Long Hoofed Poems
Long Hoofed Poems. Below are the most popular long Hoofed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hoofed poems by poem length and keyword.
Vocabulist nonalcoholic punchdrunk stupor January 1st, 2020
Unlike the vast population swath,
with painful hangover
average celebrant merely
doth confusedly blink,
who devoutly pledge
new year resolution
to give up drink
immediately fall off wagon
as he/she eagerly downs
shot after fermented shot
while forearms link
with family, friends,
strangers, et cetera
and immediately rethink
alcoholics anonymous pledge
gamely nod and playful wink.
Yours truly (me) never found
wasted, soused, besotted,
et cetera alone
and/or with round
of best buddies real,
and/or imaginary
nor got stone drunk crowned,
(cuz never did I make
friends - no lie),
plus never felt compunction
to quaff hard inebriant
(think booze hound)
life as extremely gawky introvert
(think long haired
pencil necked geek)
preferred company of books
with cute button nose bound
between pages, this theme
I could expound
till cows come home to roost
after bovines well rested
from their sound
sleep unready and unwilling
to confront battleground
(think slaughterhouse five),
thus beef rendered me, we clowned
and hoofed up memories
promising each other pound
for pound, we would stand our ground
never freeload, mooch, sponge...
nor EVER succumb to the bottle
no matter how hardbound,
especially when attaining rough-age
older not necessarily wiser
if necessary resorting and astound
ding farmer in the dell
to Diet of Worms smellbound
while reenacting Holy
Roman Empire called
back in the hay day -1521
courtesy Emperor Charles V
offering sobering admission
lips ne'er taste amber and/or clear
liquids of the gods, no matter
believe me you reader hopefully
aforesaid confession doth not dumbfound.
Grant me pancakes trolleys
Rocket-fueled swingsets
Marmalade mountains
with high-crusting cream.
Seattle strings its polite passers
Among misting choirs of clouds,
So begging I go for dixie cups of chili
Steaming block by block, as a harsh July
Has every fourth day blue.
I wish for weather with wiggling hues
of pinks, rouge, and mauve,
Landscaped with blazeberries, lazer lemons, and fudge.
Fudge, fudge, for all with small children,
Young puppies, and dwarfed camels,
So we can ride slow, strong, and merry
in bliss-hoofed patterns.
My final wish of this corrugated ten,
Is to speak of such long tales, once rested and spent
Along the shores of our Lord, at the edge of these dreams.
"The Circe Effect" (Part 1)
Circe, Goddess of magic, nymph, witch, bold enchantress
daughter of Helios, Sun God, her father, can you imagine? ...
let me paint you further, the tree of this wacked-out family canvas -
daughter of Perse, her mother, wild Oceanid Nymph, spawned not on landmass,
but in the vast deep blue deep.
Aeetes, her brother hung tight to his Fleece
and Pasiphaë, her sister, given in marriage to King Minos of Crete,
had a fling with a monstrous White Bull,
a gift from Poseidon, ain't that so sweet?
she bore a bastard child, the Monataur with a ring in his nose,
horns and hoofed feet.
Now there was a family of total dysfunction
and Circe, poor dear, betrayed for remaining herself,
remaining non-function
was banished to Aeaea for murdering her husband
the Prince of Colchis.
There on Aeaea, as revenge, Circe drew out her magic wand - not a sword,
transmuted her enemies, all those who offended her into wild beasts,
where they were left to circle her mansion and roam to eat swill as their feast.
Docile not dangerous, drugged and delerious,
these beasts never gored -
they were fawned on by all newcomers, who were simply just curious,
never bored.
These entranced beasts lured newcomers to our girl Circe
with a woof and purr.
Enter Circe, quite disturbed, in a logical kind of way.
“More pets for me!”, she thought, “they will never stray”.
These lonely, adventurous vagabonds who ventured into her lair,
well, she showered them with all her incantations, but they never heard
her words of Love ever there –
Circe would finally reveal who she truly was,
for you see by now all that pain, all that hurt
had converted our dear old Circe into a siren
otherworldly, deadly lethal, mysterious, re-birthed;
all that ventured into her Kingdom now were
captivated by her spells and
then promptly, with a wave of her wand,
transfigured forevermore
as creatures,
of her Elysian Fields interred.
(Lovejoy-Burton/ Dec 2017)
Gallimaufry
Your sandals make a strange mixing sound,
As we step together down this shadowy path,
Past the innumerable tufts of sprygen weed,
Where old farmers once hoofed to the music
Of the Elkhorns, and the Spitters.
We will soon eat from their generous platters,
Abandoned in the ice houses south of Belchork.
Piled high with sugared meats and bitter olives.
We will sit in plush lacquered chairs there,
Chairs of sandlewood, and mystic topaz.
We will be staring into each other’s eyes,
Globular orbs of azure fascinations,
Seeking unspoken permission to stare yet more,
But as an encore, at a pair of different eyes.
We will embrace behind sheer curtains of lapis lazuli,
Inside the vestibule with lotioned legs dangling.
We will move in infinite slowness,
We will seek the absolute devotions,
Of the shadow dances there.
We will listen to the singing sirenic voices
Of the Elkhorns and the Spitters,
Beckoning us with their spiral gyrations,
As sparkling mineral water is shared in goblets,
Encrusted with peridot and citrin.
We will at last find profound discovery,
Concealed within their mad enticings.
Proceed quietly, shh! Your sandals are noisy,
As we step together down this shadowy path,
Past the ice houses at Belchork,
Our lives and our consenting atoms
Enmeshed and entwined forever, with
The innumerable tufts of sprygen weed.
Cloven hoofed I am striding across sanctuaries lands
Not what was expected in their sanctimonious plans
Have I ever existed or am I a figment of their imagination
Or am I simply more perfect which angers their frustration
Me, I'm cloven hoofed and one thrown against their black
Is it I whom lacks belief or am I an excuse for their lack
But it's always me that's ostracised, or do I actually exist
Do you really know who I am to continually persist
Good or bad, black or white, like left and right we're twinned
Hey, let's open our eyes and smell the air, who has really sinned
We mint our saints in neon now,
Their cheekbones cut from screens and static,
Golden calves with fiber-optic veins,
Hoofed in convenience and applause.
They learn to glow before they live,
Learn to bleed without a wound.
Once, holiness arrived on fire—
A thorned voice cracking the ceiling of the skull.
Now it trickles through notifications,
Thin as milk diluted with promotion.
Even martyrs have brand managers.
Even wounds wear makeup.
I kneel before the altar of updates,
My thumbs in constant prayer,
Scrolling for a sign that still has teeth.
Every miracle is sponsored.
Every resurrection comes with terms,
Small print stitched into the shroud.
The dead are louder than the living.
We canonize in real time—
A tragedy, a candle, a trending hymn,
Then on to the next immaculate disaster.
Grief has learned to multitask.
Ash is archived.
Our saints no longer starve in deserts—
They starve in crowded rooms,
Feed on echoes, likes, the clean white crack
Of being witnessed without being known.
Their halos flicker in algorithmic weather,
Shorted by irrelevance.
I want the old ferocity back—
The kind that sears a name into bone,
That does not vanish after thirty days
Like an unrenewed subscription to sorrow.
I want a holiness that indicts me,
Not the soft-focus mercy of forgetting.
We write our sacred lives in disappearing ink,
Hagiographies that refresh and vanish—
Lives reduced to captions under flame.
We are all relics in plastic cases,
Handled without touch,
Venerated without trembling.
And God—if you are still here—
You must be exhausted by our mirrors,
By this choir of self-lit saints
Singing through glass.
Even you, I think, would crave
One unrecorded miracle.
She walked into a crowded room
Trying to find her seat
Finally, she saw her name
Occupied by a woman with hoofed feet
When she stated TRUTH
She was met with unmovable resistance
So she found a seat in the back
Where servants flow with assistance
...to LOVE
She was sad, at first
For the condescension and theft
If it wasn't for the attention of the HOST
She would have quietly left
Roses and a note of admiration
Thrilled her heart with assurance
That her seat is not among the famed
Nor with those who proudly purchased FIRE INSURANCE
Her seat is secure without threat
Because it is in the courtroom of GRACE
Where she stands in WORD
Before every oppositional face
...to LOVE
LOVE does NOT demand its on way
Written by Trudy Shcrader on 06-23-2023
'Cat's Cradle's' a string game, --forty inches
enables a noose. Fastened end, handles
it's stable. Weave string through finger-pinches
finagles new patterns that'll form like, 'Candles.'
'Soldier's Bed' is another fine heartburn,
bolder threads perfect, designer fashion,
shoulders had carried the full weight in turn.
Old sage said, "Time waits for none," new passion.
'The Manger' is the fourth well-known styling,
form major curves, though new sorts of concerns,
the nature, be wrong for Christ's smiling,
become fainter, --drinking trough, hoofed beast yearns.
Hand strings, a challenge that'll be quite scheming
that springs unexpected hurdles, loopers
then straying's toward taxing twist-seaming
planned strips; string game for two-handed troopers.
Precious Baby Boy was slumbering,
In a manger once upon a time,
Adored by His parents, life sublime.
Soft-hoofed camels came lumbering, following a sign.
Three spiritual wisemen arrived,
Excited, though traveled so far,
Faith brought them to this humble stable,
Following a vibrant star,
They were welcomed in by the young family.
Where God’s own tiny Son was slumbering.
Words were unspoken, reverence felt all around
The King’s birth, was so mystically humbling.
Christian’s precious Baby, in heaven these days,
Listening to our prayers, smiling at our successes,
Sending us ideas, listening to our praise,
Inspiring us with hope, to help clean up our messes.
Our Precious Baby, earth Angel, although on earth, unseen,
Felt spiritually by those, who believe in the wondrous King.
I've spanned these banks for many years,
made evident in the rusty tin adorning my roof
My sides are scarred , colors been stripped
from angry storms through hundreds of seasons.
My river bed ran dry back in late October
then Winter snows frosted my planks
but I was still fit for anyone crossing over
from one side to the other of the Kanawha River.
Come Spring, rushing water will flow under me
splashing over rocks as it rushes to the sea.
Bird droppings will build along each window sill
when nest-building robins arrive in flocks.
People walk across my wooden floor
some hesitate before taking each step
for my trusses tend to creak now and then
and I swell in places; curses of growing old.
I've been crossed by deer, hoofed by cows,
wheeled over by bicycle's and horse-drawn buggies.
They were all kinder than the smelly fumes spread
by those disrespectful autos that never slow down.
My weathered brows face North and South
making me a tunnel for bold Nor'easters
that swiftly tear through me and chip my paint.
I like to think it enhances my pastoral character.
I might be 'rickety,' but if you call me 'shabby'
that rumbling you hear will be me grumbling.
I'm proud of the state I'm in, physically sound
and geographically, two miles outside of town.
As long as I can stand on my supporting piers
I'll relive memories made beneath my roof.
A covered bridge spans more than the waters
of the gentle river where life flows free beneath me.
August 25, 2017