Long Loll Poems
Long Loll Poems. Below are the most popular long Loll by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Loll poems by poem length and keyword.
I loved you from the very first day
Amidst the noise of dish and tray
And the people that attached to them
For I was caught up in this hymn-
A song written solely of brown
And I began to cherish the sound
'Cause your eyes were as notes of changing tune
As high and as low as an evening moon
Yet, always to commingle free
And provide the sweetest melody
Your skin and hair would then combine
To produce a soft and wavy rhyme
Each verse would touch the heart and soul
Trouncing my heart with its gentle loll-
The birds of song that come in Spring
Envy the song of brown you sing
And I have never felt so fine
Your song is in this heart of mine
I only tell of Sunny hours...
I have a quiet routine on cloudy days,
I tighten up and bide with Time, inside,
Sip tea and wait until the clouds that hide
Are blown off into infinity; bright rays
Then show the shadow’s tell upon my dial.
I have, oft, bid Time stop, for Love’s sweet sake...
He says he cannot do it, but for a while
He slows it... thus Lovers their sweet while take
And, secret, bask beneath a welcome Sun...
And loll and take a nap upon the grass...
Meanwhile, I raise my mighty fist of brass
And shout the time (quietly) ‘til day is done.
O! Once a month, I bless the faithful moon,
Who lights the time, while fairies play their tune.
Written On: 2/4/2019
Submitted For: Sundial Wisdom Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
Social uselessness is a virtue of its own,
Those we cast aside, glance at and then away from quickly,
Lest they notice, and smell our guilt,
Are free to live immodestly,
There being no need for posturing
When one's invisible.
Trees that grow lumpen or misshapen
Are left to live long and go unfelled,
Never to be transformed into pencils and park benches.
They carry on, in love with the sun,
Spreading their arms to embrace the sky
Season upon season;
The children skip over their roots
And lovers loll beneath their boughs,
Their shade relieves the weary,
Their age comforts the old.
No carpenter's ambition
Will ever reach their wondrous hearts,
Then, perforce, transform them.
When they kick you, unwanted
Out of the hospital psych ward,
Your illness not important because you've done
Nothing to make the newspapers,
You can wander like a prophet, complete in yourself
Living your truths without needing an apologist.
So it is with those we look away from,
The odd shapes among us who don't fit our spaces.
There's more to be seen by looking between things
Than can be found by looking straight at them;
The unshaped space around us speaks with an incessant tongue
Interpretable only by the spirit.
So if you really want to slip the blindfold for a change
To see the ones hovering around the fringes,
Start by studying their shadows;
If they should deign to speak,
Listen with your eyes,
If you want to feel them,
Reach deep inside yourself and rub the sore spots
You spend the day denying.
Reflection sustains reality
Like dewdrops on a leaf.
Try to understand this like a lesson and you'll fail,
But accept it without judgement;
It will come to you.
No man finds more truth than he who looks for nothing;
This is writ upon the bark of twisted trees.
Read it, then know what wisdom is.
Lay down noiselessly,
as long as you stay still
and breathe lightly, then they will ignore you.
You can smile under your eyelids,
you can pretend that they have legs
and wear business suits.
You can imagine milking the poison
out of their hollow fangs;
like sperm it will ease your mind.
In the viper pit
let the forked tongue's sense your resignation,
let the forked tongue's lick your meekness.
Let the forked tongue's wrap you up
in their sinuous dreams.
On Monday morning they will be waiting
to interrogate your presence,
Their tight shiny pants dick slick
and cocksure. Their pointing shoulder pads
puffed up like rock adders,
high hips sharp and akimbo
pencil-sharp eyes probing,
testing your capacity to still undulate.
If you are male, screw red thorns upon
your rodent parts.
The mice around your spine
are freezing,
wrap them in fox skins
you haggled for at the meat-market.
Grin with your back teeth.
If you are female,
If you have hands,
then hold them up, reveal your armpits,
cream your pheromone-laced musk
into their morning coffee.
Loll with the water-cooler moccasins,
laugh at their venomous jokes.
Feed them scraps of velvety rabbit skin
you have shaved off your inner thighs.
Wear your skirt just a little bit higher.
At the end of the work day,
if your eyes are filled with dried-up slime
remove the crud with a cattle-prod
then slither into a deep sleep.
Dream of eating the juicy white meat
of roasted pythons,
or disemboweling a writhing nest
of Anacondas
with a razor-sharp, steely forked tongue.
.
Pedro was a mouse
A mouse who didn't eat cheese
He would like to have a choice
Of anything he pleased
He was a Spanish mouse
You can tell that by his name
He liked all kinds of things
Not everything the same
He liked eating crumbs of bread
Found upon the floor
Sometimes he found a crumb of cake
And always looked for more
He was quite a greedy mouse
He lived in a mousey hole
He was also very lazy
In his chair, he loved to loll
In the house there also
Lived a cat
He was very skinny
And wearing a big hat
One day while out walking
And much to his surprise
The hat that was too large for him
Fell over this cat's eyes
The mouse was feeling hungry
And spied the skinny cat
The mousey licked his lips and said
I'd like a meal of that
The cat was now so blind
His hat covering his face
The mouse pounced on the cat
And ate him, every trace
The moral of this story
That cats usually eat mice
This mouse is very different
And ate this cat in a trice
It's not always the weakest
That succumb to the strong
This way of thinking
Can sometimes be proven wrong
This is a poem that was on Poetry Soup previously
Half past Summer, two months till Fall
A Monet image, relishing!
Brisk sienna steppingstones sprawl
Half past Summer, two months till Fall
Whiffs of earthy cinnabar loll
Gold aspens strewn embellishing
Half past Summer, two months till Fall
A Monet image, relishing!
It's quiet now, too quiet for Spring:
Sere-brown matted grasses huddle close,
Clinging tightly to patches of congealed Earth,
Nature's chill bosom flinty and unyielding.
No wind yet whips up tremble in bush or tree--
Branches too-long barren of bud or twig--
Or ruffles gentle water's surface in the brook or stream
Of wild woods and forests, yet napping darkly...
...'Til warm breezes whisper, stirring souls and spirits:
Then do wondering necks snap to attention, nostrils flare,
Eyes widen, ears like antennae, twitch on high-alert.
Then do voices emerge, as waving grasses secrete their dew,
As tree buds burst forth, tiny gnarled knobs rubbing rheum drops
From their orbs, freeing visions from winter's howl.
Spring newly resurgent, resplendent, glorious, Inviting!
--As lovers loll the sandy beach, mingling with the moonbeams.
Oh my soul!
Remember you are the living in my body
Why are you so moody?
Be Merry!
Always be glad!
Ponder on the journey you've passed so far
Why did way wave the whole?
Why rake raked the reader?
When men made their max might.
Listen oh my soul!
To the cry of your struggle from the pet
Don’t follow the plan of middle to lost
Be courageous!
Always endure!
Remember your vision to grow despite the foes
You are the pole, prop my proud
You are the sun, shine my sure
Even when the cloud falls apart for me.
Blessed are you my soul
None other like you from the Lord
Wake my inspiration to create a new form
Loll!
Oh be brave!
Don’t delay to lunch your nobleness
The date will drive the day out
The method will make the man main
Even though situation is not ready to suite.
The Valley of the Forbidden
Sat under an oak in the valley of the naked woman
admiring her rounded breasts, a malevolent oak
took offence, not that I minded, after all, it had been
at the same spot for a hundred years, long before the valley had a name.
Suddenly, the tree slapped me
a leathery branch
Oh, pain makes me strong
I forgave the oak and
thought of the pope who, every Thursday evening
flagellated himself, in remembrance
of the day
When he was training for the priesthood, he nearly lost
His manhood to the cleaning lady
The Valley of the Naked Woman has a hidden fountain
is guarded by thorny thistles and impotent apple trees
Those who have drunk her loveliness will never be
sane again, loll in the sunlight of lost ambition
The wicked eye of the oak kept glaring when I hugged
An olive tree, the oak knew I was a lover of the ethical.
Endless ribbon of tattered poetry in pavement,
Trail of tears for wandering vagabonds,
Seek yourself from this time forth betwixt sunrise and senility,
For the tides of the seasons grow weary with long-suffering,
To the hopes thou clingeth unto, by breadth and bound, unwavering still,
To where have thy troubadours vanished my heartland?
Into the unforgiving sea of nights, long past beneath God's eyes,
Tell me, oh mother, who wring thine hands in the terrible simplicity of despair,
Where have thine young sojourned unto, beyond your grieving sight,
Far across the smoking hills of sin and smoldering ash, to find beauty amongst anguish,
Listen not to the cries of death that smite the heart with wild and evil abandon,
And do you not hear the song of the mourning dove, low and yet with hope,
And tell me, Mr. Kerouac, whither hast thou been these few milion moons before,
Among the snow of the peaked mountains, hushed with the silent iron hand of winter
Drifting amply with the loneliness of the four winds of the Swanee, and the mighty
Mississippi
So roll tides, roll, to take you back to the streets of long-lived, and still loved Lowell,
There are ghosts in the alleys, but thou art no specter in the darkness,
Let us focus, with unwavering desire and redemption, to life and death, body and soul,
To you, the wanderer with pen and parchment, who told the nations of life on the
road
And the majestic unyielding awe of every eye and stillness fixed on every tounge,
from the picture thou hast set before the whole of old America,
For you had me at "Praised be man" in the senseless throes of unbridled youth,
And left to dream of moonlit vigils, as can be seen from the pilot seat of a battered
beetle,
Following the footsteps and felt pen, driving across '66, to Seligman and Flagstaff,
To loll and roll, with the unreal unfurling of your manuscript reels, to give freely your
confusion
For a timeless, aimless quote by thee, picturesque and wanting with gusto
"Whether goest thou America, in thy shiny car in the night?"
Blessings from the heartland, Mr. Kerouac.
See you in Big Sur.