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.
I know all outward beauties like purest roses wear,
And summer's brief warmth like eddy breath fleets;
Shiniest pearls do with piling age outlive their time,
And give way to sad eternity’s far gleaming sweets.
Tales of more glittering gems felled by time's scythe
Can’t and won’t amend my love-warped mind's twist,
That lauds you immune to swift clocks’ antics blithe,
Mightier than meddling night’s beauty-dimming gist.
Lover’s diction’s fantasy strings its eternizing tropes
That dub your eyes undying stars in a deathless sky;
Your coy smiles birth phoenix sparks that hardly die,
Indelible signal that real Love begets ageless hopes.
Infinite desire’s intense tics render your span longer
Than sudden death's shortened gloom and stronger;
Outwitting unfeeling graves’ opportunistic mischiefs,
Outfoxing timid decays and their love-thieving griefs.
Let's love as shiny suns soar higher over fogging clouds,
While knavish darkness dreams on in its veiling shrouds.
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.
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
Written: July 5th, 2026, for a contest sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
*****************
Line of inquiry:
“Of the fact we are alive, we are sure
All else scriptures say, may or may not be
So presence vibrant, heart pure and demure
As formless awareness we become free”
******************
Hagioscopic hymn to the Divine kernel
We keep God-search accessible,
yet the cosmos cleaves yield when we gaze —
a hagioscopic hush, an oculus of golden light
thrumming over the welkin as an ariose aria.
All else may fall asunder,
but the Divine remains the ductile, eternal nexus
where every archetype melts into exegesis,
where endogenous ardor swells to a plexus.
Call it aurora, call it elixir, call it Elysium —
the Source supervises every epoch,
collocating our chaos with its capacious calm,
turning our dismal nest into blithe, balmy rising joy.
We are peripatetic flâneurs,
panting through labyrinthine days,
beleaguered by ephemera, beset by fatuous fears,
yet happiness morphs only when we aurify the heart
and let the Divine’s mirific mettle press into our clay.
For without that empyreal embrocation,
we writhe in desuetude —
a ruinous simulacrum of ourselves,
gripped by gnawing doubts,
careening through the clamor and clangor of the world.
But with it —
with that svelte, sylphlike, shimmering connection —
even the stygian gloaming grows gossamer,
even weariness winnows into wistful felicity,
even our molten moiety of sorrow turns comfort.
So let the Divine be our vade mecum,
our velvet panacea, our veridical panoply of peace.
Let its sonorous ardor regale our spirits,
its mellifluous mercy inure our wounds,
its lapidary light aurify our days.
For happiness is not a clod of chance,
nor a knavish chimera,
but the salient, sacred truth:
we thrive only when we tether our hearts
to the empyrean wherewithal that made us.
And in that connection —
that luminous, living nexus —
we become blithely, buoyantly,
free.
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~~~.
In the vortex of a maelstrom, I was rudely thrown
drowning in turbulent waters for an error I bemoan,
a blunder of loving someone who chose to whittle
away at my heart until it became fragile and brittle
Bereft beyond the point of caring if I lived or died
My eyes were scarlet, burning from tears I'd cried
But they became transfixed, immutable on a fire stoked
for my normally tenuous demeanor had been provoked
I was a genteel lady, who demurely acquiesed to love
but it was time for me to throw down the gauntlet glove
I was chafed by what had been just an interlude for him,
an escapade, a mere dalliance, a rascally romantic whim
I drew a rough sketch; in likeness of my vagabond swain
an abstract portrait, in Picasso's style, the face of my bane
Black eyes were hollow, blind orbs that would never see
that his triflling peccadillo tryst was a brutal betrayal to me
The painting was delivered as twelve bells pealed midnight
I watched as he unfolded it, but carefully kept out of sight
A formidable opponent I had become to his knavish ways
By moonlight I saw his face turn pale; his eyes were glazed
* November 3, 2017*
Eight Word Challenge-5
Hosted by John Hamilton
8 Words required were: Brittle Immutable Formidable
Tenuous Interlude Sketch Bereft Demurely
I know that we're all tired of hearing
And sharing bad or knavish news about everywhere
About countless elections that were just and fair
We're absolutely sick and tired about sharing
Too many sad news about crime, corruption
Negative events, racism and discrimination
This is the end of the year. We want all crises
To be over, done. We want the pandemic to end
We're tired and frustrated about the messes
We want to have a better world. Now, we want to send
Solely good news to the world. We want to inspire
We want to see friendlier smiles, more gorgeous flowers
At home, not at funeral. We want to hear about lovers
Not about haters, criminals and liars who conspire
Incessantly. We abhor bad news, fake news, and dirty lies
We want the nonsense to cease and to see more genuine smiles
A new year, a new beginning, a novel dawn is quickly approaching
Hence, let's start fresh and acclimate our lives to the new spring.
Copyright © December 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
In the vortex of a maelstrom, I was rudely thrown
drowning in turbulent waters for an error I bemoan,
a blunder of loving someone who chose to whittle
away at my heart until it became fragile and brittle
Bereft beyond the point of caring if I lived or died
My eyes were scarlet, burning from tears I'd cried
But they became transfixed, immutable on a fire stoked
for my normally tenuous demeanor had been provoked
I was a genteel lady, who demurely acquiesced to love
but it was time for me to throw down the gauntlet glove
I was chaffed by what had been just an interlude for him,
an escapade, a mere dalliance, a rascally romantic whim
I drew a rough sketch; in likeness of my vagabond swain
an abstract portrait, in Picasso's style, the face of my bane
Black eyes were hollow, blind orbs that would never see
that his trifling peccadillo tryst was a brutal betrayal to me
The painting was delivered as twelve bells pealed midnight
I watched as he unwrapped it, but carefully kept out of sight
A formidable opponent I had become to his knavish ways
In the moonlight his face turned pale; his eyes were glazed
Surviving the Venal
by Odin Roark
As we peer into the future
As far as we dare see
There glides effortlessly down entitlement throats
The six o’clock cocktails of gin and vodka
While cups of water appease
Shrunken stomachs in desperation
As after dinner snifters of brandy
Flame amidst knavish whispers of next-day scheming
Prosperity’s throw-aways
Boil tea above dwindling Sterno
Identity’s loss struggles to stay warm
Evenings of silk and down covered comfort
Remain the usual
As cardboard insulation is adjusted
Making another night doable
For the other kind of usual
Tomorrow’s few who can make a difference
Seldom venture past their pitiful hubris
Their custom suits and handmade shoes
Grabbing news hour attention
While the needy languish
Through another empty-dish dinner hour
So goes Washington’s plague of indifference
That place where
Diseases are but for profit
Reality’s ravenous-cries fall on deaf ears
And legislative conscience continues making gestures
Wanting us to believe they’re human
Food stamps for subsistence
May never visit the Hill’s automatons of human representation
Yet we can hope that another kind of hunger for survival
Will ravage their psyche
Come re-election time
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©