Long Lurks Poems
Long Lurks Poems. Below are the most popular long Lurks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lurks poems by poem length and keyword.
Listen for the rustling sound
of the beady-eyed belly crawlers
deceitful serpents slithering on the ground,
flicking a two-forked tongue and hissing.
They should be heeded as a dire warning
when tempting us as if to say,
"Ssssssss..." they whisper, "Come hither."
Through tall meadow grasses
and across lawns and garden soils
they leave a trail of body wriggles
as rippled footprints.
Lying quietly in wait until
we're near to take a bite when startled.
They inflict pain... physical
and if a creature of duplicity, like Satan,
known for his trickery,
being bitten will have a different connotation
They can be found sidewinding
across desert sands seeking shade.
But warm sands hold another who commands...
the scorpion who claims the desolate land
as its home and is not willing to share.
The stinging tail of a crawling eight-legged one
is a weapon the serpent must consider.
Cleverly it lurks in treacherous shadowy places
trying to avoid the wrath of the desert Kahn.
The serpent and the scorpion,
reptile and deathstalker
dancing together until it ends in an embrace
but not one of sweet surrender
They race to combat, a battle to choose a winner,
Venom from a stinging tail and a stabbing bite
One the victor, the other a feast called dinner
But beneath the moon's golden glow,
carefully perched atop a saguaro
Is the sage one who boldly watches,
biding time with its keen eyes.
An owl lets the stinger and hisser fight
until the flap of its widespread wings
indicates his hunger has waited long enough
to be sated... something both should dread.
Take flight great owl, when day gives way to night
Good hunting to you as you choose your prey
Dive with pinioned wings and your fearful screech
Pointed beak at the ready to pluck on the flesh
Will your choice be serpent or scorpion,
the feast you dine upon tonight?
Want the chance to at least try.
for my words to be right.
And not a blight.
So many thoughts
on the doings of the world today.
Not understanding anything they say.
As the world continues to fall apart,
So hurts my heart.
People living in fear
Their enemy lurks near.
Who is wrong who is right ,
That don't matter ,just the fight.
Just to those that lead
To the victims they pay little heed
Their just another news feed .
Details at five
Pity the souls no longer alive
More brothers and sisters lost
Humanity pays the cost
Life so casually tossed aside.
And I must confide.
I want no one to die.
No family to have to cry.
Why?
No one wins
Who pays for these sins.
Humanity with all its pride.
Caught in midstride..
The future becomes unknown. ... the past has shown,
No one can win all really loose.
But war is still what they choose.
Explain this to me,
Help me to see.
Has hate became so free.
With all this strife.
The cost of human life.
What lesson have we learned.
What has been earned.
this is not right,
But still, we fight.
Morning lurks
In dark alleys;
Haze presides
~~~~~~~~~
Sunbeams seep
Hazy skies ruin;
Magical sunlight
~~~~~~~~~
Hazy horizons
Smoky dust drifts;
Moody suspensions
~~~~~~~~~
Moody haze
Depressed moods;
Choking smog
~~~~~~~~~
Gratitude smiles
Lazy afternoon;
Sanguine sitcoms
~~~~~~~~~
My darling smiles
Inner sunshine;
Travel talk here
~~~~~~~~~
Random journeys
Mystery calls;
Cites fond journal
~~~~~~~~~
Micro tales
Short and sharp;
Food for thought
~~~~~~~~~
Touch of morning
Evaporated dreams;
Reality check
~~~~~~~~~
Moments of madness
Breezy easy frolic;
Joy mingles cheer
~~~~~~~~~
Old friend departs
Sad moments sum;
Fond feelings linger
~~~~~~~~~
Sleepy moments
Loiter somnolent;
Wake-up call
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
13 October 2015
Singapore
You wore your height and weight
As a disguise and armour
Over an old wound
That was still raw
Just never healed
The toddler victim way deep inside
Deciding never again to be frail
Not look like easy prey
Raped by a boy she knew
One she looked up to
He did it then left her by herself
To find her own way home
This little girl of three
All alone to find a way to pick up
The pieces of her broken heart
Of her murdered innocence
Just her and her tattered bloody dress
So disillusioned So lost
Abandoned and forgotten
With no one to protect her
A three-year old so easily betrayed
This three-year old never able to forget
Still there after all these years
Still stunned at being sullied
Still shocked being abandoned
Still crying to be saved
Dying to erase the hurt inflicted
Her shattered world never to be the same
Nothing more than a remaining shell
Like her light had been blown out
And it stayed dark just not right inside
This little girl of three
Was still surviving on her own
In spite of the years
The extra height and weight
The thirty years that passed
Vaguely her older sisters still remembered how
Overnight they’d lost their joyful little sister
And something just wasn’t right
Like so many other stories
Will it ever come to an end
What evil lurks
That preys on little girls of three
AP: 3rd place 2020
Submitted on February 11, 2021 for contest 3 POETRY sponsored by ANTHONY BIAANCO - RANKED 7TH
Midnight's hollow streets...
Rolls Royce crushes cigarette butts as sinful, cold drizzle of animalistic desire
lurks on shadowy corners of locked buildings, for a price... negotiable..
Balconies bear yesterday's broken beads as a jazz musician is soundly asleep.
So much hard numbness in those easy to open bottles...
It rains over useless signs: " Do Not Park On Bridge!"
Skid marks end in despair...
A street light dies totally alone...
The phone rings with a grin looking for a Call Girl.
... Hello?
I tear out my heart and replace it with a wallet
Lipstick crosses boundaries of good taste so romance cannot develop.
I lay down frames with pictures of loved ones, face down...execution style...as I
pour myself a glass of Morality Suicide...I drink it before I let myself go for, yet,
another night of desensitized numbness...
Like seed that overcomes the weeds,
I too want to produce and succeed.
I am weak.
But I am also strong.
I often reach my peak;
But sometimes, things go wrong;
Like the cheetah that runs fast;
But he cannot for long.
He lurks in the grass
And hunts alone.
Every meal is a challenge,
As nature seeks a balance.
Sometimes his prey
Fakes his death,
And later gets away;
And a tired cheetah is all that's left.
He loses the kill.
He loses his meal.
Hungry and saddened,
without a smile or song,
he and family hunger along.
So be aware of fakes.
They're clever like snakes,
Like the dear who sometimes pretend.
It's one way they have learned to defend.
Don't let your gain
Obtained with pain
Go slowly down the drain
With your dreams shattered and stained.
Oh, what a shame that it must be
For me to feel so deserted, so lonely
No one to befriend me, no one that can see
The pain on the inside, the pain that I hide
The times I’ve tried, to make this life work
The times I’ve failed, and the emptiness that lurks
Deep within the depths and the pit of my soul
My inner voice silent, my struggles untold
Will I ever unfold, the sheer mysteries of this earth
Will I ever discover my life’s worth
Humiliation, agony, lessons of youth
Life isn’t worth living, unless someone has proof
Does anyone know the truth, about life and success
For I am ashamed to be living, ashamed to take a breath
And so it is, and I have no doubt, that our Father has given you this fresh word with insight into His work of redemption in our lives. And oh, dear pastor, it is
a most miraculous work of Grace that is absolutely too good to be true. But it is!!!!.
Moreover, there is another party in this 'Battle Royal" for the souls of man. Like a roaring lion, he lurks about seeking a prey to devour. There is a language in his roar that says, "Indeed, it is too good to be true, and it is therefore a lie". And more often, his lie sticks like glue to the ears and minds of his hearers.
So, while you are teaching this powerful word about an identity given and assigned to us by God, our adversary is saying, "Not So!" He is saying, "Your God has indeed gotten rid of your past sins, but what about your present sins? What about your struggles with lying, lust, pride, greed, anger, prejudices, ect. What about your present fornication, your adulterous eyes, your present deceitful business practices, your pride of position and place in society?"
And oh dear pastor, the little sheep whether young or ancient, are soaking up the devil's lies like a sponge. So, I guess my prayer, my petition, my request to the Lord is that I learn to continually recognize how to distinguish the voice of my advocate from the voice of my adversary. And when I hear my adversary saying to me, "Not So!", may I hear a stronger voice from my advocate saying to me, "I Got This!!!!"
11052017PS
I’m tempted to backhand the ones who call
us sixty-somethings old or elderly.
How dare they use such terms describing me?
Infuriating! Boy, do they have gall!
It’s fine to be solicitous and hold
the door—to be polite, but not for fear
that I’m about to croak and Death lurks near
to claim another oldster for his fold.
Now, whippersnappers, I was once like you,
misusing terms of age, as did my peers.
Our ignorance caused us to be unkind!
The elderly are ninety-somethings who
have been on Medicare for thirty years.
You would do well to keep that fact in mind!
February 23, 2018, entered in Robert Haigh's Make Me Laugh Contest
It stands alone four square, white-washed straw-thatched,
small window panes, black frames, and out back chickens hatched,
pecking weedy ground around a single willow.
Set just a little back from single country lane,
high-hedged between the farms with tracks for bumpy tractor rides,
strong arms to try and guide wobble wheels on hardened sun-dry ruts,
to draw trailored dung across winter's dark and muddy fields.
Father's fingers, numb with frost by hand-picked sprouts,
with dawn's dim light not yet bright enough to warm his back.
And hundred weights of summer grain on neck and shoulder,
staggered through barn doors to store, to tip hessian sacks piled high,
sack upon sack.
My mother, crushed and bruised at milking stall,
squeezing squirting teats to fill the milking pale,
to complete them all before mucking out the dung and straw,
then moving on to something more which bends the back
and rubs sodden foot sore in chilled hoof-trodden boot.
This was no Eden's garden which followed war enough to harden
even softer souls.
Yet, it was a paradise for smaller feet to roam free among the fields,
not caring when to make for home and sup on sprouts that dad had picked
and mum had peeled, and soft cooked, with such hard labour,
all overlooked by youth, and by youth's youthful ignorance.
For some, certainly for dad, and for mum,
Eden's garden gave way to thistle and to thorn,
and to sweated furrowed brows serving children's carefree days,
and precious hopes for first and second son.
These rode upon the carts and crossed the dykes in leaky barrels
and threw their stones at tethered bull not caring for the weather,
whether fine, or whether dull, or whether small gloved fingers numbed with chill.
For them that Eden's garden was a Paradise still,
and though choking staining seed was sown, it was not yet grown,
and eyes not yet exposed to serpent's smaller gardens,
composed for ever younger eyes, for the tainting and enslaving of ever younger lives.
That wiley snake now lurks and lies inside dark orchards of delight,
a world explored unseen from pillowed comfort,
and sometimes in the darker night with a different sky blue light,
that Eden web now known world wide, that Eden made with fallen pride,
that Eden oft obscene, that Eden all of lies, that lies behind the pixel screen.