Long Limber Poems
Long Limber Poems. Below are the most popular long Limber by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Limber poems by poem length and keyword.
Outside the four cafes, four dogs awaited their caffeine crazed owners. Sniffing different street signs, taking inventory of who’d already been there. Four dog “owners” exited the cafés. A tall blonde, possibly bleached, retrieved the dog and haughtily gazed at the “other” cafes and dogs. A slightly rumpled donut muncher hurriedly hustled away with a slightly rumpled mutt. A lithe and limber, skin tight yoga panted Latte carrier, glided away. The dog, nose high, sniffed nothing. A rather large flannel shirt exited café number four, the dog nuzzled its owner. It’s reward, a hearty greeting and vigorous petting.
Shortly thereafter they all met at the dog park, the dogs that is. The owners took their places. One sat silently engrossed in a book. One talked loudly into a cell phone. One primped and posed while taking “selfies”. One watched and laughed at the antics of the dogs.
As they left the dog park the cups told a story. One was left on a bench, one tossed on the ground, one rinsed and filled with water so the dog might have a drink, and one placed in the recycle barrel.
John G. Lawless
©3/3/2023
Enea, Embarking at Piombino
An impecunious nobleman he was,
with all the grace and arrogance of youth:
he signed with Capranica, just because
the latter (who was longer in the tooth,
with deeper pockets) offered him, in truth,
a chance to show his intellectual wares –
and fortune loves a comely youth who dares.
This Capranica bore Colonna blood,
the Pope, new-voted, was Orsini clan –
a situation classed as less than good.
The urgent need was, get to Switzerland,
consult the Pope, and do what eloquence can.
(Poor Capranica’s farms were being despoiled
by elements who were Orsini-loyal).
And Enea? Good-looking, limber, neat,
whose fragrant learning smelled not of the lamp:
he’d charm those cardinals right off their feet,
with each Quintilian quip or Catiline cramp.
Across the seas and through the Alps he’d tramp,
with brain and tongue to serve his master’s cause,
like “To Lucasta, Going to the Wars.”
To Piombino Capranica’s band
now headed. Quite aware they must avoid
Orsini cities, and all hostile land,
took ship for Genoa. A storm “annoyed”
their boat (the very word Enea employed):
as Ulysses encountered Nausicaa,
he almost lost his life off Corsica.
But here we see him as the journey starts
(he’s riding on the chestnut). True to form
(before the fiefdom of the Bonapartes)
his universe is colourful and warm,
oblivious of that black approaching storm.
If only we could know our destiny,
and shape to meet our cyclones, out at sea!
One thousand, eight hundred and twenty-three
That's a crap load of poems I've scribed
Still got that many and a whole bunch more
You might think I silently imbibe
Don't need no joy juice to write these gems
They literally flow without ceasing
Can't keep my fingers quite limber enough
Also get a signal from my wee thing
Must pay attention when old nature calls
It's time for a trip to the toidy
Or I run the risk of total embarrassment
And wind up with my undies all moisty
Don't dare get it checked might find I need help
“but I'm totally normal” I protest
“That's not what this CT scan has shown us
It's exactly what we had guessed”
Likely gone loopy in the noggin it appears
I've finally gone over the edge
Tumbling headlong into the scary unknown
Ready for whatever lies ahead
© Jack Ellison 2015
The Imp sat atop the dresser, unmoving,
in the corner of the room, I waited, pen in hand.
No sound did he make, nor his locus improving,
as his bloodshot eyes, my attention, they demand.
In days slipped past, he spoke in lulled timbre,
for years he abated the fears that I had,
his mind so subtle, his thoughts so limber,
but through each day my questions he forbad.
I wrote each word, every syllable, every notion,
spoken dark or tender, whether thou or thine.
He laid before me his songs of emotion
and I stole each one and made them all mine.
In his voice, I claimed, all of his treasures,
without a thought he'd discover, in time.
Yet, now he speaks with words always measured,
and burning glares that scream of my crime.
Does he know I've used him to privilege my psyche?
Does he know how his rhymes have impassioned my soul?
Would he care if I offered to proffer my ego,
or pay, with my heart, this immeasurable toll.
“Living In The Dark ,“ so easy he spoke this,
while together we lived each verse, he and I.
Darkness foreboding, for he, was in bliss,
but for me pure terror as his words I decry.
He laughed at my fear and smiled with derision
as my name I placed at the end with the date.
His eye slowly narrowed as if changing his decision
but I watched as the dark made these feelings abate.
I gather before me his sonnet's solemn lines,
He allows me to name it,"Fire," seems right,
as his bitterness taunts me with each phrase he entwines
leaving visions of me in the sallow dim light.
I live in his blindness through eyes of midnight.
The coals of his vision, burning embers of fright,
but the words he has spoken I endeavor to requite
for they linger and fill me with horrendous delight.
Each syllable I have written, each turn of a phrase,
I owe to this Imp as he glares from the dresser
but silence, now, while he sits in the shadows,
how I wish again to become his confessor.
10/07/2020
When soft zephyrs are stirring arbor leaves
Words may be overheard whispered from trees.
Leaned against a trunk, my ears on alert,
This ranger heard soft words from a filbert.
A long-limbed water oak, leaning half bent,
Wryly some cross-cultural humor lent:
“An ancient Sawtooth oak nearby is king
His wide girth makes him The Lord of the Rings.”
Wanda the willow was awash in woes,
Dripping with languid leaves down to her toes,
Wondering if she would live some morrow
With strong upright arms as a saguaro.
A stately stout chestnut amidst the grove
Is the President tree where children rove.
One, draped on a limb, attention to gain
Fell; our President said, “I feel your pain!”
A gnarly bald cypress with knobby knees
Said, "When I tumble down, promise me please
My fallen large trunk you will boldly seize
And shape it a ship's bow to sail the seas."
A maudlin Mulberry preached and raved
Saying, “A fallen log cannot be saved.”
Yet Salty dogs yelled, “Shiver me timbers!”
On caravels of north wood, once limber.
An adjacent Scotch pine needled me too,
“Pine nuts are better than ice cream for you.”
Feeling that his advice was out of bounds
I arose to resume my forest rounds.
'Round here it's winter, cold as hell
Down there the chosen, a few lucky boys
answer the call of the Opening Bell
~ Spring Training in Arizona
They jog out to the field for the first time
That feeling of renewal, mighty fine
limber up with stretches and beer
~ Spring Training in Arizona
Back in the Heartland, north winds blow
frozen fingers, shoveling snow
as They job along and toss the pea
~ Those Lucky Boys of Summer
One by one they step to the plate
their first few swings like rusty gates
Then the base hits, line drives, begin
banged out by boys -- now men, with
gap-toothed smiles and devilish grins
~ Those Lucky Boys of Summer
February 15, 2019
Pitchers and Catchers
reported to Spring Training this week!
I pack the backpack
then empty it
count again what's needed,
discarding the unlikely.
the unnecessary.
Remember to add a pocket edition
of 'North American Birds'
adjust the straps,
shove and pummel the overstuffed kit,
try to balance the weight,
smooth the angular,
tighten the loose.
Once again
I open the backpack
to add a small survival kit.
I forgot to pack a rope
or toilet paper!
I remember just in time
that I have left the instruction manuals
for the battery-operated can opener,
the outdoor fire lighter,
the camping stove,
and a high-tech sharpening tool
on a small folding chair.
I gather the manuals up,
pack them,
try to pack the small folding chair,
decide I will have to carry it separately.
The camping chair is in my left hand,
in my right hand a sturdy hiking stick.
A tin pot, cleats and folding iron skillet,
dangle from a rolled-up pup tent
above the backpack,
they jangle loudly when I dare move.
I lumber to the front door to leave.
I can’t pass through the door,
too much gear
I will have to squeeze out sideways,
but now I can’t turn the door handle or lock,
my spacesuit-like, all-weather jacket
won’t bend at the elbows.
A light rain is falling.
My hand-held GPS is low and needs charging.
I forgot to pack a camera.
Something is beeping under my coat - can't reach it,
my fashionable 'Everest' climbing hat
has toppled off my head -
can't reach down to get at that either.
Being no longer limber enough to shrug,
I proceed to unpack previous expectations
and all outdoor plans for today.
Theoretically, I will have to unpack myself
just to enter the house once more.
The sun peeps over the horizon,
after a long abstinence,
its rays flare skyward,
parting the cloud-curtains
staining them in red, orange, amber, gold
changing rapidly
shifting, blinking, throbbing
with each blink of the eye.
Half-up, a search-beam of light stretches
across the ocean towards you
parting the darkness to let radiance pour in
filling the scene with warm dawn glow
Day all but gone now
I linger still, a little longer, watching,
as shadows stretch out long and limber
threading the scene with sunset-spools,
rewinding through the thinning light,
the strings of red, orange, amber, gold,
clinging to every breath, drawn out slow,
holding on to the moment,
unwilling to let the day
pass and go.
Ode to Kudzu
Kudzu! O my limber lianas
Your “vines” “soar” o’re magnolia scented boughs
Then “glide” through briar thickets
Of purple stained blackberry kisses.
Kudzu! O my summer “hued” climber
No native son, you “hold” onto songs of lazy rivers
Then “clasp” the lyrics of midnight trains to your heart
In million pines with roots to “grasp” red tinted earth.
Kudzu! O my trailing tangled rambling mass
I “gasp” in awe and “clutch” your leafy majesty
Framed in humid solstice sunlight to “inhale”
Your sweet breath of newborn blossoms.
Kudzu! O my creeping southern smile
Impervious to scorching sun or wild hurricanes
Your ghostly outlines haunt trees and telephone wires
But when frost comes I mourn to see your empty trellis - NOT!
7-8-21
Contest: Grasp
Sponsor: Constance LaFrance
Prompt words: grasp, vines, clutch,, gasp, hold, clasp, glide, soar, inhale, hued
Your fragrant, smooth, white flesh intoxicates
my senses. Such cool curves! That tumbling hair!
But when I grapple close, those carnal gates
elude me. I'm embracing scented air!
I'm strong, but you are nimble. There you go,
as light and limber as the April breeze,
beyond my grasp - my agile-footed doe,
enticing tail half-seen through tangled trees.
How you can run! Whilst I, half-blind with lust,
lunge in your wake, you - fleet, farouche and fey -
like insubstantial mist, evade my thrust!
Just out of reach, those soft enticements play!
You torture me with longing. And you flee
because you know, this way you'll capture me.