Long Kneads Poems
Long Kneads Poems. Below are the most popular long Kneads by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Kneads poems by poem length and keyword.
rushes now the spill of feet
a lunar festival right nto moonlight
skirts flaring, hats flipping
as silhouettes swagger with desire
bosoms advancing retracting
against tunes from guitars and tambourine
slay this fiesta with quickening of heels
an extravaganza which shrieks
in the thrill of music
refined by the ecstasy reeled by
tiptoes midway...the exchanges
arm for arm as ladies and men
seal a choreography made only
to.last on this evening, lusty and divine!
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take me to primitive times
when after bouquets and incense spray the air,
a dance unknowing rigid choreography
pulsates to inner throbs of my body
soaking the nectar of soil beneath my feet,
then to dive among flickers of heat, to drape
a world circling far across stars without
glass nor walls... till all but percussion tempos
inhale the floats inside my lungs, my flesh.
Arms open all cages of birds winging
past trees, hips shedding butterfly threads
floating on sounds of grass waves and
stone kneads ...
how wild, how tender
and unrestrained my child’s spirit.
Somewhere, Prapto whispers, “listen
to heart’s movement; break your head”,
till my whole body connects to the fragrance
of my inner breath, spicy and pungent...
like an odyssey of primitive spins
known only by my soul willing
for a movement... the invisible cloth of dance.
--------
*Prapto is the proponent of free body movement,
a distinguished guru from Java, Indonesia
*Inner body movement-dance connects me
with nature, life , and self... this i enjoy!
In the Year 2012 Contest: Carol Brown
by nette onclaud
this heart kneads easily
molds to the touch of a lover
this heart needs easy
has a hard time with it's over
i have a heart that bleeds quietly
my heart has a hard time saying goodbye
cries its drops of blood internally
i know. i'm the one who wipes them dry
my heart sets time easily to another's
a heart too delicate for this world of hammers
it's a candy apple heart it cracks when dropped
my heart is warm and it's here for you to adopt
it latches on to the pain of loving hearts
the ones with complicated moving parts
you can know my heart through my eyes
you can also just touch it on my lips
hear it beating on your walk byes
you can see it when my flesh rips
i guess i should warn you
my heart is wanting too
to be honest it's lonely
so here let me hand you the key
FELINES
She enters into the bedroom in the dark,
After a secret take-out in the park,
Was it a mouse, a bird a lizard or a rat,
One of these she caught and ate,
That’s a fact!
She sleeps all day and hunts at night,
And what a pleasure when the moon
Is bright!
Our kitty cat silently preens,
And thoroughly cleans,
The tale-tale bright red blood
From her lips,
As she looks forward to her
Human mummy, feeding
Her cat nips!
She creeps up and onto
The duvet with silent paws,
And kneads a comfortable place
With her half retracted claws!
These cute furry cats have captured
Our hearts and our homes,
Cute, delicate, cuddly cats,
Who have small but strong bones!
Like to leap and bound
And do us astound
As for sure, they will land on
All fours with such flair
I do declare!
And if they occasionally don’t,
And lose one life out of nine,
Who cares, not them, all they do
Is think on what they
Will tonight dine!
All cats like to climb,
But coming back down takes skill,
And quite some time,
Many a fireman has broken a limb,
That’s re-known,
Trying to get our treasured
Kitty cat down,
From a tree,
And the service is free!
Anthropologists have dug reported and
Found,
That our furry family’s origin has been
Around,
For millions of years.
And these domestic cats which we uphold
As such dears,
Belong to the wild as much as to us.
They have a majestic look of grace,
Whether wild or domestic have a
Look alike face,
Which is part of their charm,
But believe you me, if cornered,
Will cause harm!
If there were no humans left alive,
Cats would certainly still survive,
They are independent and although
They enjoy eating our food,
It is understood,
That they could live in a post-apocalyptic
World,
That might sound a little macabre and
Somewhat absurd,
We don’t have to be here,
Forever, year after year,
So all cats might live one day in a
Complete new civilization,
As generation after generation,
We pollute our atmosphere
And face extermination!
In the morning that doesn't know its name yet and fumbles through the clay,
a thought unravels slowly like the smoke of a song that's drifted away,
and starts to overturn old skies in the palm of a wind that's been shut tight,
from the mane of time, tearing loose a mirage from the bone of paradise's light.
In the morning of the grass that grows both up and back, strand by strand,
a thought sharpens its scythe and draws it softly through the air like a breath unplanned,
and starts to gather into an empty hood the moments that no longer have a face,
from the mane of time, cutting off a warm slice like a cry lost in eclipse's space.
In the morning of the water that turns back into cloud and forgets it ever ran,
a thought pulls the twin rains apart and hides them deeper than any map or plan,
and starts to swallow in its wet palm the seconds, raw and bitter as old brine,
from the mane of time, lifting from the shell of the seas the last late light to shine.
In the morning of the moon that leaves and trails behind it just a ring of haze,
a thought goes wandering, bends its spine, and drinks down melancholy for its days,
and starts to melt down salt-scorched dreams and fold them up in autumn's leaving,
from the mane of time, gathering royal nostalgias written in prayer and in the cleaving.
In the morning of the tear that falls through sleep and never touches any sill,
a thought kneads the bookmarks written in the ink of beaded coral, dark and still,
and starts to dew the horizon, weaving cloud on cloud along a lash of sky,
from the mane of time, wringing out loneliness like a fruit with longing's taste gone dry.
In the final morning, when time sheds its worn coat and goes quiet and bare,
a thought becomes the dust of memories that no longer know what peace is there,
and starts to turn back, thread by thread, into the first night, into nameless clay,
into the mane of time — where silence is older than the world by far away.
I twist a cross in my palm, a compass of hidden silences,
Old watchmaker keys creak in the bone of the seconds,
Graves gently open, the air smells of raw moon,
And I see the place of my deeds, like a stained glass window in blood.
I am blind with heavy dreams, huts of smoke in my pupils,
Nights look at me inside out, with stars blinking in vain,
On my screwed-in sky, an abyss screw in my temples,
Inside me, emptiness laughs, inside me, coldness buds.
I mock myself in a carnival of ashes,
I drink my breath on frames, the film of a cry,
Between two tired mirrors, time gnaws its nails,
And says: be the passerby who counts his steps in sleep.
Perhaps I become immortal, only half-lit,
A semicircle of the future, delayed in orbit,
A clay bread kneads the dry rocks from ribs,
And my hair stands on end, an antenna to cosmic whispers.
I am not going to Heaven, I tell myself, not today, nor tomorrow of wax,
Screams from behind the scenes want to impose light on me,
I flow through darkness like through a river of salt,
With a skin boat tied to a mute bird.
The moon bites into me, a crunchy crust of truth,
A bite that gives energies of blue lightning,
In the nape grows fear of fear, a blind man with a cane,
And I slowly feel my life, like a map of waves.
I twist the cross again, in the exact direction of hope,
And I hear in its axis a cry learning to sing,
When my body is a lock, the soul becomes the key,
Opens the final frame: a door to my own name.
Under the plaster of the hour, a heart beats in stone,
A clock removes its teeth and utters an oath,
To leave on my tongue the ashes and honey of silence,
To pass among stars like through the snow within me.
God gave me from my mother a deep fear,
A cup pouring darkness into acacia flowers,
And yet, from it, I drink slowly, until I feel it becomes
A sticky light at the tips of thoughts.
I twist the cross once more, until time grows weary,
And falls like a sleepy bird on my shoulder,
Then I lay my head in the lap of the clay night,
And wait for my wings to grow, equal with the silence.
Sit there, backs turned, Eyes Wired Shut, disconnected from your gut.
Thrusting back and thirsting forth, comes in the night.
Sniffing sleeping walking, head throbbing, bowels moving
To the rhythm of your heart pumping.
Silent mourning, red hot night but it’s not the knight that’s coming.
Pricked, poked and rubbed until the shameful betrayal and physical frenzy.
Frozen by the red hot burn of white stuff erupting.
Backs turned, eyes wired shut, disconnected from your gut.
Speech strangled, sore to swallow, why don’t you wonder what my mouth has seen.
Screaming pain going nowhere. Signs of agony everywhere.
Shaking hands, spirit shattered, will never find a piece again.
Please perhaps ponder?
Eyes wired shut, disconnected from your gut.
Ghosts hanging in your face. Held up by four, skin cold, cut down too late.
Trophies counted six feet under.
Disconnected from your gut.
Stench of innocence, reeks of guilt, but those around him bathe him well.
Slithered split tongues sitting on that slashing seesaw-like swords through butter, and with whispers like back stabbing knives.
Feeds and kneads their fallacies to grow in girth, fed by terror sucked from bodies with no hair, say no, no say.
Mouth wired shut.
Smoking tempers drinking frothy ice cold mixers. Open scabs festering under strobes.
Treading softly fearing toes, balancing on breakable shells. It’s no choice for those who know.
Your gut.
Reunion highs and lows. Don’t cry. Go.
Form:
Although it may not be enjoyable.
An it seemed unimportant to many.
Beginning a chore which it's objective
seems far-fetched and greedy.
Inspired by the events
on some distant shore.
Something most would categorize
as useless and would rather ignore
these saw an ends to a means
m and end :a marketing friend
seeking consumers as they make need
for the product one wishes to consume
the kneads of candida genus
Book by Chef Vassa Dillsirr
the Sea "He" F
oods to mealthyme.
or ( Mill Thyme)
Born when it Snows
the desert snows of summer
a testament to differentiation
of conditions in diverse climates
Creeks , sills and dikes
of anceint floodings
power: work and elapes time.
The French Broad River 1916
French Broad River 2024
Floods of the Cenery Events
Oak Island may have connections with
Orcacoke and the Queen Annes Revenge
The Envision of Elabrate Establishments
construction of solid imfrastructure
built on the rocks of trued soils
" The Sora's of Margret Ann Neve who
was bprn in in 1793( to 1903)
mentioned Blackbeard was from Phildelphia.
He was a slave merchant and owned slaves
on his ship the Queens Anne Revenge
which was a Pirate ship siezed by his crew.
The ship was formly a slave ship
named "La Concorde" was captured early morning
in Virgina by
Spotswood and Maynard
in 1718.
Thin stilts between earth and heaven
bend into a arch of tossed dusk
reflecting amiable strains
fleeting weeds embrace...
fingers of parting sky paint jeweled combs
twirled in a bun settling on the
nape of windblown curtains; a night
arriving bears cupped hands ready
to tuck a blanket of rhinestones, much
like stars moving from one house
to another...
and life flashes by as endless travelers
floating in azure tour the hours in an imperial
journey, rising and falling with the
kneads of rocks and moss: throughout
the aroma of glazed seasons, flowers
close and open the hesitant hearts of
men and gargoyles;
that always, fire of rainstorm changes
to sunlight, black ravens to crickets, spite
to nobility—desiring only
the music of love’s flight for being,
if only to understand the wonder of this world.
Earth, Fire, Water, Wind Contest
I soak in his charcoal fingers drenching my buds
when nightfall rips the hem of my skin,
a coral fire glazes upon our mouths
and the lion in him kneads flammable
grinds: that the soaring heat in lilac glare,
in fragrant sweat of navajo curves;
ripen the mounds along a bodice trembling …
Once, twice, thrice with gentle fondness
crawling on outstretched harlequin dome--
in the lure of amber moon dipping—we
could not speak beyond walls in ash etches …
and like hungry souls let loose by sapphire mist,
the ginger sweetness of craving
finally explodes on hammock’s ruby-like gyre.
Silent One’s United Colors: Colourfication
................
Charcoal, coral, lilac navajo, harlequin,
amber, ash, sapphire, ginger, ruby
3/16/2016
she says
i am
her sky
i say
if i am
her sky
then i
will
cover her
as a blue
blanket
but being
above her
my love
for her
becomes
cloudy
instead of push
she pulls
me closer
around her
arousing her
and me
my soft skin
blanket begins
to stiffen
no starch
no need
she kneads
in warmth
to rise
my sheet
a score
her sky
in heat
we sweat
we met
meeting
meat
is flesh
my canvas
stretched
painting
with
tongues
tasting
panting
past
romance
slow
dance
singing
bodies
our
choir's
remixed
song
the finished work
a painting framed
hung above
a fireplace
kept warm
and
the song
to be sung
even hummed
singing
repeatedly
our melody
pene and cono
with endless
codas
Form: