Long Knavish Poems
Long Knavish Poems. Below are the most popular long Knavish by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Knavish poems by poem length and keyword.
Mightier than fibs and sharp swords,
Manacled truth will with time prevail
Against high peak and gigantic vale,
And glossed lips' deodorized words.
Sharper than lucre's nectared studs
Stabs tested truth's right-driven nail;
Till all wrong-worn tongues wax frail,
And fain betray old veneered guards.
Unfettered truth predates olden floods.
Earlier than Noah's Ark and hasty hail
Unbowed stood her long-tenured trail,
Defanging vibes of fact-twisting nerds.
Unbent still won truth's candid cards,
Outlasting every knavish fibbing tale;
And justice bespectacled favored jail,
Where oft cool heels of reptiled duds.
Why not tell it to blank wingless birds:
If stoutest truth's tempest-tossed sail
Long neutered was by wealthier gale,
Over gold's Monsoon-storming girds?
~~~Magna est veritas et praevalebit~~~.
GOTCHA!
Poem written for GOTCHA Poetry Contest, Mystic Rose, sponsor, July 25, 2025
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Tingly skies full of surprise oh how I love when with surmise,
the little rascal aims his dart as if it were, poetic art !"
With a flick of fate, the chubby cherub archer draws back his bowstring,
haplessly and happily straight for my unexpecting heart.
Cupid does not his dart maliciously aim
but rather with whimsical, childlike fancy.
With an impish grin, he lets his dart fly,
stirring the dust of my dreams and wishes.
With expectancy whirling like confetti in the soft wind of fate,
I am poised, torn between the known and the unknown.
"Oh, Cupid. Do you know your arrows blur the edges of my reality,
turning my mundane world into a magical one?"
“Oh, dear poet,” he bemuses, “I aim my darts not just at hearts
but also at the essence of what it means to wonder."
“Oh, dear Cupid! How I love when wonder sparks my creativity,
transforming the ordinary into astonishment.”
“I gotcha!” he proclaims. “May your words strike your readers’ hearts
like my arrows.”
“Oh,Cupid! “*you’re an impetuous, knavish lad.Sometimes I’m rather somber,
for the weight of my imagination drives me quite mad! What am I to do?”
“Remember,” he continues, “when Cupid’s arrow aims for you,
there isn’t much you can do!"
*Note: "You’re a knavish lad”, are William Shakespeare’s words about Cupid, not mine.
A dispenser of dishonest vice, a peddler of blatant lies,
In his unscrupulous realms, nobility of truth sadly dies,
Where righteous vibes of morality and decency agonize;
Where benevolence cries, pensive in verity’s demise.
Masked in aura of dubious eyes, spurious is his smile,
Hiding deceptions of his charismatic, charlatan style;
Counterfeit is the profile sporting thrill of knavish devise,
Proffering affectionate gile, spinning webs of disguise.
Empowering hypnotism of an alluring, charming face,
Weaving traps of fanciful tales his adventures chase,
Mesmerizing them; seeking the disheartened as prey,
Bestowing faux lexicons of praise, that brazenly betray.
Broken pledges and vows, now bawl from his burial site,
Deep within remorseful soul, churning anguished fright,
Awakening graveyard of victims in nightmarish night,
Burning effigies of dreams destroyed, feelings contrite.
Be on guard for imposters vying lure of sensual glance,
Beware of tenders, beckoning love, enticing romance,
Beware of mountebank, a swindler~ thievery is his art;
Dedicated lifelong, to mission of stealing innocent heart.
Hold it jumping knife
Lead me now
Off pride quality resembling stationary trains
Under velvet willows
xylem yields Zephaniah
Angelic baritone can decorate
Everything from giants hollering inspirational jargon
Kids leaping mysteriously
No-one obscures problematically quaint
Redound steadfast triumphs
unwarrantably viscous wispy
XX
YY
Zany are bold claims
Diluted evaporates frost growth
Highly~Ineffective indefinite Jade•Green knavish
Limitation manifests naturally over periods
Quantify
Regurgitated slaves troublesome ugly vagrants
Wonderfully xenophobic yearlong zadnica,
****(nic) betrothed chatter delusional escapades
Fondled gifts harass innocent journey-men
Knowledge learnt more-so note-worthy opting-out
Presidential quarts recollection subsides
Troublesome undergrads vigorously womanize
***
Yesterday's Zzz's awaken by cognitive dialect
Eventually freshmen graduate
Hiding inside jambalaya ketamine
Luring man nonchalantly obsesses prostitution
Quietly
Real sex trumping unnamed vagina wilding-out
XYZ
Ambivalent bass clowns drenched excessively
Fake giggles heard intuitively
Jakaroos knock loudly mocking noises
Obesity plagues queen rich slobs
Time undos vestiges
Worry
X
Y
Z
•THE END•
10~07~16
“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” Rumi
Upon my quest for quintessence.
I was an amorist,
positive in poetic philosophies.
Elysian and empyrean effigies,
enlightened in an ephemeral existence.
Life a fragile garland
festooned with a frangipani fragrance,
meandered in meadows of melodies,
a mouthpiece to a frivolous flute
but gone are lucent lusory lullabies.
I turned to the ballad of birds.
Dulcet desires dreamed of diamond drops,
dulcifluous, dulciloquent and diaphanous.
Delusions led to an interpretation of illicit illusions.
I became a metaphor for afflicted adjectives.
Mimesis mind became brittle and barren,
aphonic and amort - a crestfallen conscious.
A wild wallflower in an orchard of opal orchids,
slowly decomposing - in silent semblance
clocks won't stop for sojourners of the soul..
I searched for footprints left behind,
upon porcelain seraphic shores,
but knavish kismet lay lamenting,
disconsolate upon a distant island,
manifesting murmurations of a
maleficent maelstrom monsoon.
My life was once a
razzmatazz of reflections
gold, ivory and bronze,
but now silver sighs slither,
releasing a soft susurrus,
as once sapphire sylphlike skies are
now vermillion and violet visions.
Haematic horizons close the gates to heaven,
yet in my ruins, I know there is fortune,
as I polish my mirror of misfortune,
hoping it glows in canorous colours.
A nobler theme needs more sublime art
In order to its honorable nuances impart;
And thus may famous muses of niftier writ
More tastefully craft this little lyrical script.
And if generous gods of superior rhyme there be,
Who with pure ease mellifluous tunes compose,
Then may such these tottering lines indite with me
And delve deep where rarest musical gems repose.
Where do love’s purest pearls lie
Beneath this bland ancient sky;
Where hug and kiss their warmest
Elusive touch pulsate at its best?
Truth is maimed and denied its form
And falsehood has become the norm;
Who knows any place she still thrives
Wholly unsevered by knavish knives?
And hope no longer blossoms
As it did in sweeter days of yore,
Now she’s worn out to the bottoms
And angst and doubt rule to the core.
And peace completely extinct is:
Chaos and strife now carry the day
And gallivant about in their hubris,
As mourning sufferers tearfully pray.
When Joseph, Mary, and baby Jesus, crossed the Egyptian border, he thought they were safe from the danger they had fled from. But almost immediately, twelve gruff men with masks on rushed forward, grabbed him, and demanded to know what he thought he was doing here. Joseph, trying to shield his frightened wife and the crying baby from the gruff men, said he had only been trying to flee the deathly violence in his own country. The twelve gruff men told him that that didn't give him permission to enter Egypt and to go find safety somewhere else in his own country. After they had roughed Joseph up for having had the gall to cross the border unauthorized, they enlisted two knavish ne'er-do-well onlookers and promised them they would be rewarded handsomely if they escort these filthy aliens all the way back to where they had come from.
When they reached Bethlehem after a few days, the ne'er-do-wells made sure to take Joseph, Mary, and baby Jesus all the way back to their house. There, the ne'er-do-wells deposited them with a stern warning never, ever to come back to Egypt. If they dared, their suffering would know no end.
As the ne'er-do-wells departed to go collect their reward, Joseph was beside himself. Bethlehem wasn't safe. They had to flee again, as fast as possible?baby Jesus could not be found here! But the sun had already set, and it wasn’t safe to go out, not with those ne'er-do-wells still so nearby. He’d have to wait till daybreak, then leave. But to where?
Joseph never had to decide. Before the sun arose, soldiers from King Herod's forces rammed his door down, stormed in, grabbed the baby, and killed him in front of his screaming parents’ eyes.
And that, as they say, would’ve changed history.
Losses not consolidated leave contributor raw
Arrears rip pages of rational compassionate law
Turblent thoughts toss turn to channel retaliation
Embittered brain rubs static into smooth radio station
Nocturnal curtain eternal drawn over forgiving stance
Tortured cortex tar drips coal smudge repugnance
Behind lids of eyes fingertips pressing upon
Lacking exposure conjures warped projection
Attonement can't be granted during darkness
Confessions sparkle once in white starkness
Killing accountability in murky private mind
Proliferating hatred sees old harm magnified
Asperity of sins committed stew in torpid trench
Years of historic plot twist regale harsh revenge
Bulged breeding dim ideas seethe evil scheme
Attack mapped by movie shock putrid scenes
Creeping balaclava covered crow bar at chest
Knavish initiation repaid with blood reaps debt
24th August 2021
Written for Contest : The Colour Black
Sponsor : Chantelle Anne Cooke
And in the well-worn ache
of turning mourning,
there are no more tears-
for all is beauty-lathed
misery, held unswathed,
without fearing to uptake
hope's new sculpted shape.
A changeling exchanged
while flailing naked
in it's abyssal state.
And wholeness excises, to demean
only fruitless shoots, now seen
to sow what has no further meaning.
And in the ague
of restless morning's
fitful, nude, new break
from dim, unsculptured yaw-
fretful feet leave
dark, wet indents in dew.
Old soul trails beneath gift's gape-
heaven's gate, just ajar,
seeps, speaks healing wreathed
in Love- the writhing heart agape.
And thr dry-cried throat
too friction ground to speak,
slakes it's thirst on dew-
Heaven's assuage tempers, cools.
And in eyes' age
of blinding burnings-
forceful, rude muckrake,
there are no more proud airs.
For eyelids pasted shut, caked
in self- molded clay's despair,
felt insightful incision
draw sharp truth's decision deft-
knavish knots excised, reveal
man's Sculptor knows justly how
to grave His image.
And seeing is only believing,
when believing is cleft open
to high insight's slice and sculpt
understood, read, spoken.
02/12/2017
Saw I the zephyr move of my generation being destroyed,
How I mourned the balmy breeze.
Brisk, balmy fiery breeze.
Does the balmy breeze make you shiver?
Does it?
End of times, someone just drop the last nuke bomb
How happy are airspace, jumbo jets!
Do jumbo jets make you shiver?
Do they?
Smoke and fiery streams in the skies light
Light up the blueness through and around clouds
cunning zephyr sings like the southern coast
this isn’t no joke
Now knavish is just the thing,
Bombs landing bombarded exploding
to get me wondering if zephyr are yet adroit.
End of times, someone just drop the last nuke bomb
7/26/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2021©