Long Maned Poems
Long Maned Poems. Below are the most popular long Maned by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Maned poems by poem length and keyword.
IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY - LXXVII
IF ever I had a country proud of its wall-less porous boundary
And if ever by no mistake of the Supreme High Command of the International Militaro-Business Conspiracy I were appointed the CHIEF TARIFF IMPOSER and Eminence Grise of and on all the self-righteous realms rocambolesque republics and renegade run-of-the-mill rotten rotting rostrum-raving riven ribald rascally rickety refugee-raised democracies
Mark my words I’ll put an end to the raping of my dearly-beloved national integrity by
One, importing all available rutting Queen Bees of the "Killer African Bees" and have them breed with local wasps of high pedigree in the front-line of battle along the Southern Border under every tree where I’d let Red Ant-Hills multiply free
Two, import Myanmar Pythons with a taste for digesting young fresh human flesh, mixed with the local brand of Everglades alligators, down the Mississippi and the Colorado River sprinkled liberally with the Grand Canyon brand of the Rattle-Snake with their tell-tale warning-rattle nipped off, together with the silent army of Black Widows clad in their enticing mantilla webs, as a second-line of defense against the illegal refugee
Next, if they still keep coming I’d roundup all the lazy good-for-nothing thick-maned Bisons of the prairies and have them lined up for a Charge-of-the- Heavy-Brigade stampede by whipping their asses to the sound of the Land of the Free
And if this doesn’t stem the tide of illegal immigrants, drug dealers and tourists with empty pockets, I’d call on the faithful Black and White striped Tribe of Appalachian SKUNKS with my tonitruant bugle, line them up so that their posteriors faced Tierra del Fuego and let them squirt to their hind-hearts’ desire even at the risk of driving the entire population out of the country
Yes Siree, this’s what I’d do as the Eminence Grise and Chief Imposer of Tariffs of My Beloved Contree
And this even if I never ever had no country worth saving for the ennui of a penny
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, June 11, 2019
Dull, dank depressing Summer Solstice. A pretty chesnut pony ridden by a little girl on
the pavement (sidewalk to our cousins across the Pond) wishing to be a wild rider, but
not along the High Street in this once BLUE Radical part of town if only both were not
escorted on foot by two women, the mother and the child's sister?
Astounded! I said to a bloke pasing by, "That's legal?!" half like a full capon judge, half
like a Radical. The bloke broke into a wry smile, shrugging his shoulders replied, "Don't
intervene". With a pretty white maned pony, two determined women and the little
hoped to be wild rider wearing a blue helmut, I knew that I was on to a loser, as we
say; later in the day when a teenager on a bike blocked the pavement - er sidewalk-
when I and two women, one in a wheelchair and another pushing it could not get by
the cyclis;t, I, 'The Big I Am', as my father in his dotage called me, with no stentorian
tone, but authoritative and polite, he moved! An intervention that worked.
Flabbergasted! When the pretty pony with the white mane and until then co-operative
demeanour move left blocking the side ah, you know what I mean, the mother led
the pony, the so assurred rider in the blue helmet with her elder daughter - all -
onto the road, the pony reared! The mother puzzled said, "She's frightened!"
seemingly not expecting any traffic. The appearance of a pony on a pavement, you
know by now what, getting as busy as bees in midsummer, as narrow as a path across
a field in midsummer, until a semblance of order returned with pedestrians, motorists
and the long suffering pony suffered itself to be led across the road to the safety of the
car park - ur- ing lot of the Baptist chapel where behind lay a graveyard of
Anabaptists, so seriously radical!
(Aborted attempt to mend fences, -
which version overly pedantic for
her minimal leisure/down time as
full time student at University.)
no...no...no...this tree
mend dose electronic
endeavor of mine, ya see
NOT predicated on
violating sworn
confidentiality, which re:
maned wolf heartedly intact NEVER
your privacy broached
only with therapist (every Monday
at 2:00 p.m. I see, who pre
sides in Collegeville), nee
NOR didst "mother" Abby
give spoiler alert, an agree
meant made, but
this feeble ambition,
sans non rhyme
mark hubble epistle
awoke within me
to risk, (perhaps
getting rebuffed, viz from me
to thine eldest daughter thee),
Versailles till young lady, asper
your lifelong lee
gee in of ill feelings toward dis
dada festering, figuring, key
ping raw emotions
within our respective
most sacred soulful place, this
my atypical modus operandi
i.e. theatrical poetical,
and metaphorical jee
git sue sparring
move minus referee
encapsulating dudgeon -
unintentionally
inflicting gushing, streaming
widening gulf,
and/or long fostering,
when these 21st
century days witness
littoral breach comb
ming dramatic hee
ving (akin to hurry
cane Florence's
club footing glee
fully bearing, dub
bling, and fuming “she”
bore down with
full might) free
lee wreaking havoc as if
both of us viewing
the other as an
unknown fierce arc enemy
thus, uncontrollable non
Joe king) paternal
feeling constricted wherein wry
ting on the figurative brick
wall (near the "FAKE"
Firth of Forth),
in good times found why...,
Growing, manifesting, enlarging as the minutes pass. Teeth mashing together, grinding back and forth, licking its lips voraciously, eyes keening in for a meal, done letting time circle around, done chasing it down like a dog chases its tail.
It's ready.
Done playing around, done waiting for you to make your move, play your pawn, finish your turn. It's a monster, it's a goon, grumbling and roaring like a diversely maned lion, looting your short-term memories, leaving behind a cloudiness, leaving you dazed and clueless, for it drains you of your energy, of your buoyant and sunny mood.
It's ready.
Mouth open, hair tingling, feet dancing, jiving in a blithesome-hearted manner, for it sees the path to take, the move to make, the way to end this useless skirmish, this wasteful battle. It grabs away, acquisitively purloining your appetite, while growing minuscule as you plunge into your food and munch away, at an indefatigable pace.
Now It's done.
But it will come back, emerge from the shadows and grow like a weed, fast and furiously regaining its hold, its control over you, for like a charm, it will trance you, cause your eyes to gaze away, stunned, and arms lay out, like a zombie.
And it will rise.
Rise like an eagle, soaring above your hopes and desires, making itself first on your to-do list. Gliding you away, far from your soul, from your percipient choices and inquisitive moves. And it will keep itself tucked away, like a python in the open ground, but it still constrains you, dampers your evocatively brushed eyes, your unfeigned beam, and your superficially inextinguishable body language.
Form:
SONG OF THE EVENING
In a lullaby song of the evening.
In the background a cricket sings,
corellas fly past, to their resting tree
high upon silhouette wings.
Red sky widens and covers the west
with half sun glowing and gold,
there’s stark contrast between heaven and earth
as life in a pondage unfold.
Bullfrog! Bullfrog! Clearing your throat,
reed warbler should be going to sleep.
‘Sweet pretty creature,’ call of willy wagtail
and crickets continue to cheep.
In a lullaby song of the evening,
new stars are beginning to shine,
plovers’ static call fills the growing dim sky
and the reed warbler's calling decline.
So when the changeover’s completed,
and day has now turned into night,
these lullaby songs of the evening,
are now hidden well out of sight.
Bullfrog! Bullfrog! Clearing your throat,
and crickets continue to cheep.
‘Sweet pretty creature,’ call of willy wagtail,
the ringtail awake from their sleep.
A red fox is yapping, then a mournful drawl,
the mopoke hoots steady and soft.
Radar pings in flight of the wattled bat
echo with it flying aloft.
A koala growls in the manna gum tops,
a sugar gliders’ stealing its space,
maned geese flying blind from dam to dam
moan ‘gnow’ for the night to embrace.
The lullaby song of the evening is dying,
where hunter and hunted exist,
for the art of survival is simply relying
on mute vigilance in their midst.
Bullfrog! Bullfrog! You are silent now,
reed warbler is sleeping at last.
Plovers’ are quiet, crickets no longer sing
the moon in a stillness drifts past.
p u l s e s
diastolic
systolic
tides
e l a s t i c
edge of ebb where water and salt and memories mix
steals the breath between my inhale and exhale
plovers chasing stretchy waves
tight-fisted oysters hoarding pearls
winds blowing our laughter this way that way
two kites flirtin’ and floatin’ in a sea of clouds
tin foil tongues with spindrift speech
breathes sea songs upon the shore's breast
sea-fingers strum beach skin glistening
sea-drums thrum seashell ears listening
yet I wince as hungry riptides swallow
my pebbles from the shore
nothing long-lost leaves nothing longed for
I yearn for riptides to swallow my sorrow
instead of small joys and unadorned dreams
swallow me in ragged state instead of smooth but
famished riptides can’t swallow my jagged stone whole
cyan dancers grow untamed and white maned
their crimes their confessions
s w a s h across expanse of dry seabed surging
I recall our cupid kites tUmBLinG in growing flow
wet sands a mirror for west-sky-fire reflections
an ancient temple of quartz-grit-sages sifts waves
confessors with silence-filled voices
just beyond and amid the t h r o b s of tides
A new girl in a new state
began High School knowing noone
Seemed an unlikely trajectory
She'd be befriended by the sweethearts
Tracy and Jenny, blond peas in pods
Adorable, butter doesn't melt best pals -
Sigrid, been to sixteen different schools
Divorced parents, stalker psychotic father
Stole Tracy and Jenny's glass friendship stone
Jealousy to have had their staid childhood, fire
Two became a trio as messey maned ginger
Shoved her bizarre self into the candy sweet bowl
Bitter lingered, how could it not, -
Witnessing their clean smiled naive perfection
Stability and friendship took the edge off pain
Stabbed like clock hands turn minutes to years
What happened to gorgeous bob haired Jenny
She was TracyandJenny no separation
Somehow Sigrid found herself spending time
with Tracy, and literally lusted after her friend
Seemingly unaware of how perfect her looks were
Beauty spot, creamy skin, deep teal eyes,
Flat stomach blossoming curves, utter prom queen
Wide smile, girlish charm, cute family unit
Envy madly bubbled in Sigrid's psyche
Between them, no similarities. Just a longing...
Tracy moved to opposing hill house, further from Jenny
Her Dad helped build it, visible from Sigrid's window
- Could there be a chance, all these decades later
That Sigrid could strangely inhabit some
of Tracy's feminine and delicate traits
- I bloody hope so
7th October
The old parson ministered to his flock where'er they might dwell,
In his well-traveled buggy drawn by his faithful horse, Old Nell.
Nell and he had weathered snow, rain and stinging gale,
Sharing the Master's Good News throughout rural hill and vale.
A humble country parson was all he ever aspired to be,
Knowing the material rewards would be scarce for his family,
But he had a fire in his soul that transcended all worldly goals.
He dedicated his life to serving humankind and saving languid souls!
The white-maned parson served his far-flung fold with dedication.
He was welcomed by saint and sinner alike with love and admiration!
Whether it be in the local saloon or Victorian parlor, it mattered not,
He put folks at their ease always proffering a pertinent mot!
He encouraged hapless souls stranded upon life's treacherous shoals,
Counseling them, helping to redirect their individual goals.
His congregation sat rapt, hearing his sermons so germane,
Simple messages about the remission of sin for which Christ was slain!
He performed baptisms, weddings and funerals for many generations,
Sharing with folks their sorrows, tears and joyous celebrations!
At the end of his earthly quest, God bestowed upon his brow a crown,
Saying, "Parson, you have served Me and My flock with great renown!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
"Why is it that everyone seems younger to me these days?", I muse.
'Tis enough to give a feller a serious bout of the blues!
Wasn't that long ago that everyone looked so old to me.
My! How times have changed! I wonder how that can be?
When I was a young lad struggling to get through school,
Schoolmarms looked so old and dour (as a general rule).
Nowadays, they seem so young, chic and so engaging!
(Alas, could this be because it is me who's aging?)
The other day I saw my doctor for my annual screen.
To my alarm he looked to be about the age of seventeen!
His credentials I viewed, so I guess he knew what he was doing.
(Is my jaundiced view due to all these years I'm accruing?)
I recall white-maned preachers I knew as a wayward youth.
My preacher is so young he should be in Sunday School, forsooth!
But I admit that he stirs my lethargic soul with masterful skill.
(Lord! Forgive my acerbic views - is it because I'm over the hill?)
Even the admirals, generals and presidents look so young today.
I reckon there ain't no use in fretting about it anyway.
'Tis some consolation that they'll all lose their youth so dear.
(Oh! How I yearn for the carefree, feckless days of yesteryear!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
OLD AND NEW 1 : CIRCUS
Giraffe on anxious heels
bought in Sandton, toddle
along with intense haste
a dream point unheard
lipstick smudges, mascara
leaks of AK47 dust she rifled
Bullfrog madly croaks
vying for a place in a stagnant
pool, scoffing brandied chocolate
pinched nerves, heart infested
throat on a tightrope
Is the net below safe ?
Doe dark-eyed, hips to sink
into, marbled beauty stuck
in corner stage believing that
the circle offered freedom, unable
to move for want of a thatched
roofed house, chrysanthemumed
Lions and lionesses rounded pillars
new regal maned performers
late for debate, entrance timed
for a precise shapely attack
on buck across the atrium who
practiced prances early morning
In the middle stood Pharaoh
with invisible crook and flail
a sleek panther serpent eyed
veils of disinterest, ears on end
at plebs in the arena, acts like
phantoms danced along a
smooth mental screen
Fidget they would on
maroon re-upholstered
benches over which not
even Bach could flow
mints popping pockets
On the horizon they
disappeared into an African
circus becoming marula trees
on our border
©GhairoDanielsPoetry1996