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.
**~~**
She seemed to be like a delicate portrait
which had fallen from its gilded frame
Abandoned, lying face down on the cold winter floor
An elegant portrait once painted
In resplendent hues of indigo blue
Her eyes told a story of bittersweet
magenta colored sorrows bathed in tears
that etched themselves throughout
The frail intricately, woven canvas of her soul
Over time thoughtless hands had subtly
Contrived to manipulate the beauty
Of her painted portrait into a resemblance
Likened to that of a cold, chiseled statue
Carelessly molded by calloused fingers
Lancinating the fragile fragments
Of her spirit leaving her heart
With etiolated worn fabric - called her life
She dreamed of Icarus soaring down
on silvery wings of steel shrouded
in cobalt and lavender clouds
with outstretched, feathery fingers
lifting her up to dance a Stravinsky ballet
As it was meant to be - not how it was
She was a beautiful, fragile butterfly
bruised by a world much too harsh
for her diminished spirit
leaving her unable to fly away
from the skis thirsty rains
making it difficult for her to fly away
from the skis thirsty rains
It left her struggling to stay afloat
In the springs melting snow
Life had bruised her tender skin
Gnawing away like insatiable insects
On her delicate pink frescoed soul
Leaving her feeling
Like a fabricated manikin on display
For all to pose her as they may
Muddied soil was the blood that coursed
through her veins, holding her tethered heart
in fleshy, mounds of chocolate brown earth
It held her helpless in its hold
clogged by the silt which descended down
Into spaces of her soul…
Like murky strings of yellow tattered maize
Leaving their ragged tassels tangled
Throughout her life flowing veins
Choking off the blood she needed
To nourish her hungry heart
Mighty winds toppled her willowy limber tree
Snapping the delicate boughs
Of her outstretched arms
As they pulled at the tender fleshy bark of her skin
She stood cold and alone
In the icy winter night wrapped
Only in her wounded, naked flesh
With open, bleeding wounds
Under the icy blue mist of the winter moon
Her heart and soul painfully revealed...
In shades of indigo blue
**~~**
I’ve been asked to explain the words ‘Never A Gain’!
So I’ll limn it here plain, all that’s ‘Never A Gain’:
Death, destruction and pain define Never A Gain,
like a pale hurricane, warfare’s Never A Gain,
often wars steal terrain, simply Never A Gain,
even wars on the wane, really Never A Gain,
over ten million slain, frankly Never A Gain.
Although diplomats feign (pretend’s Never A Gain)
and abuse might and main (yes, still Never A Gain),
trying tricks and chicane achieves Never A Gain.
Where the children have lain, holes are Never A Gain,
limber limbs torn in twain, doubly Never A Gain,
living famine, mundane, by God Never A Gain;
warriors say it’s humane though there’s Never A Gain.
Army hordes raising Cain bring back Never A Gain,
bloody battles, though vain, produce Never A Gain,
whether guns or cocaine, shots wreak Never A Gain;
though the dead don’t complain, dying’s Never A Gain.
Atom bombs from a plane bestow Never A Gain,
lethal neutrons a flame beget Never A Gain,
with a nuclear rain, all’s lost, Never A Gain.
In a sandy domain, victory’s Never A Gain.
Desert blood down the drain? A clot’s Never A Gain.
And though dunes will remain, a grave’s Never A Gain.
Global war, so insane, provides Never A Gain,
whether Gaza, Ukraine, death deals Never A Gain.
In that graveyard domain, regret’s Never A Gain
and a soul’s reddened stain also’s Never A Gain.
Can we learn from the slain that war’s Never A Gain?
YES!!!
Since it’s Never A Gain... well then, Never Again!
Top shelf cologne exhibits sensual tail of peacock
Entrances my senses at our eleven a.m embrace
Eyes shut, my erratic stamina borrows comfort
Curled into leather front seat, chest inhales safe
Our waterfall guffaws cascade in establishments of stature
Grilled salmon, staple lunch, gregarious wine supports us
Role's novelty and glitz incessantly scratches my rapture
Unorthodox allure makes mockery of standard formulas
Indirect looks from diners, behind raised glasses, warped
Solid gold arrogance declares benefits blatantly displayed
Society fears breaking the mould, glued to ordinary course
Our acquired theme sustains disdain for lifestyles staid
Ocean boulevard grandeur sees counterpart meshed potential
Sleek topless travel exalts unfelt mist, road gloss moisture
Your life thickened fingers amorously grasp my thigh's tender
I agree to be owned, an ornament connects material pleasure
When the Polstar slows to crawl of steady tiger, stealthily slips
mid afternoon into carpark of your harbour side apartment
Disparagement wedges beneath my ribs, not having envisaged
aerobics of limber mayhem, loosened make-up, not just yet
Smug expression hugs your face, read in tight lipped pressure
I assert my plan to showcase new swimsuit may now be ruined
"Absolutely promise, gorgeous, there's no chance you'll regret."
My climbing premonition messages a gem of genuine
Ponytail splayed against mirrored wall of elevator
Ardent kissing's conclusion resurfaces your chivalrous
Door barely closed before I pouncing kitten paw you
Your flailing indicating a spare key cut for me, erroneous
"My doll, my dear desirable, the key is incompatible."
Mysterious grimace molests your face, causing me to frown
"Did the rum with lunch rupture your remaining brain cells?!"
Fatherly pats of my arms speak a decoy which confounds
Journey up two flights, could it be... heart in throat
Silenced keys caress sweat sodden peeled open palm
Your anticipating stare burns my back, unopposed
Oh, justify me - yes! - the door complies on demand
"Neighbour, do you like it?" superfluous inquiry smiling
Floating eight stories above glint of yacht metropolis
Invited by windows handing out reviving hold of horizon
Violent screams likely deafen you, interjected with frantic kisses
She seemed to be like a portrait...
which had fallen from its gilded frame
Abandoned...
Lying face down on the empty, cold wintry floor.
An elegantly created portrait once painted in striking hues of indigo blue.
Her eyes told a story of bittersweet, magenta colored sorrows
That etched themselves throughout the frail, intricately woven canvas of her soul
Over time...
Thoughtless hands subtly contrived and manipulated the beauty of her painted portrait Into a resemblance - likened to that of a cold chiseled statue
Calloused, careless fingers molded her - lancinating the fragile fragments of her spirit
Leaving her heart with the etoliated, worn material - called her life
She dreamed of Icarus - soaring down on steel wings
Shrouded in cobalt, magenta clouds- with outstretched, feathery fingers...
Lifting her up to dance with him in a Stravinsky ballet...
As it is was meant to be
Not how it was
She was a beautiful, delicate butterfly...
Bruised by many shadows in her world
Leaving her unable to fly away from its thirsting arid rain filled skies
It left her struggling to stay afloat in the spring's melting snow
Life had bruised her tender skin...
Gnawing away like insatiable insects on her delicate pink frescoed soul
Leaving her feeling like a fabricated, plastic manikin on display...
For all to pose her as they selfishly may
Muddied soil was the blood that coursed through her veins
Holding her tethered heart in fleshy, lumpy mounds of dark, chocolate brown earth
It held her helplessly clogged in the dirt...
That descended down in the empty spaces of her soul...
Like the muddied strings of yellow, tattered maize
That entwined their ragged tassels through her life flowing veins...
Choking off the blood she needed to nourish her weakened, hungry heart
Mighty winds toppled her willowy, limber tree...
Snapping the delicate boughs of her arms
As it pulled at the fleshy bark of her skin
She stood cold and alone in the cold wintry night...
Wrapped only in her naked flesh - with open, bleeding indigo wounds
Standing under the icy, mist of the cold, winter moon...
Her heart and soul painfully revealed - in shades of indigo blue
LadeeAnne~C@2011
Anne P Murray
14.
You are ever my Valentine,
your kisses taste of love’s own wine,
in beauty’s grace, you ever shine.
Tears of joy, they come from your rose,
we know that love forever grows,
come, lie with me, where love’s breeze blows.
A candle flickers in Sol’s light,
the last morning star, shining bright,
you are that star, a wondrous sight.
The star is gone from summer skies,
now, beside me, your temple lies,
come with me, where the eagle cries.
Two roses join within your dream,
now, you still dream of love supreme.
15.
You still dream of love supreme,
within my dreams, you are love’s theme,
you are the gold, flowing through dream.
Love ever shines within your heart,
love’s fanfare, once more it does start,
from you, my love, I shall not part.
Your golden stream sings in my mind,
a golden rose, I now do find,
you are beauty, wondrous and kind.
Love comes to grow in passion’s deep,
yours is the love, I ever keep,
you come to me, each time I sleep.
Such golden warmth, in golden stream,
you are ever the golden dream.
16.
You are ever the golden dream,
you are summer, within Sol’s beam,
you are love’s song, you are love’s theme.
You are summer within my mind,
the golden light, so warm and kind,
your smile I ever wish to find.
You smile, my love, my heart feels fun,
you give your hand and off we run,
into the heart of love’s own sun.
Through dreams of love, we both shall go,
through day and night our love aglow,
Oh, beauty’s breath, your love I know.
You are love’s sun, ever shining,
our love is ever divining.
17.
Our love is ever divining,
never shall our love be pining,
our love’s sun is ever shining.
Elysian dreams are for you,
within a sky of azure blue,
your heart is beating love so true.
Your heart beats love, within green fields,
take all the passion your love yields,
come, lie in emerald green fields.
Lithe and limber, do journey on,
the gold of the sun, never gone,
love shall be ours until the morn’.
You ae wonder, sing in my dream,
the light of summer, so supreme.
THE OLD FART SONG
(sing to the tune of "Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys")
Verse one:
Old men ain't easy to love and they're harder to mold,
so train 'em when young, girls, don't wait till their bones have turned cold.
They're slow as molasses, wear cheap reading glasses, they're hearing aids give them away,
they grumble and mumble, they bumble and stumble, what hair they have left turns to gray.
Chorus:
Ladies, don't let your husbands survive to be old men,
Their best parts get limber, their brains turn to timber,
they spend too much time letting farts.
Ladies don't let your husbands survive to be old men,
because when they're home, you will wish you're alone
and they think they have all of the smarts.
Verse two:
Old men like old stuff, ain't that some strange stuff, how antiques will make 'em feel young?
They whistle like thistles, sling advice like missiles and sing like their a**es got stung.
They're always ploying and tinker toying, they usually, always repeat:
What did you say dear? SPEAK UP NOW, DAMMIT! and, When in the hell do we eat?
Repeat Chorus
Verse three:
Old men like talkin' way more than go-walkin', but listening, well, not so much.
Don't try to change him or even "re-range" him, or mess with his habits and such.
Changes upset him, so you better let him, still think he has plenty pizazz,
or he will snuffle, kerfuffle and shuffle, doin' stuff that's a pain in the azz.
repeat chorus
Verse four
They say that old soldiers don't die, that they just fade away,
it's the same with your old man... remember each dog has his day.
Don't nickel and dime him, remember to prime him, be kind as he turns into dust.
Through thick and through thin and through silly and sin, you're together for better or bust.
FInal Chorus
Ladies, don't let your husbands survive to be old men,
let 'em be babies and let 'em be children
and let 'em be heroes again.
Ladies, don't let your husbands survive to be old men,
When they hit bottom, be thankful you got 'em,
'Cause soon enough it will all end.
Staff rod in hand, and on my feet a pair of good hardy leather shoes
Set off onto the bight coastal track to a view of many colourful hues
In four score plus nine of my years; not a day to me ceases to amaze
Scattered along the ridge line, sheep idle away their days, they graze
As marram grass sways anchoring the sand brought by the sea wind
I listen to the deafening sounds of the seagulls their shrills ingrained
This land, my land as one of my forefather’s son’s, my claim of proof
As far as my eye can see and as far as the cattle can roam their hoof
A legacy given to me by God and by my hands my toil it shall remain
No false deceiver shall walk her, come proclaiming a lie shall he feign
Each animal upon her lives its life in freedom until their time is called
Before slaughtered with respect, and placed upon the table sprawled
With thanks and praises given to the bellies it is now given to nourish
Bones grounded down, and returned to this earth, in which to flourish
In turn the animals eat the greener grass its wealth to them unknown
This is the cycle of life, it by my forefather’s father to son been shown
A seal pup on the shore cries ardently for its mother it wants to be fed
Scottish folklore that seal Selkies as fill the shore fears folk with dread
Shep the sheep dog though not original in name scurries the dry grass
Upsetting the grouse and long tailed pheasants as they limber on pass
Pleasant is this land given in its wonderment and awe, its beauty score
As musical notes of each animal and creature in tune across this shore
This balance of nature cannot in anyway be understated, or be ignored
This certitude between heaven and earth, and its ever eternal life cord
Rests upon my shoulders, its weight, is more as embedded in my heart
As I idle the bight pathway of this coast, until it’s time for me to depart
My dried and cracked salted spray leather shoes shall be left then to lie
My staff left standing in the hallway and with my dog resting I shall die
By day she goes about
the weary business of her dreary life:
a housekeeper, bookkeeper, shopper, chef,
chauffer for two active teens, and
hostess of her husband’s dinner parties
is she.
In the middle of her day
she naps,
for in the night. . .
when her work-obsessed spouse
soundly slumbers
and the kids at last are fast asleep,
she goes into the darkness
of the woods
behind her house.
The mask of this woman
falls without a sound
to the leaf strewn ground.
She raises her face to the moon.
In its light, the stripes
of a tigress are revealed!
Her legs feel strong and limber.
That ferocious appetite
for something that she stifles
flees away
as
she
runs.
Among the pines and midst the sounds
of the woodland’s crepuscular creatures
she runs and runs and runs.
She is running after something
she cannot put a name to.
She’s a good woman.
She would never use a bar or night club
as her jungle.
Now - with her tigress face -
swift, stealthy, and strong -
but above all,
not beholden to any body
she is simply free to be.
After an hour of running,
the mask of the housewife
is restored.
Then she collapses, exhausted on her bed,
where she dreams refreshing dreams -
which are necessary -
for tomorrow
she begins again
the weary business
of her dreary life.
10/26/2014; Now used for Skat's A poem you are proud of #3 Poetry Contest
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
PLAYIN' CATCH
Mom and Dad would have the car packed the night before we left,
the station wagon filled with all the essentials we'd need for our
extended camping trips. Dad always made sure I had my ball glove
ready for rest stop breaks. This was my favorite anticipated time of
the trip!... when we would stop, Dad would tell me to grab my glove,
but I was already out the door, lookin' for a clear stretch of grass to
throw with him. Dad had the same glove all through the years, an
old, beat up version that didn't have much padding. I used whatever
glove I was currently using for the team I was playing on, either
a present from him, or a gift, sometimes from a coach. Dad wanted
me to start throwin' easy, as his eyesight wasn't all that sharp, and
he needed to limber-up first, and focus on the 'heat!' I was tossin'.
I remember he would always encourage and compliment me on my
improvement since the last time we threw!. Our trip out west, "Custer's
Last Stand"...Yellowstone National Park".... our trips to "Itasca State Park"
and "Tettegouche State Park" always settin' aside time to "play-catch".
In time, Dad couldn't follow the thrown ball very good, and I remember
when he told me he couldn't "play-catch" any more; by then I was
playin' varsity ball in high school, and Dad would come watch me play.
I always still brought his old glove and favorite 'rubber-coated' baseball
along on outings, so he wouldn't think I didn't remember he was
still my hero, whether he could throw or not. I treasure those moments
now, and always try to 'play-catch' with the little cousins of mine,
encourage and compliment them on their improvement,
.......since the last time we 'played-catch'
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