Long Loose Poems
Long Loose Poems. Below are the most popular long Loose by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Loose poems by poem length and keyword.
I.
Eros walked slowly through the forestland,
Near Mount Olympus, in the soft twilight.
By his side, he held his bow in his hand,
As he walked on through the advancing night.
Above the forest, the evening was clear,
As a full moon lit up the mountain’s peak,
An endless number of stars filled the skies.
Through the trees, he saw a wandering deer,
That appeared to be searching for a creek—
He quickly followed its path with his eyes.
II.
Reaching back into his quiver with care,
Eros placed an arrow within his bow.
He quietly raised the bow in the air,
Then he slowly crouched his body down low.
He watched the deer at the creek quench its thirst,
As he swiftly trailed it through the thick brush—
Suddenly, there came a beautiful sound.
The music startled both of them at first,
Then Eros and the deer left in a rush—
The arrow fell from his bow to the ground.
III.
As they both followed the sound of the lyre,
They then found themselves now coming nearer
To a woman on a rock near a fire—
Her sound and her beauty became clearer.
The deer slowed down from the pace which it ran,
And shook the loose leaves away from its fur—
Erato had brought an end to the hunt.
Her playing always charmed both beast and man—
The deer calmly listened from behind her,
And Eros stood enamored from the front.
IV.
They listened together, as she played on,
Wearing myrtle and roses in her crown.
Further into her presence, they were drawn—
Surrendering, Eros placed his bow down.
In the moonlight, Erato’s tunic flowed,
Appearing light blue within the green trees,
And her golden lyre began to glisten.
The fading embers of her campfire glowed,
And remained burning in the gentle breeze—
Eros stood and continued to listen.
V.
Overhead, the moon hid behind a cloud,
The fire was soon extinguished in the dark.
Her playing became increasingly loud,
And the fire reignited with a spark.
The playing then soon silenced in the night—
Her precious lyre upon the rock she placed,
And handed Eros a golden arrow.
He then watched the deer leave in the firelight—
Being thankful, for their presence it graced,
And for the sounds from the clearings narrow.
© 2023
Looking at thee, O Tree,
O Nature's miracle maker,
To me ye offer
An amazing journey—
A journey of insight,
That in his growing disconnect with nature,
In his arrogance, nature to master,
Man has only plied his own plight.
Thou art O Tree,
An astonishing marvel of science,
O keeper of man's conscience.
O giver of so much care,
Ye let two humans breathe enough clean air.
Ye so much atmosphere cool,
Ten air-conditioners barely can,
Thou hast many a miracles so rare.
Let man reflect standing still
On the growing evil
That he has let loose.
Reflect on the path he must choose
To mitigate his evil,
Ye show, great journeys happen standing still.
_________________________________________
Ode |31.08.2020|
Heavily, I lay down my head.
You said this time would be different.
As blue as the evening sky, this is true.
Each bruise is in a different place.
My face faces southward to the lowest degree,
dirty from your unwashed hands.
Plans are rearranged, like my shifted skin.
You say you want to begin again.
The gin's poured anew, like wholesome juice.
Loose are your boundaries and new broads,
goddesses of lust and deceit.
You cheat yourself of what could be.
Freedom becomes my dissociative hope.
Soap never washed me clean.
I lean into an open dream,
a different time, a new paradigm.
10-9-24
spring-tide breeze blows,
tickling blossoms on a plum
branch, set free, loose and
giggling in the air, dancing
in the gold sun like pixies ...
capricious in their flight, a
whimsical drift, aromatic,
elegant and flawless like
the wild wishes of a child ...
floating to purpose anew,
to alight on a dream afar,
enigmatic, joyous, true ...
as blessed in the journey
as they are in the order
of their exquisite design,
as sure with their destiny
as they are in the perfect,
sweet, resplendent sacrifice ...
sublime essence of being,
the lifeblood of existence ...
a bright, crisp, glorious
morning breath of nature ...
itself.
~ Honorable Mention ~ in the "Strand Pick E, Any Theme, Any Form" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
Ye….
Bu….
Ye..
Woman, shut your trap
I can’t get a word in edge ways because of your flap
Let me speak and you will see
It was another bird having an affair who looked like me
Shut your clanging man hole, for goodness sake
Me head is splitting, give me a break
Now you will suffer from lockjaw
As I clamp your beak with my left claw
Who the hell is this other female bird?
I would not cheat on you that would be absurd
Look around we all look alike
Do something useful like loose weight, get a bike
If you keep making a scene I’ll take a hike
Don’t you dare flap your wings at me
With your tweet, tweet, tweet twittering
Leave me alone, get a life
Oh forgive me madam, wrong wife…
** Francine Roberts’ contest**
No particular rhyme nor,
reason explains to boot
within mind of this (boyish
looking) ole coot,
why sudden flashback didst
kickstart metered metrical foot
when during bout with anorexia nervosa,
I did not give a hoot
analogously harried and swiftly kicked
with barebones styled tailored jackboot.
Said eating disorder, sans
self starvation arose
without explicit explanation
this grown man tries
till he gets himself bluenose
to recapitulate an ill fate,
he conveniently chose
still baffled, thus
without aversion disclose,
silence of echoes
confidential matter
I willingly expose,
said trauma that
nearly did foreclose
emotionally mortgaged corporeal property
boarded figurative
windows, whereat up goes
for sale sign testament to
recalcitrant stalwart hardnose
father and mother felt
obligation to interpose
lest premature demise,
would invariably juxtapose
dealing mortal psychological
(albeit unfair) blow
to parents plus two sisterly kiddoses
perhaps family pets (cats and dogs),
whose meows and lows
punctuating equilibrium
volunteering, (when suicide
gripped stranglehold)
spurring personal tragedy
with sincere manifestoes
(mainly not a verse
to dabble with poetry)
striving to cater to nonheroes
to thwart tragedy, whose nose
(mine) sniffs fallout mainly upon me
woebegotten life somber
(time to cue oboes),
asper the plethora of
influences that predispose
one in the throes
of adolescent experiencing
oh ma dog...gushing hormones
analogous to young lives
loose then taut like mama's yoyos!
One of the many things I love about working in a bookstore is how, every now and then, the magic of the store unwraps…Like the other day when a mother sat in our big chair reading a book…with her daughter seated on her lap.
It reminded me of when I was a little boy sitting atop my mother’s knee…and how the world became a magical place…when she would read to me.
I smiled thinking how, like me, this girl is in for a wild ride…just because of the time her mother took…to introduce her to the wonders…inside the pages of a book.
She’ll learn how a mouse can run up and down a clock…she’ll meet a storyteller named Mother Goose…she’ll learn how a cow can jump over the moon…and what to do with three mice on the loose.
She’ll learn about three pigs…their houses…about some scary brothers Grimm…she’ll learn about a boy who kept crying wolf…and all the trouble that followed him.
She’ll learn a monkey can be curious…how our need for heroes will never end…she’ll learn to say good night to the moon…and how a spider and a pig can be friends.
And the day will come when from her mother’s knee…it will be time to say goodbye…The day she’ll take what her mother has taught her…flap her own wings…and fly.
I imagine every time she opens a book…opens to its wonder, its laughter…its mystery…she’ll smile remembering where it all began…atop her mother’s knee.
So on this day and every day remember…its never too late to start reading…
for inside each book a magical world awaits…
and herein lies the beauty of reading a book…
because…it’s also never too late.
The pen is but a dormant tool, and yet, when brought to life,
it channels a creative force, transforming thought to word.
When animated by a muse, unlike a surgeon's knife,
it harvests what lies fallow, and sets loose the captive bird.
It channels a creative force, transforming thought to word;
it opens an imprisoned mind and lets it wander free.
It harvests what lies fallow, and sets loose the captive bird,
and sheds light on the dark within, so other souls might see.
It opens an imprisoned mind and lets it wander free;
its traces quiet racing minds, set anxious hearts at rest,
and shed light on the dark within, so other souls might see.
Catharsis flows from every stroke, as writers will attest.
Its traces quiet racing minds, set anxious hearts at rest;
a poet's pen is different from any tool he owns.
Catharsis flows from every stroke, as writers will attest;
it breathes life in where none is found, and fleshes out bare bones.
A poet's pen is different from any tool he owns;
when animated by a muse, unlike a surgeon's knife,
it breathes life in where none is found, and fleshes out bare bones.
The pen is but a dormant tool, and yet, when brought to life…
—————
for the Pantoum On Writing Poetry Poetry Contest
sponsored by Milton Hankins
written on 11/28/22
No wonder why she was envied for her shiny hair
not for her agility, beauty and whim;
her name was Wilderness Flower...
how could her mother have given her such a name?
Unique and beautiful was her superb dancing,
friends made fun of her...humming,
" Wilderness Flower, why do you hide your laugh?
Are you impersonating someone else? "
She ignored those silly remarks,
by gently landing on her feet,
" Can you dance, not leap like foxes? "
she responded with a voice so meek.
" Surely we can and much better than you, of course! "
They challenged with a cowardly threat,
Wilderness Flower replied, " Why do you sweat? "
They stared at her and shouted with voices too coarse,
" Prove to us how talented you are! "
" we are better trained than you by far! "
She defiantly yelled at them performing with laughter on her tongue
and would they let her get away with it, or prove her wrong?
On stage she performed for a bunch of fools
who didn't think she was the very best...
and would Wilderness Flower set them loose? "
" Why spoil it with hastiness? Let them wait and guess! "
Was her murmur that not even a soul could hear,
so why they acted so immaturely and allowed fear?
On the shining floor she intentionally slipped screaming,
" I broke my knee...drive me to the emergency room,
I may not make at all and die on the way over! "
" Don't die on us, Wilderness Flower...we are sorry for our bullying!"
And pledging they cried and swore seeing their guilt loom.
" You fanatics played with my emotions with convincing flair! "
She attacked them with loud scolding words.
" But since you admitted your foolishness, I will forgive you all,
if you let me make fun of your silliness and die a sweet death
by laughing as hard as I can! Wilderness Flower exclaimed.
" Please do, we can accept that, but promise not to return as a mad bull! "
They all crossed their fingers as she went into deep sleep...
did she really give up her soul for some silly dancers who did more than leap?
Entered in Natalie the Rouge Rhymer's contest,
" Die A ' Fun ' Death Contest "
She carries the weight of the world on her shoulders
In different colours and hues
There is always a favourite to grab on the run
reflecting it’s endless use.
It has all of these compartments
Exactly like ones in her head
To store different items, for later use.
The compact is kept to powder her nose
To hold her dignity high
A little blush to add to the rush
Radiating a passionate glow
The eyeliner comes next to reflect
The boundaries to her soul
The stick is quick to colour those
Lips of Gratitude.
Tucked away is a rubber band or two
Searching frantically for a moment
to escape to collect herself once more
suddenly coming in hand the band
to tie the loose strands
Looking dignified once more.
And old love letter that shows that she cares
and reflects all that she is
A pretty handkerchief to wipe away tears and pain
The little note book hidden in a nook
to call upon her vivid imagination.
A bottle of Perfume a signature tune
That scents up a room,
Heads turn with all eyes on her
No time to look the sling on her back
She is secure and covered once more
Her handbag coming to the rescue.