Long Hungrily Poems
Long Hungrily Poems. Below are the most popular long Hungrily by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hungrily poems by poem length and keyword.
The cat eyed the dog, warily
The dog licked his lips, hungrily
The cat backed away, tremulously
The dog edged forward, intimidatingly
The cat retreated faster, alarmedly
The dog zeroed in on her, aggressively
The cat let out a screech, panic-strickenly
The dog leaped for her throat, murderously
Let's pause this video clip, momentarily
And ask a couple questions, inquisitively
Why did the dog want to kill the cat, instinctively
And why didn't the cat beat a hastier retreat, curiously...
(Please click to restart the clip)
The dog paused in mid-air, hesitatingly
The cat sighed a little sigh, relievedly
The dog smiled a faint smile, sheepishly
The cat me-owed once, tentatively
The dog's smiled widened, perceptibly
The cat shed a tear, joyously
The dog hugged the cat, lovingly
The cat basked in his embrace, snuggly
Finis
May 09, 2019
I was maybe seven
when mixed with the crowd
joined a yearly procession
on foot to St Michael
Crossing brooks enchanting
colorful farms in flower
in less than three hours
reached mount St Michael
A festive band was playing
colorful stands were selling
with little friends I played
then joined the adults praying
At noon on grass all sat
hungrily eating bread
then scattering downhill left
in family groups or friends
Trembling heart and hands
discombobulated searched
for one that looked familiar
to lead me safely back
Like back to life I felt
still sitting on the grass
my aunt astonished said:
with us going back?
Once more without sleep
all dreams exhausted
Neurotransmitters on high alert
rekindling furious flames
that lap hungrily through mid-back to feet
Like a chippy chiseling wood on the lathe
I splinter and crack - screaming for regression
Just as a computer malfunctioning
I await time for reboot of my system
brief medical intervention -
some respite peace and solace
that in the whole of life
taken as one performance of the arts
it is but a musical interlude
short-lived in high anticipation of entr'acte
Terms used:-
chippy - a carpenter
solace - relief from emotional distress/source of comfort at a time
of sadness, grief or disappointment
interlude - short period of transition/break
entr'acte - between the acts
No dear
Make the date for the tea
Friday at three
For the moon will be
At the windows
At the wee hours
And it will be the full moons
We will pick up as much as we choose
With the scarlet spoon
Monday the sun is hot
No room to look at the blooms
Right and left a lot of the knots
No freedom to consume
The aroma of the kettle and teapot
And ample warmth
Fruitless will be the perfume
So hungrily sought
Make it on Friday, dear
I will have the bouquet
Wet with the dew
Under the shade of the brown cashew
Waiting Haikus
Under the moons
The globes of love
We will bring it down from above
Blend it with the doors to the stories
Of the blue breeze and white cheese
This Friday way
We two
The unbuttoned blue
Tuesdays we stay too much buttoned
Questioning and questioned
The ears of rice and wheat flattened
All the almonds dampened
No point to meet
With all the oceans discreet
Nice will be the bay
No bridle on Friday
We will make the crochet
As the full moons sway
Opening the dizzy doorway
To the interplay
Into the next day too
The lovely lingering blue
No other work to attend to
No socks no shoe
All brakes broken
In the Garden of Eden
Both Wednesday and Thursday
Too much to pay and repay
So busy with our purse
It is a rank commerce
No eyes to see the dove
Let alone the circle of love
That will shine far above
Beyond our reach
Far off from the beach
No stories to stitch together
Just the toxic work
The shoulder into the jerk
No time
My pen and your rhyme
Won’t chime
The Friday will come and open
The gates of the jasmine garden
No concern for the absolute tick tock
In the mirror the exposed peacock
Fulfillment of the golden wildfire
The hillocks loving the playing lyre
The next day is a holiday too
Followed by the Sunday hue
Here is a time of planting the tree
In the festival of the artery
On the happy Friday in the jasmine garden
The day of moons and green lemons
No full-stop
Just comma and colon
For the hundreds of flying herons
With the pink crayon
______________________________________
February 26, 2018
Friday feeling - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
Transmogrification into hideous golem like beast...
Seeks to lavish adoration,
especially after freshly deceased
cuz, upon yar flesh I will voraciously
devour thee asthma Christmas feast
mee haint not a cannibal,
cuz this humane anthropophagist
expresses love daintily, hungrily,
and with lips smacking and creased
devours thee charbroiled,
chargrilled, raw or greased.
The above worst case scenario if you
ignore serious warning
and interrupt my sleep
particularly during
rapid eye movement phase,
cuz vital to dream unconsciously deep
if left alone (meaning no awakening me
into foggy, groggy, and soggy state)
lest I manifest into a creep
more horrific (think)
by Dickens Uriah Heep.
Ordinarily mine Hyde bound diabolical
persona non grata
kept under wraps
dramatic malevolent manifestation
only appears only,
when requisite precious dream snaps
courtesy when some wise acre
foolish enough upon me noggin
doth drums, joyfully raps
itty in Blue knuckles (think drum),
cuz as An American in Paris
on permanent holiday courtesy lapse
of rhyme reason
(thank prefrontal lobotomy
to alleviate oppressive
anxiety linkedin with)
absence of necessary cerebral apps
induces predilection to relapse
into atavistic Geico caveman perhaps,
with courtesy bonafide frayed jockstraps
suddenly pops, crackles and snaps
in my body whereby sanity doth caps
eyes, that mashing monster aside,
ye ken count me mandate
fiend in Southeastern Pennsylvania
look no further then bleached lovely bones
formerly missus (sob...sob...sob...)
who thankfully no longer zaps.
Thus allowing, enabling,
and providing yours truly,
not ordinarily unruly
a bachelor Matthew Scott,
(but never known as Dani Boy) duly
available as coolie
cooking up house special wooly
mammoth and side order of tabouli.
Spilled gasoline smell and your view
Terrified - I can see from the metal cage.
How do water drops are kissing and flowing down
hanging around your blonde curls.
*
The thought, restlessness
sorrow, love, desperation ...
All that drills my skull and enters the brain.
Road, dream, tiredness, and fervor of yearning ...
I became a piece in the dragon's womb.
*
Crawling in the muddy universe
I'm rolling through the memories,
Hypnotized by your heels
as they leave the circle where I lie.
*
The tired rain is washing my consciousness
on the shore of a sleepy lake.
While through the bubbles of hope
love gets out the lake huge and slimy
and eats me hungrily and quickly
with the creaking tooth.
-----#-----
Quiet, the leaves drip from slender woody fingertips
as shadows cast spectral dreams that breath through misty lips.
In the deep the Sylvan rests against the hoary staff he grips
and feels the ancient magic flow between the rune filled tips.
Taken from a Willow tree on summer moon's eclipse
from gnarled knots, the life it gives, his body freely sips.
Across a knoll he slowly strolls like honey as it drips
as hungrily he eats a fruit and buries all the pips.
From which will grow new tender shoots and supple grassy whips
offering once more to him the sustenance he snips.
The world he knows mysterious and old, his life but an ellipse,
going round and round he trod the ground on his lonely trips.
When he meets the Mountain Lions he bows from bended hips
to show respect and fealty for their regal mien and kingships.
And too, the venerable and stately Oak respectfully he dips,
but as old friends, they laugh and smile with jokes and clever quips.
Evening comes through tired eyes as through the sky the sun rips
tearing through to rainbow hues in brushed on colored strips.
As the night exudes from day, the dark oozes like chocolate dips
in which the fairy, sylph and sprite flies, sings and skips.
But, at the end of each sullen day beneath sweet buds he slips
Folded in their tranquility and ever loving friendships.
05/15/2016
The uncomfortable chairs in the waiting room.
The doctor's silk tie that reflects the tubes of artificial lighting.
The endless vials of blood they draw from my baby's arm.
The area of her arm where the cancer chews hungrily beneath the skin leaving a trail of destruction.
The "PAST DUE" stamped on hospital bills.
Scrubs worn by nurses in the chemo department.
My lips after biting back sobs when her hair falls out in clumps.
My husband's hand when he releases mine for a minute because I'm squeezing too hard.
My eyes in the mirror after yet another sleepless night.
The world I live in is a crimson hell since my daughter was diagnosed with lymphoma.
Somebody suggested I write the tale using the correctly spelled words because my story (below here in the Homophone contest) is simply too distracting to understand with homophones. Hope you will take a peek!!
When Harry Met Terry
Once upon a time in a wood, a very nice prince named Harry
met in the mist, high on the bough of a tree, a fairy named Terry.
The fairy felt low, for he was weak, and he was in need of some meat.
He bawled, “Woe is me. I can’t even stand here on my own two feet!
My poor heart is breaking, and I’m in pain. The last time that I ate
was days ago. You see, I’m in a haze and do not feel so great.”
I perish and long for wine and ham. Even better would be lamb!
But I would settle for a piece of bread with some sweet berry jam.”
Prince Harry knew he had some mints, some Tic Tacs that were in the pair
of new red jeans he wore. He took them out and waved them in the air.
“Licorice too I have right here!” Prince Harry told the fairy.
“It’s not much, but please do eat. Later on, we’ll dine and make merry.”
Prince Harry placed the fairy Terry on his pale white horse.
Then away the royal with the fairy hastened on his homeward course.
All day long they rode and rode. When the fairy started to groan.
Suddenly, from the horse, both the man and fairy were thrown.
Hungrily, they paced beneath the setting sun and through the night.
They pressed on until morning. Harry’s residence came into sight.
Prince Harry’s wife had supper ready, and she’d made a pie.
From utter happiness, the fairy thought that he might die.
She heated up their food for them. They both had grown so pale!
She listened as the fairy Terry told his tragic tale. . .
of how he’d lost his way and, for food, had not one crumb
until her dear spouse rescued him. At last, his prince had come!
The number of us children growing up was eight.
Each Thursday night was special, for our Dad got paid,
and we would eagerly and hungrily await
his bringing Henry’s fries and burgers home. Hurray!
We weren’t allowed to pick and choose; we had to take
two burgers each with “everything” and one bag of fries.
While we grabbed our own allotment, happy to partake,
Jenny scraped off from her burgers -onions she despised!
Dori chewed so slowly, from her we all would steal.
The baby, Theadora, just sat there and played
with her food. I was strange and always made this deal:
Both my burgers for two brothers’ French fries I would trade.
And so the number of my French fries always came to three.
Even with no burgers, I loved each Thursday night.
for the Henry’s fast food and time with family.
Oh, to go back to those days with loved ones in my sight!
*Henry's Hamburgers was the name of a fast food place in my hometown
For Paula Swanson's "Traditions" Poetry Contest