Long Lurked Poems
Long Lurked Poems. Below are the most popular long Lurked by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lurked poems by poem length and keyword.
In England’s pleasant pastures amid the free wild flowers
Lie pagan ways the wise ones do not mock
And one adept at harnessing these ancient rural powers
Was Oggwool Fleece, the black sheep of the flock
Oggwool was old, much older than the old oak it was said
Beneath whose boughs the dark sheep’s plans are sealed
‘Twas said the sheep had come back from the other side of dead
With the darkness in that corner of the field.
The farm hands better knew to venture in the oak’s strange shade
Or to the long grass that the darkness gripped
Where Oggwool lurked amid the spells and potions he had made
A sheep unshorn and magically undipped.
Not limited by four hooves in working his deft skill
Unhindered in ambitious sheepish plans
Harnessing the dark elves to do his dark sheep will
Dexterously with little dark elf hands.
From that darkened corner of that English country field
His influence extends itself outside
His arcane woolly web through which his mystic powers wield
Reaching parts and persons spread worldwide
He has extensive vineyards in Italy and Spain,
He has mining operations in Peru
He owns a flock of ostriches down in the Ukraine
(Although he never quite intended to)
He’s engineering world events on scales beyond the ken
He has his hooves in business of all kinds
He interferes remorselessly in world affairs of men
With night-time thoughts drip-fed to human minds
Little green men fly through space in saucers flat and round
On interstellar missions without cease
But on their furthest journey yet, their enterprise is bound
To the ever growing plans of Oggwool Fleece
The politicians spin their words and armies shoulder arms
And yet do not beyond their small acts see
But Oggwool Fleece with thistle skills and other sheepwise charms
Is planning how to rule a galaxy!
On second take..Lowe is not that great.' In fact i hear of
Late.' He wants 'bio meat on our plates?' Its beyond the
Pale.' Its all lookng stale, i beleive its time ti bale.' I had
Hoped against hope; for better.' Yet he's another bird of
False feather.' Along with Farage? Although giving and
Asking for it (large!) In support i mean.' What a dejecting
Scene is seen.' Yet to be fair (their was an irk) between
My shoulder blades it lurked.! So i must jettison any writes
Of support.. This type of skull-duggery appeares fully rife.?
( I must choose!) Ashby versus White..I do not consent in
Ink' to write.)
The Queen is dead; a kingdom mourns
And all through her domain
There will be countless tributes
To her long amazing reign.
Ascending to the throne so young,
She ruled with style and grace
And no one (certainly not Charles!)
Will ever take her place.
To us, across the pond, she seemed
So decorous and prim,
Requiring a curtsy (from a her)
Or bow (from him).
Her matching suits and hats defined
Her monarchy and yet,
Beneath that stiff demeanor
Lurked the Queen most never met.
I once read that her handbag,
Always draped across her arm,
Was moved quite subtly to
Her other elbow, an alarm.
She did this when she’d had enough
And wanted to take leave,
A signal that her handlers
Were on lookout to receive.
That story showed her human side;
Will wonders never cease?
We’ll miss you, Queen Elizabeth,
And may you rest in peace.
I accidentally stepped into the women's restroom
Turned around to quickly leave
Noticed there was no one there
Then turned back around for a manly peak
What the ladies do in here
Has always been a mystery
So I lurked about and scouted out
To let all the other men know what I've seen
First thing right off the bat I noticed
What appeared to be a sofa against the wall
Thinking it a pretty fancy toilet
Not to be hidden in a stall
As curiosity was killing this cat
I went over to lift the lid
The guys will never believe this
A couch is really what it is
No wonder the women take so long
When they say they'll be right back
They all head together to the restroom
To take themselves a little nap
Then over on the counter
I see bottle after bottle after bottle of perfume
I know that girls like to smell nice
But you have to wonder exactly how good
Just then I decided to crawl under the counter
A little more in depth into the mystery
That's when I heard the voices
Coming down the hallway at me
I can't tell you how many hours
I was stuck in that bathroom stall
But I can tell you it felt like forever
As the women jabbered and talked...
...and this being a holiday weekend
They shut the lights and locked the door
Which I guess is okay since I needed a break
And no one's here to hear me on the couch as I snore
Of HALLOWEEN parties of college
Long, long time ago, I can remember
SILHOUETTES of skeletons filled the living room
As party goers masked in the OPEN
Their spooky night blooming with GLOOM
Spiders, bats and ghosts lurked in the DARKNESS
DESCENDING on the campus
On a first year student filled with DRED
I stood alone that night, cornered
My teeth chattering at the CREEPY crawlers
With those Jack-O-Lanterns eyes WALKING over me
I was captivated, spelled and charmed
The rites of passage firmly borne
In the morning I was no longer a wall flower
connie pachecho
10/21/22
Not for contest
The sun sank on the transit by and by
Took away the colors of the chameleon sky,
The masked face of clever craft on display
Enticed me to walk on the dark garden pathway.
The fluid dreams the sinister night sips
I didn’t hear the footfall of evil as it creeps
The devious intent prowled to devour
As the facade dissolved in the dark hour.
In the desolate domain of fright feral
On the gloomy ground under the sky dismal
You crept as the creature of sordid night
The haunting me you stalked out of sight.
You slithered from wilderness as nightrider
Unmasked, you morphed into a brute creature
On the hunt the unsuspecting predator keen
You lurked as the sinister sly animal of sin.
With the arcane acumen of the trickster devil
You crawled as squalid silhouette of menace evil
Stealthily into my being ingesting the essence prime
Consumed from my soul the ambrosia sublime.
_____________
March 29, 2023
For A Brian Strand Premiere No 1204
Disguised as an Apple Computer Technician.
He initially hacked Macbook Pro laptop.
He (alias Harvey Specter)
planted seeds of suspicion
that criminal activity prevailed
within my geographic area in general
or questionable individuals
lurked within or without
Citizens Bank in particular,
and suggested yours truly (me)
to be wary about
over friendly employees
at aforementioned capital one
storied financial institution.
Said gonif (pulled a masterful subterfuge)
inveigling yours truly to carry out heist
of the twenty first century
against his honest good n plenti resources
(subsequently checking and
savings accounts severely depleted).
The invisible webbed wide whirled net
ensnared me lock, stock and barrel.
Little did I know
the spellbinding impact
until the dirty deed done dirt cheap
found writer of these words
figuratively holding the empty bag
where I got forced to trod
analogous highway to hell
courtesy diabolical, inimical, satanical...
devil may care disguised cozener
who wove believable scenario
claiming Citizens Bank employees
involved in suspicious conspiracy
to siphon off hard earned bucks.
I submissively consented
to participate and cavalierly disperse
freshly minted Benjamins
suddenly linkedin
chain of events
rocketing, kickstarting, and experiencing
a worse horror than death
mortified at being bushwhacked.
The feeble explanation, justification,
qua obliteration, ululation
trumped with lame excuse
yours truly not in his right mind.
Mind control, (albeit remotely)
assassinated rationality while hypnotically
feeling commanded, governed,
née kid lee killed
mine esprit de corps
among kith and kin
consigning thrifty troubadour
to the depths of despair
wishing termination of existence
in tandem with damnation, interrogation,
penalization, et cetera of nasty brute.
After series of unfortunate events brought,
where innocence and naïveté caught
teetotaler tempted to drink deadly draught
of top quality hemlock sold
at many bustling entrepôt
cuz now existence fraught
with torturous quaking
nauseating, kickstarting hatred
of self, thus restitution
of funds sought
by folks willing bestow largesse.
If yes check out (fiasco from fraudsters
frazzles father)
legitimate platform
where charitable people swarm
and toys are sold.
The Lady knew he lurked but felt no harm or fear
from the knight who watched her from the wood.
His only thought was of the lovely Lady Guinevere,
bethrothed to Arthur, so he knew where he stood.
Young Lancelot, feigning interest, ignored her glance.
Insolent, she though him to be, as arrogant as an ass!
Til the day she caught his eye, hoping for just a chance
for a truce to be called, so their enmity would pass.
A meeting in the mists of Avalon, Lancelot and Guinevere
spoke of new beginnings and when their passion blazed,
love found its true course, from which neither would veer.
A vow was made that no white flag was ever to be raised.
Is there a word for when you love something because it is horrible
and it's horrible because it's true,
and specifically, because it's you?
That's why my chosen album cover
adorns, probably, a fine record,
but not one I have special feeling about,
instead of a great psychedelic cover
from the great psychedelic musical era -
or a cover like that of HMS Donovan,
featuring children's poems put to music
(listen to The Walrus and The Carpenter).
Imagine my surprise, when, grown up, I saw
portions of The Maze, by William Kurelek,
on the cover of Fair Warning, a Van Halen album.
A flashback to being ten,
reading the Time-Life book on psychology
about madness in art.
The cover shows a few of the best scenes -
the boy being beat up
while classmates cruelly feast on the spectacle,
the boy, his progress thwarted
by a brick wall.
These are scenes from The Maze,
self-images
in a painting of the inside of the artist's skull.
We see his memories -
a curled-up rat, dead,
an older boy looking a his own arm,
devoid of flesh,
as if it were not his own,
as death lurked
curiously close by,
a helpless lizard
being attacked by
a murder
of crows,
and my favorite,
right on top,
the boy,
alone and dejected,
in a wheat field -
thrilling,
shocking,
lonely,
to see,
in an artist's work,
oneself.
Would I be so ever bold, to boast that I am blessed,
Throw back my shoulders and proclaim,
"Too blessed for any stress."
LIFTER OF MY HEAD
No, I can't take a moment's pride
or allow it ever said.
He is the Glory of my story,
Lifter of my head!
I would not that any envy,
My stride, my ride, my dress,
The light within that makes me gleam,
replaced a dark and tangled mess,
Although I'm lifted high to soar,
on wings of glory spread,
Oh it is Jesus lifting me,
Lifter of my head.
Yes, I live the abundant life,
A life that was bought by grace.
For I was once fit for the grave,
Beheld death's morbid face.
Death lurked and waited my demise,
But God raised me from the dead,
His matchless love, no man can measure,
Lifter of my head.
So if it seems that no one’s for you,
Know that you are not alone,
There’s more for, than is against you,
Even when all friends are gone,
So let the Lord have all the glory,
God has the last word said,
My amazing story for His awesome glory,
Lifter of my head.