Long Laced Poems
Long Laced Poems. Below are the most popular long Laced by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Laced poems by poem length and keyword.
The Halloween Party was in full swing
Witches, wizards and an alien thing
with tentacles and one huge eye
Flourishing a laser gun shouting "Die".
Alison and her friends Ada and Jo
Were all dressed as feline kittens "meow"
Carl and Simon had laced the fruit punch bowl
As the evening drew on it took it's tole.
Drunkenly a bet was stupidly placed
Who of them would last and not be outpaced
A nightly vigil at Haunted Creek
Where rode a phantom horseman, there to seek.
Everyone there all knew the awful tale
Making in unison a quick inhale
It was long ago in 1702
A mounted stallion there cast a shoe
The rider's name was Squire Abraham Knight
Was set upon and put up a good fight
He was then butchered for a gold doubloon
Was then thrown in the creek and found at noon
Unexplained sightings, that then disappear
have been recorded, it is very unclear
Warnings come from parents to their own child
No-one goes there, it is left to grow wild
With youthful bravado they all met there
Torches flashed around, as the trees stood bare
Alison and her friends huddled together
Shivering in the inclement weather
Bart and his brother camped down for the night
on a hillock, keeping the creek in sight
Joining them was the terror gang of four
Troublemakers, who all acted hardcore.
Two hours later it started to snow
Huge flakes falling and wind began to blow
"I've had enough of this" said Alison
"I'm all for going home. I'm all done!"
Eagerly agreeing, walked back in step
Suddenly Jo tripped up and in pain wept
"Can't go further, my ankle is wrecked"
Leaning on shoulders, onwards they all trekked.
"No, I can't, please, you must stop", poor Jo wailed
"It's agony! she gasped and then inhaled.
"Come on Jo, we can stop at Adam's place".
"We will make it there at a slower pace.
Adam's place was an old abandoned farm
"No, not there!" said Ada-May in alarm
"Afraid of ghosts and ghouls?" mocked Alison
"More like rats and spiders and not much fun!".
Giggling they arrived at old Adam's place
The moonlight showing fear on each girl's face
"We have to go in there, we have no choice"
Jo jumped. "Was that whinnying of a horse?"
On that retort they threw open the door
Stepping inside, they all dropped through the floor
Not one of them survived their dreadful doom
Trapped, without rescue, in the dark, dark room.............
I reached into the depth...
But could not withdraw Excalibur from the stone.
Yet I knew I was the one.
Why else my 'Grail Vision' in the sun?
The depths call me to reach further still.
And Mary's eyes bled.
Realizing for whom the tear's shed.
I know not what to do.
Vainity reaching to withdraw from the glue.
I stare blindly in the distance a 'bust' of my former self.
Passing the secret of excalibur being drawn by someone else.
And passing by the oracle of Ephesus, Medusa's eyes
She drew the sword stone in deep catching my contemplations of the mirror.
I could loose myself in her forever.
Secret Sweets. Stained Sheets. and shaking cold she wraps me in the golden fleece.
Covered in snakes, I melt into the secret skin.
Learning the name, I see my fathers before me distrought.
And see now the blindness of the Kingdom Oedipus wrought.
Sophoclese Tragedies and I am forever Oedipus.
Betrayed blessin' between whorish thighs and my camarades' lies.
Where is Helena these days?
Gone so long, I've forgotten her ways.
That's the trick-she sucks in your depth.
I am Horus, my seeds sewn in the west.
Innana's dead. I broke my maiden-named womb.
Long ago I allocated multiversic kingdoms for Osiris' perversion tombs.
And in the mysteries of deep misery.
I have witnessed my seed coming of age.
To lay thoughts like these out on a page.
Christ, Annubis, and I planned this on a street in Greece, A.D., B.C. I can't remember which.
I bare down frost-bitten from the North.
And my Christ of peace bore symbols from the East.
Our dog-eared down-home friend brought simpler lessons from an outdated South.
And we witnessed our births spread out over time.
Three wise men we were singing dark-hearted songs of a blackened Madonna we couldn't find.
So we relinquished ourselves to Daddy Darkest who knew best.
Redistributed seeds, we pushed ourselves to a static line beyond myth; where men like us no longer needed to exist.
Sweet Virgin, Return
I am old and worn thin.
Now, is your time to begin; A collection of stories your heart has borne, but you lay unblemished.
My daughter lay our bones to rest.
Cook them in your stew.
Reigns handover long overdue, but that's not the style you do.
Don't worry about ole Paw. Jimmy Crack corn.
May you be Princess Disarming Charming laced with meaning...
And I awake sleeping...
Beauty, I next to you.
please lemme know and honestly profess
if profusion of words create a lingual Loch Ness
(when hens canst come home to roost
especially, encountering
the following conglomeration
in matthew scott harris patois).
He readily admits writing inventive
attempts usually ten tubby a literary mess,
thus finding innocent cyber cruisers
Angle fishing for Saxony fundamental fluidity
courtesy of Freudian stream of consciousness,
gabbling gibberish, muck not done on purpose
and certainly less
to impress.
Gnome hatter intent toward
cogency, fancy ingenuity,
levity, the inevitable
resultant wrought gobbledygook
fascination for Lingua Franca
feeble endeavor splutters, splinters,
and splatters Asia Yukon guess.
Paramour status analogous with twenty six letters,
sans En gull Lush Mother tongue confluence
finds me submerged (as an Arctic Monkey)
swimmingly enervated
via erotic laced sentiments
perhaps finds bravely daring soul madly
hollering, gesticulating floundering,
(in close proximity to Davey Jones's locker)
to avoid drowning at sea
perchance comprehending passionate influence.
Upon espying a signature poem of mine
forces one pre ponder ring lurking predilection
tib hush anonymous re:
dears (dares) adventuresome mettle
taking him/her to the brainy
(briny) deep brink
Icon fess
this (NON FAKE) pretense, why
aye metaphorically express
(via medium of ordinary Anglophile
alphabetic wanton soup,
or figurative egg drop bub
bling broth (el) doth brew)
pronouns Sibyl affectation
affliction sans plethora,
where each ladle full adrip with
richly flavor Verdana Font lee
and sincerely textured vocabulary.
Pluperfect mortals beings undoubtedly feel
(blindsided, how this hunger stricken author
suffers said sesquipedalian syndrome
particularly expectorating flashy
hoping tum bark on successful literary quest)
hyper aware aspiring paperback writers wannabe
might stoop to conquer, cheat, cadge
vis a vis plagiarize plethora
amidst storied plentiful English droppings.
Rather than succumb pretense feigning paucity
temptation to bask exultantly,
professed glorious unrequited love
announcing required sworn vow,
(el lye ding) avowed consonant covenant.
Form:
The interrogation threatens to shudder like an earthquake
A long index of accusations spread out among the atmosphere like a blazing forest fire
Satisfaction, the officer and venomous umbrage, the criminal
Self-appreciation, the quiescent defense attorney with no right to be there
Misery, the boisterous dauntless prosecutor
The months of the annual calendar, the jury
Pain, the almighty judge
It’s a court case already divested from the defendant
Why should it not
Bother, why bother
Its past the millionth time in 216 divided by the jury
Satisfaction has seen countless rewards of capturing umbrage
Satisfaction has felt the boundless benevolence of glory
And foaming at the mouth, glowering with muffled respected fury
Sits umbrage, staring out blurred vision
Victimized in his own apperception
What’s the cost, the damage total; what has befell, befell reality
The anathema of fate or rather the favored affliction of fortune’s fool
Within a realm of possibility it may perceive to be both
A pebble laced with a thread thrown into grass only miles away
To be reeled right back in like a helpless fish on a line
The audacity, the audacity; oh just hush
Silence is golden and this silence is benevolent
Joy was once prevalent in the company of such disgrace umbrage reigned
Together they were serenity, a mixed graceful period of harmony
Such a song sung by dual owls in the presence of the lightened darkness of night
(sigh) …I can’t do this anymore
Make a world, create a story peacefully
Creating a plot circulating, tip-toeing around the issues placing bait in front of my eyes for me to take
What is wrong with me, my life
One word, a sharp enough blade to stab in the ankle to slaughter Achilles
In this case, me
The poet’s banishment, scourge creating a series of nine lashes
Still runs deep, refuses cessation
Proceeds to feed on every ounce of merriment to permeate through the cracks
Melancholy has produced to invade back in
What’s the cause this time for it to attack
A few simple words, reflection, swift defiance
the bruises upon the right appendage whispering, begging for more scars
FOR WHAT? ! ? ! ? ! ? !
Forget it….it’s nothing
Satisfaction has pardoned me, set me free
Umbrage, my twin has taken over me
To another bridge, we sit and sulk over a failed attempt at flight
Cause we willingly defy the right to say goodnight
"Life is a succession of lessons which must be lived to be understood."
Ralph Waldo Emerson
In this performance we call life,
my spirit searches for an interlude of peace.
My poetic mind riots consumed by rhymes,
savaging our memories of grieving beliefs.
I'm a soul rasping winter's woeful wings,
afraid I'll become a poet who ink will forget.
I'm trapped in the desert of dejected demons,
wandering in aching avenues of dreams,
forgotten in ferocious frozen vine's of time,
surrounded by meadows of blood poppies,
Season of death is a cursed caricature of memories,
full of salty tears, bitter goodbyes with spiteful sentiments.
Let me sleep in the synchronicity of angels,
as ebony horizons drift into darkness.
When crimson clouds bleed to paint the sky,
I scream at silent scarlet skies,
as black rain from a dark storm plunders.
Like acid burning my metaphorical paper wings,
I float like a butterfly cursed by moths of deceit,
as hope dances dangerously with my malevolent muse -
grace and hellfire waltz with my heart's chambers.
I can't help but remember last November,
when death clung to the air around me,
as answers we found turned into a designated dead end.
In delirious desires of deathless shadows,
I still see your daggers and cigarettes in a charcoal silhouette,
with your every breath laced with guilt.
Yet, the ghost of your voice lulls me to sleep,
as the silence crawls along the walls at night.
Who are we to judge who is a sinner or a saint.
I wonder if you will walk down the stairs of heaven,
hold me in all my fragility, remind me of childlike charms,
or will rebellious regrets open the gates of hell.
I scream at the Grim Reaper to take my soul,
ravage me, before I go,
but put a white veil on my corpse,
so each night when I visit my grave,
provocative eyes with loose desires,
can feel the wind beneath my sails.
But, gift me one more midnight,
to create my final masterpiece to paint my dreams,
carved with marble white ink,
engulfed in sentimental verses -
for this is poetry, formless suppressed speech.
One day our quill will eternally slumber,
as our conscience passes from poetry to dust.
In the plight of adversity, only I, truly know,
that stars speak stories how simple words were not enough,
as truth only prevails through poetic justice.
“since thoughts speak in past tenses,
drop mind, rely on senses,
embracing and releasing,
pain pangs and pleasure pleasing” ~ Unseeking Seeker
The sun
w a n e s into the saline swell,
and the ether
undresses corseted ruminations,
while heart follows formless flames
illuminated with flares of
frankincense forgiveness
as mind replays recurring regrets
like vinyls~
spinning forlorn runes
laced with fallacious fragments,
clouding the intricate cycle of lunar~
intuitions with illusive riddles,
drifting into the eventide of agony…
So I drink and I dine
from the hyacinth hands of
the golden chalices
brimming with turmeric tranquility,
listening ~ in sync ~
with the soul of sanguine stillness
ricocheting with rustling repose,
erasing cracked crevices
heavy with ache
from soft smears of monarch-bliss strokes,
spilling picturesque pigments of peace
from Mona Lisa musings
to veil visions of vanity,
to mask mirrors of melancholy,
to soften scarlet streaks of sorrow…
Tonight I close the portals
of perplexed perceptions,
unlocking the crown chakra
like forgotten forests
glowing with faith and fireflies,
allowing stars to glaze
my inner psyche
with dusts of glistening gratitude,
fine-tuning the symphony of Kundalini
to musical mists of mindfulness,
cloaked in
crystalline clovers of clarity~
like an awakened fairy
flipping leaves of lotus love,
pausing the pulse of pain
beneath an empyrean embellished
with spiritual elixirs,
detached from darkness,
clinging neither to
the seraphic scriptures
nor the egoistic galaxies,
sprinkling superficial sparkles
of material mantras.
As enlightened ink r e m a i n s
reliving ~ sewn into the
seams of sacredness
like endless rivers rippling with
opalescent quiescence…
O divine almighty,
I vow to sow herbs of harmony,
engrossed in the timeless phase
of rose-wine twilight~
untangling twisted tulips
intertwined with
weathered willows.
As I seek nothing but lucid light,
soaked in petrichor musings,
resting in zealous zenith,
for I am a rhymeless disciple
accepting the reality
that kissed the silk of silhouette
amidst rain and warmth~
the celestial peaks of change.
I taste flavors of kismet,
swallowing spices of lament,
comfortably composed
in the mystical essence
of soundless rhythm…
In the wee hour of the morning I hear my spirit calling, I wasn’t sure how to respond to it but my emotion made me answer it.
It was extremely dark outside and the street light on the other side spilled over the roadway took me safely to an exotic scene. A bird sitting on the electric line chirping away as if it had something important to say. I gazed at it for a while and all of a sudden, my spirit began to cry.
The morning was extremely quiet and I could feel the blood running through my vein and my breathing exposed to the raw air circulating in the atmosphere and I walk along the lonely path looking for an escape route, but something kept dragging me back to my youth.
It wasn’t my childhood friend or the vicious lion in the den, it was the tree house I built in the mango tree and the swing I made in the navel orange tree, that continues to point me to something that is symbolic to my prosperity.
I am not a Tomboy but I can do lots of boy things and I master the art of climbing tree ever since I was a baby. I can still climb to the top no matter how tall the tree grows, there are some things in tees that gives nourishment to my soul and there are some things that you never grow out of you even when you are old, they stay with you for life, because those are the things that keep you alive.
The clouds resting on the sphere laced with tangles of hope staring directly at me and stroking my back from the far end of the sea and it kept searching for a comfortable spot to spread out its lap, but the furious mountain would not allow the wind to blow on the other side but I continue searching for the destined spot in the early hours to confront the solace in the wind.
I stood there for a while and gazed at the morning stars gliding underneath the clouds as daylight forces its way out of the dark and heavens weep for the dignity that is bubbling up into my heart and I could hear the earth whispering in my ears and wind start howling in the distance.
Let the wind blow and bring fresh energy to your soul; let the wind blow and show you which way to go, let it blow the stagnant energy from the atmosphere, and fill your lungs with clean mesmerizing air.
The clouds are moving again and the sky is clear and daylight has explodes in the heavens and you must follow the path that will lead you out of the dark and elevate your nobility.
Whispering in the dark,
Your hand around my waist
I hear you say “you love me”
All I hear is the deceit in your breath.
You been creeping, thinking I didn’t know.
Laying here with my eyes wide open.
Pretending to sleep, you don’t even notice.
But how can you when your being is laced with lies.
I feel the young girl's hands on yours.
Her sweet purrs rock your body and transcends into mine.
I am a woman and I know.
It’s dark out, its dark inside,
Will you ever admit your infidelity?
Or will it get worse by morning light.
The girl be calling everyday when you in the shower,
She be texting while you eat my breakfast.
You turn,kiss me goodbye, your smile reminds me of the devil.
As I watch your silhouette dance towards the woman you creep with.
Do you even notice the rage and the thunder?
Or you just cast a blind eye and carry on.
Your band feels heavy on my hand.
It’s a diamond I adored once,
But now all I see is sand, why does it even sparkle.
When the sparkle I had is now an icy stare of hate.
You call during the day, tell me you miss me.
I wonder how you can say that,
Do you even miss me or you just need a beacon.
A woman who will catch you when you fall?
I hear her voice in yours, I hear the echoes that still my soul.
I can’t even blame her, I am not even mad at her.
I can’t help but wonder, if she even knows.
If she does, she is set for a life of mishaps.
No bad deed ever go unpunished.
If she doesn’t, she is set for a life misery.
I can’t even be mad at him.
This emotion that I have has surpassed.
I feel nothing but rage multiplied.
I gave him my all, he gave me His all.
It’s all up in flames, it’s all up in ashes.
You obviously can’t be seeing with your soul.
For your eyes are now a mirror of misconception.
You will not even notice my dry tears,
Or the wave of fire in my bones.
Will it surprise you if you wake up alone one night?
I doubt it would, that’s why my fear has melted.
How can I leave in the midst of a situation?
A situation I can easily fix, maybe you would notice then.
Will I use a piece of steel, to silence you immediately?
For silence is what your love has been for two years.
Or will I just choke you, leave your breathless.
For all those nights you breathed out perfume and lust.
Will I even call it even or will I walk and forget you ever existed.
© Herzel Poshiwa
Even Dawn Cried About Death Of The Poet
They that see dawn in softest crimson glows
Having sought to embrace the golden moon!
They that ink paradise as a true gift,
Sings praises of the gentle month of June!
Whilst feeding at midnight the hungry crows
Sometimes with iron, and with eager breath
Oft each stands alone, watching dark world turn
Then she that inks paradise as a gift,
With compassion, romantic flames that burn
Wrote faithfully, even unto her death!
Dawn that foretells of living and true love
Helplessly seen as the poetess died
Cast its brightest rays to heaven above
So angels could see how too few cried!
R.J. Lindley, Jan 25th, 1987
*******
Dare We Pray, Humanity Wakes To Be Redeemed
From blacken hills into magical woods we wade
Where golden mushrooms ring shrouds of ancient trees
Praise God, that this earth and humanity he made
Although from great divine wrath it so often flees
In morn's mist, airy shadows rise and slowly fall
'neath hopeful promise of resplendent future state
Whilst those ever beckoning hills heed Nature's calls
Same as man bows to ravages of horrid Fate.
Therein comes immense pleasures of paradise dreams
Too often laced with folly of human schemes
Were it not that love may gift that which hope redeems?
Aye. Love and pleasure are as candy to a child
And thus sweet blessings flow unto those meek and mild
Whereas thistles and thorns pierce deeply those too wild.
Dare we pray, humanity wakes to be redeemed
From evil wickedness, that mankind daily schemes?
R.J. Lindley, March 6th, 1987
Rhyme
*******
From The Virgin Light Into The Dark Mist
There within such immensity of solitude
Rests a billion threads but a sad solitary thought
Of life, earth and barest naked soul therein nude
In worldly prison, dying entity thus caught.
Oh but, tis not that tragedy our daily bread
Fodder for rampaging fires eternally lit
We but sacrifice for those gods long ago dead,
And bawling mass for Hades and its burning pits?
Tis not mankind a true enigma and a bit more
Far, far more than a fallen fly in the hot soup
Once stuck down below but by own hand now can soar
Risen up by vicious might in one dark fell swoop ?
Aye! One may fear to such reality admit
As it leads backward, to thoughts of hot burning pits!
R.J. Lindley, March 22nd, 1987
Rhyme
Music is an undying
art of soul ~
an abstract eden, where,
euphonious unicorns
glide in strawberry sonatas,
amplifying rhapsody in
ballads of flight,
when fuchsia feathers
tease those
jingling breezes,
infusing breaths
in every lifeless aroma;
where I can soar
beyond the
brushstrokes
of symphonies that
planktons sing to me,
in the requiems of
forsaken pearls,
crooning with
silenced shimmers
beneath wavy blues.
Maybe,
I'm a songwriter
without words,
and my electric fingers
trace the tunes
of serene strings,
when guitars weave
a sonorous guilt
midst ruby runes
of regrets.
I wish to keep
swinging in a
cosmic cadence,
where celestial notes
choreograph
themselves in the
moonwalking
mellifluence of
lunar legacies.
I gossip with
neon nightingales,
laced with neutrinos
and compel them
to chant those
healing incantations
of love and glory,
like the forlorn
princess - Rapunzel,
desiring to feel
the glow of
familiar lanterns,
winged with
hazy syncs of
unsung yesteryears.
I wonder if,
I'm not meant
to compose
crystal canticles
in a Disney duet,
for, I believe,
I'm a soul searcher
in the flesh of
a soloist, concocting
an elixir of my
existence through
cinnamon anthems
of mystical
moonrises, as
they softly unfold,
a million
unheard tempos,
within tranquil
memoirs.
I'm the 'maiden of music'
resting as a floret on
every sepal,
yearning to become
a unique acapella
of nature,
where empathy
has an ethereal
dialect of
nurturing spirits
and tinkles
of magical waterfalls
whisper in
gentle lachrymose lulls
of our ambrosial Mother.
When the harmony
of my voice,
kisses those
ivory keys of
the heart-shaped
piano, they
echo a tipsy secret
in my sunset skin,
making me
believe ~
"I'm everywhere
in the essence,
yet nowhere
to be found...",
like the sweet
scents of
hummingbirds,
smiling behind
that first dusky star.
"In each husky hallelujah
of ribboned halts and replays,
life is a song ~
where every lyric,
phrases an ember of end,
and when passionate heartbeats
shall knit sombre medleys,
I will hum in the last 'chef-d'oeuvre'... "