rivalling epic of Gilgamesh,
nee the entire spoilers alerts since
dawn of civilization writ small impossible
mission to decipher indelibly etched,
(what appear as Egyptian hieroglyphics),
methinks his perspiration contains
preservative agent, (a natural formaldehyde
like substance) generated nsync to maintain
eternal youthfulness, which stumps
medical community, and earned him
hashtagged "hotmail" (eagerly sought
after human commodity), a blessing
and curse palms plagued with chronic
wetness, yet lines (little flushed streams
of consciousness) rowed by itty bitty
teensy weensy merry daydreamers harkens
back when life held faint promise for
scattered (contra) bands of bipedal
hominids fiercely competing with trumpeting
(Taj Mahal sized) beasts (donned tousled
windswept hirsute trademark) Euclid
heir'm barreling along barren steppes
all around the one straggly mulberry bush,
where one pensive monkey (protohuman)
chased the weasel all around the world wide web.
Aye, what a revolution in red and orange against the
venom of society and culture
With the flowers of right palm though a gesture of dance
in fact covers her tears
A story of blue tension and deep emotion in red flamenco
so flamboyantly executes the dancer
The crimson movement of the lyrical arms and torso
in sync with the guitar is awesome
Unique euphoria of exuberance in the swirl of a female figure
so provocative
What a dancing dream doing up the drawings of
the body on the fly
What a message of moons in mounds you convey
through the crafty curves
And each passing passion pulsates from prose to
poetry of muscles and bones
Eros encouraging us to transcend ourselves through
the journey of desire like a fountain
From brownish black towards the orange flames
on the comely conical mountains
And the warmly amber valley as it mingles with the
flames from the dancing spark
Blackens darkens and then harkens at joyous response
of mesmerized connoisseurs
Deepens the dense dance still further by generating
romantic proposition in her gestures
Unstoppable time hypnotized to stop for a moment to
stand and see how infinity can dance
Time itself in much ado on the long neck of
reddening movement
Aye, you dancing fire spreading your oranges everywhere
from Andalusia to Madrid
And then all over the globe amazing you me and all
in modern style of elegant gestures
Sliding the shoulder blades down the back and thus
the chest held proudly
Inviting inquisitive attention to read the poems
up to the chin and down the tall back
Closing the eye for a few seconds we see in awe our fertile
dear earth in a dance of rebellion
The earthy and raw in a fascinating gesture of life
we do need to feel so much
That while in the midst of viewing what you interpret
we too get merged in the dancing colour
Aha! What a phenomenon
____________________________________________________
September 23, 2017
For the contest:Poems that paint a picture 3
Hosted by: Silent One
First Love’s Indelible Memory Pure
Deep in my memory remains a pure vision of a first love,
long-forgotten—now conjured up as a present-day image.
This rare, soulful reflection harkens back to another time
long ago to a period of discovery and youthful innocence.
The slow and perpetual ravages of time—dim and affect now
these memories except those replete with passion and emotion.
Other images also enter my mind of things that might have been,
and of things that could have been, but in the end—never were.
Perhaps like many others, very seldom do I ever dwell on such
memories buried deeply in my mind and spiritual consciousness.
With such memories buried so deeply, also come those moments
of inexplicable pain, confusion, and an aching sense of real loss.
But, alas, as I awaken from this image-laden daydream of the past,
I realize the different path and direction I took was the right one.
If there be a lesson to all of this, it is to always know yourself, and
to never be afraid of what love’s pain my bring your way in life.
You can overcome it especially when you realize the role that fate
and destiny play in this whole process as you mature and move on.
The past ghosts of love’s pain are just that, they lie in the past, and in
the past as they should remain as you seek real true love in your life.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
December 3, 2018 (Couplet)
It is not my silence that harkens your thought
it only enhances demanding desires
a whirlwind stoking of latent fires
manifesting in the mind at rest
bolts of lightning
ilumini
where colours explode
sparking the dark
painting an elegant sky
kissing of the rivers
not long for dry
violet to green
sails full mast
waves pounding
pushing, pulling
pondering
moments left at sea
I see
blue
in rose's stubborn petals
barking back at the wind
bending her ear
to the echo of spring
when she shall bloom
full flower
exposed
naked to her sun
and her scent
seducing the one who wanders her grounds
unlock the rusted gates of heaven
fill out the prophecy of man
dry off those feathers and fly
for above you can see clearly
beauty
so natural, so free
I awaken; the darkened skies my alarm clock
I reek of whiskey, scotch and pastis
Tumbling out of bed, I reach for a cigarette
The dusk harkens as I rise to ply my trade
I am embodied inside a one room flat
The nightlife and the ladies both coming to life
Out the window I see the windmill so famous in red
Ladies with offers, men with drinks, the recipe for lust
I am the mime of the Moulin Rouge
I ready myself with my white painted face
Tonight another performance or so it seems
I shall juggle my knifes, with my many sad faces
Up up up in the air, one, two, three
Knifes in a whirlwind of iconic display
Around and around like the Moulin Rouge
I perform, toss and catch to applause
My sad face bows in graceful acknowledgement
As they toss their lose coins my way
If they see fit to fill my container of misery
I make for them my spectacular encore
I take a knife, a long black sharp blade
Tossed 12 feet in the air, dancing its way back down
As it slices the stem of a red rose in my hand
I now hand a pretty girl a cut rose
The ladies of the evening smile
They see I too traded romance for coin
How sad it is, this Moulin Rouge of dreams
Eleven more roses, and I shall earn my keep
Or so the ladies in red believe
I, on the other hand, will be changing the last act
I am tired of rent and being rented and rented cloth
I shall perform the ultimate act finale ce soir
Selecting the sharpest set of long fine knifes
Lighting them with orange flame, the juggling act begins
My audience enthralled, once again
Wondering maybe does he ever miss?
I never miss, I never shall, this is a certainty
The knifes a glow in fire, lighting the nighttime sky,
Tossed high, I lie down fast, tossed a rose in the air
A Knife as usual cut the rose stem
One, two, three, the knifes enter my heart
The blood will warm the falling rose
As it gently falls upon my silent chest
I die with a smile, yes my final act a success
The rose so tender upon my breast
Breathless all, Gay Paris has died once more
I never miss
Yet, I miss you
(presumably still alive
predicated on rumored sightings dive
ving fast as blazing saddles,
her blitzkrieg,
nothing but a blurry beehive.)
Swifter than Usain
(lightening) Bolt
Eden Liat
(thine eldest daughter,
a mixed hybrid breed
greyhound and whippet)
leaves in the dust
topnotch any racehorse
prompting speculation,
she harkens, and begat
from a long line,
sans award
(at trough feed ding),
many a cooly
winning super naturally
infused awk worded Colt
surpassing (with a flash,
plus even sub track ting
considerable handi
capped add halt
ting delay), thine
prestigious, princess,
and prodigious exalt
ting marathon running
smart lee zipping
as a whip lash heiress,
thru no fault
in the stars
of her astrological designs
oft times humbly declines
adulation, benediction, dedication
and deferentially finds
reasons amazingly, gracefully,
and mannerly deflects
self imposed grueling practices,
that she quickly grinds
into pulverized powder,
any high top custom made
high tech lines
brand name
threadbare sneakers saved
with countless
trophies that aligns
storied (and stuffed
animal bedecked)
bookshelf, even gag
me with a spoon
humor tinged competitions,
faux rotten tum ate oh
(John Heinz)
seeded "ketchup with me"
hash-tag game
opened to all kinds
of village people, including
some barenaked ladies,
where flashy Mainliners
dressed to the nines
(essentially for sound
garden variety public,
who generally favor squash),
that crop up during
Indian Summer salad days
punctuates the warm air,
where one after
another lover doth appear
oak kay embracing ephemeral
pseudo sappy romance
spine tingling
as sharp needling pines.
The hour passed midnight harkens
with dying star glow twinkling in the darkness
and the moon is a crescent clouded by the wind
I'll say my last goodbye to you.
The years were straining
hanging on the next escape
with hearts broken
and nothing left to say.
No magic pill or healing concern
soothes the sheltered burns
and two love-torn souls gasp
at the anguish we unlashed.
So let the children sleep
our spent dreams have reached their peak
and neither you nor I can find
the effort in forgiveness and its rewind.
I'll slip away quietly
in the shadows of this night
this is my last goodbye
our final fight.
Courtesy handy dandy
palmar hyperhidrosis
impossible mission to defeat
except poe wet tickly
even courtesy drysol.
(Me slippery fingers slither,
slip and slide splashing ala
Jackson Pollock), sans slap
dash experimental, swiftly
tailored and harried writing
style, yes on par with purging,
spewing, venting...unexpurgated,
unexpressed, unexplained...
words, which this Engelbert
Humperdinck singer/songwriter,
(whose name inexplicably popped
into the mind of this Dadaist)
offers "FAKE" apology for any
self inflicted, or sadomasochistic
flagellated cranial contusions
out of utter futility to make sense
regarding following gobbledygook!
GOOD LUCK!
Mine groovy palmar flexion creases
forever moistened by porous size
damn leaking levees provoking deluge
outranking Biblical flood - handy history
(in miniature) replete with Ark keel
logical artifacts discovered by hall n
oats marked wainwright - about 10 stone and
5 pound huckster, circa Fin de siècle,
when callous ten hooks (calisthenics,
eh) caught without Noah shadow of a
doubt proof positive by Matthew Scott,
(amat sure his surname) linkedin to storied
testament rivalling epic of Gilgamesh,
nee the entire spoilers alerts since
dawn of civilization writ small impossible
mission to decipher indelibly etched,
(what appear as Egyptian hieroglyphics),
methinks his perspiration contains
preservative agent, (a natural formaldehyde
like substance) generated nsync to maintain
eternal youthfulness, which stumps
medical community, and earned him
hashtagged "hotmail" (eagerly sought
after human commodity), a blessing
and curse palms plagued with chronic
wetness, yet lines (little flushed streams
of consciousness) rowed by itty bitty
teensy weensy merry daydreamers harkens
back when life held faint promise for
scattered (contra) bands of bipedal
hominids fiercely competing with trumpeting
(Taj Mahal sized) beasts (donned tousled
windswept hirsute trademark) Euclid
heir'm barreling along barren steppes
all around the one straggly mulberry bush,
where one pensive monkey (protohuman)
chased the weasel all around the world wide web.
Rags To Threadbare Tatters...
(a true “FAKE” story
how Mein Kampf - chill as hoary
frost – and totaling lacking glory.)
A woeful disgraceful
cautionary tale stitched
from the barest thread
harkens back half life
of yours truly
comprising a few decades
in the pluperfect past,
when this husband newlywed
living hand to mouth,
when thy wife and me
occupied mine boyhood abode
sharing one kid size bed,
though dwelling under
same roof as parents,
this "pariah" did dread,
cuz prior to getting married
most every day
found me loathing mandates,
yet never fled
duet hoo bing
cowardly, yours truly
blithely endured pa
rant till fulminations,
and litany of"hateful"
broadsides at my head
minor misfortune, sans scant
details barely one
measly paragraph
tenuously stretched,
thus (with all manner
of dogspeed, I fetched
kvetched against restricted
poetic licensed finesse)
to complete
at least one
page (OpenOffice)
word document spread
attempting to convey penury,
but nonetheless I
consider meself
if nothing else
blue tiff lee well red
irrelevant to stand in good stead,
and pertaining to
profession of thespian,
never found me professionally
acting out a scene
neither did I glean,
nor memorized
scripts, thy counter
with applying literary mien
super tramp ping cheap tricks
to convince skeptical readers
"Quod Erat Demonstrandum"
just show up on opening night
when mine break
out character lean
on words since being "green"
behind ears of corn lean
refulgent klieg lights
will shine a light
asthma pantomime
dramatics mean
business and take
thumb page from playbook
portray me as
superb drag queen
when "lights", "camera,"
and "action" called
debut appearance
with stellar broadcasts
in every magazine!
FLAWLESS? .................OR FLAWED?
He scoffs at those who must wear glasses
When they check his eyes, he always passes
He can read his book when it is very close
And yet can see so far, that he’ll puff and boast
No spec’s for him, NOPE ! He’ll never need 'em
Those perfect eyes, he’s quite proud of them
They say each one is twenty/twenty
His vision exceeds his age group, plenty!
He brags, and spouts that he can see.....
his neighbor’s flaws across the street
~
But sadly, what he does not see
What are beautiful things to you and me
He only sees when rain clouds darken
He cannot see that springtime harkens
He cannot see beyond the dark
Where beauty lies among the stars
Or dew upon the morning rose
He'll only see where weeds have grown
When harvest moon is on the hill.....
he'll watch TV, then take a pill
The things we see, with eyes, aren’t nearly
a gift if hearts can’t see them clearly
~ ~
For the "Flaw and Flawless", contest by Skat