Long Motioning Poems
Long Motioning Poems. Below are the most popular long Motioning by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Motioning poems by poem length and keyword.
There is a flow that tempts the beat to expand beyond the tempo of social endeavors.
I taste the sweet sweat of the dance that beads into my mouth like nectar of magick coursing through me to become more fluid.
Stretching out beyond the ether like a current swirling, swelling, and then motioning me deeper into bliss that vibrates in space time
Time that dissolves into synchronicity with movement of the dance
A dance of ecstasy watching her move and knowing that the moment is never ending, yet hinges on its own conclusion that most certainly must come.
Shoulders smoothly rocking, hips swaying, and eyes too demure to let words encase them with their limits.
This is the treasure of life being lived.
This is the worth of being.
Wistful ferns, mossy stumps, crumbling
Rotting away, hesitating…
Beneath the shadows of old oaks,
Weathered gray coats, skin
Wrinkled and archaic, ancient
Wise as the liquid voice of creeks
Sighing and breathing out
Echoes of peace, serenity, grace
Praising with the stream of inspiration
Flowing, whispering over smooth stones
Colored in earthy browns, coffee
Auburn like the leaves in the autumn
Playful monarchs loiter near wildflowers
Soundless, still songs dancing
Waltzes of wonderful, wonderous, wonder
Motioning to the silence, gesturing
In rhythms of brilliant wings, graceful
Murmuring blessings across the green carpet
Heartfelt joy painting the thoughts
In laughter from the peaceful winds
Alive like the words of a bullfrog
As it croaks its way across the edge of a pond
Bringing life to the summer, grumbling
Appreciation into the sunlight’s bold fervor
Kindling passion from the spirit
Roaring with imagination, fulfillment
Moonlight softens the night
Sharing its home with the twinkling stars
As they shimmer through the sky
Sparkling like glitter, glistening and promising
Hesitating across the heavens, tossing
Rays of affection to the darkness
Ebbing and flowing with nocturnal blessings
Nature’s personality, wild, welcoming
Brings the soul a sweetness
That is only grown from genuine nurturing
Nourishment of sun and rain, dew
Softly kissing petals on the morning after
Moonlight turns to a lemony sun
Erasing the dark with a heavy hope
Anticipation of the moment when spring
Turns to summer – summer to autumn,
Autumn to winter and winter to spring…
Awaiting the moment when the new
Bursts quietly, calmly, through the past
To change everything to fresh, original
Alert and energetic – promise of the future!
Listen to the breathes of praise…
Lifted on the tongue of nature’s gentle voice!
The principal knocked on my school counselor door’s window beckoning for me to join her on the other side. I shook my head, ’no,’ motioning to the boys who were laughing like full-blown loons, smacking each other in the head with pillows, almost landing into the cement walls of the counseling office. She rapped again and gave me her infamous glasses to the end of her nose, pinchy face look.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she said as I crept outside, under the un-watchful eyes of four third –grade- puppies who wouldn’t have noticed if I had disappeared at this point.
Her mouth was set tight, straight; angry-like almost.
“That’s why I’m the counselor, and you’re the principal,” I informed her. Without taking my eyes off the boys, I leaned in and yelled, “YOU CALL THAT A HIT?” Suddenly everything got much smackier and happier and rather quickly I am pleased to announce.
Four routinely unhappy dour-faced eight –year –old boys were now jumping over the bean bags, holding each other in place, in a big huddle as they happily smacked and laughed and giggled and gleed together in the healthiest puppy heap I’d ever seen. Possibly the first puppy pile any of them had ever experienced, and now it looked like, maybe the last.
Wanting them to fully enjoy it, I yelled, “My Grandma hits better than you four!” and it started up in full delight. No one had noticed the principal yet, which added to the levity.
“None of these boys have had a birthday party or been invited to one,” I informed the principal. “Have you ever seen Jacob smile like that?” I went on.
This principal was good at loud face; she could pretend angry. But there was one thing about this principal that anyone who really knew her knew. She loved the children, and she loved the teachers, and she loved these boys, and she loved me.
She immediately understood.
We watched the puppy pile in silence for a couple of minutes.
“This is so smart!” she whispered.
We were standing next to each other, hugging now. Two mama bears, watching our cubs, knowing they would never be the same.
“Do it,” she whispered. “You do it,” I urged her. In the end we yelled it together,
“YOU CALL THAT A HIT?”
Anniversary of My Death
February 5th, 2018 was the thirty-third anniversary of my death date.
I always remember it, sadly.
I opened my eyes. Surprised to be alive. Sprawled onto
hard mean concrete pavement.
Was it any consolation that one of the honking cars stayed?
Was she doing me a favor?
An older woman gave me a sad look, then drove off like the others, leaving me to die.
The allure of the dark woods which were about ten feet away called me.
Could I make it that far?
I took a step. A sword of burning hot searing pain blew up through my leg from the heel.
I tried to get up using my bike as a crutch, and fell back into the street.
My leg was broken straight across in five breaks all the way down from my upper thigh to my ankle.
Of course, I did not know this yet. I was in shock that I had gone from living to dead so fast.
With a pivot and a scream I attempted to use the bike as a crutch.
It was no mirage that the pedal was gone, broken off by my delicate foot.
A police car came by. The younger officer was motioning wildly, pointing to me.
My face was half torn off too, but I did not feel that yet.
I understood every non-verbal when the older policeman shook his head ‘no’ and drove on.
Six o’clock shift change. I would have been paperwork.
A dulcet melody flowed into my mind as I lay down on the grass,
next to the curb.
Ready for death, welcoming it. Next week, will be the thirty-fourth anniversary.
The date I realized people are not always kind.
The death of my innocence.
Written January 31, 2019 Contest: 8 Word Anniversary
Sponsor: Michelle Faulkner
What is in the waters?
What is this image,
this that I view...
Those collocating waters;
Mirror imaging
viewed vision rippling
Seems like it’s raining
And how is this be
A tree atop of tree
Is it the roots or reflection?
Of things that be
Rolling are the waters
Envision is the tree
In out of the waters
Motioning, rippling
And how is this be
viewed vision rippling
A top the beauty
A tree atop a tree
Is it the roots or reflections?
Of things that be
Rippling
2/25/20
For GIF With Your Best Anything Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: William Kekaula |
The city sports a shiny glaze
Wrapped in its eternal haze
The dwellers search inside this maze
For their delusion to erase
The workers rush to make the train
In wind and snow and pouring rain
They aim to find life’s own true meaning
While their hopes and dreams are weaning
The city takes its morning breath
While waiting for the noise to pass
Then it takes a heavy sigh
Letting all the crowds subside
Shrouded in excitement
And its pace
Encompassing the human race
Promising the hopes of kindness
If the offer ever finds us
But for now we’ll take its glamour
While upholding its pace and tremor
The city takes its final gasp
Motioning for the day to pass
Dwellers come to seek some rest
And in comfort it is dressed
City folks wish for a reprieve
Loneliness to be relieved
We will look inside ourselves
To fulfill the empty shell
Our inner world holds valuable riches
And takes us out of painful ditches
Don’t mistake the glitz for peace
And engage in daily bliss
of each day’s most simple treasures
Inner peace is eternal pleasure
Brian S. Contest
stopping
now just
standing
talking
as if to
himself
are you
following
me around
as he decides
then suddenly
picks up a fork
don't follow me
especially
to work
then
motioning
in the air
won't let you
in as he is
now beginning
to try to touch
the air
in front
of him
now
talking
out get out
of my head
scratching
do i follow you
turning around
i don't need to
have you been
dictating with
now throwing
a punch
in the air
compared
to yesterday
so you were
here but weren't
saying anything
but he's on the green
stuttering putting
last hole
holy f***
it seems
slowing rolling
to be going in
get out
of my head
inches away
stay out
it isnt going in
so well below
so far distracting
par is far
from you
and humming
the looping tune
in my head
that's it
for today
at last
please save me
not even close
the record's stuck
well below bogey
we
are the
champions
Form:
Dewey decimals assemble
our common presence.
Your horticulture hands hide
that landscaping manual's lengthy title,
but this is my isle
and I've held that identical gardening guide
like a potted plant.
Your sensuous musk spirals through
the once stale library air,
as cedarwood, cinnamon, and clove
collectively caress my nose.
So close, we coincide.
If I were to peruse my pastime picks,
our bodies would overlap,
but I keep a refrained, respectable,
reachable distance.
A confident curiosity
draws my gourmet gaze your way,
and your eyes likewise look away
from their once preoccupied page pondering.
An electrifying glance expands
beyond our common hobby.
Your earthen eyes instantly grip mine
like roots to soot.
Our hushed "hi"s
collide simultaneously.
I bite my winter mint incensed lips
with an instinctual hint of interest,
then a giggly schoolgirl smile follows.
I glance down to disregard
that massive moment,
motioning my fantasy fingers toward
a farther away publication,
diligently dragging my eyes to
a divergent direction,
suddenly spinning my slim figure toward
the chemical science section.
Like a centrifugal force,
your tall stature turns toward mine.
Your strong hands of provision
skim the selection, then
deliberately, teasingly reach
for the same spine.
Our hands collide
in a glorious alchemy.
3-27-19
Does it Matter?
Does it matter today
If a cross stood high
On a hill
Two thousand years ago?
Does it matter today
If there
A man hung dying
In company with criminals?
To most,
Long years have faded fact
To history books
To lie like fragile threads
In ancient tapestries,
A mingled pattern
Of some fertile tale
Construed to build a church
On empty gullibility.
Self-freed,
Our media age
Needs no such creed,
No faith,
No God to reckon with,
No concept of beyond
To analyse and capture
By some smart device.
Our media age,
Itself held captive
On those screens of imagery,
Projecting violence
On a fragile world,
Disfiguring,
Slow-motioning to death
In the focus of a godless dream.
But a vacant cross
Still stands,
Calling lost sinners
To a life in glory!
Zelzebob thought he was alone until he smelled human.
His teeth began a happy masticating dance in anticipation.
He loved the taste of human!
What was that weird sound?
It was not a scream, more a chanting.
He had not heard sounds like this
Since the windwalkers had been dispatched
Away and in droves
He crept upon the forest, anticipating a fine meal of human.
This one was weird, delicate, looked even more tasty.
She looked up and smiled!
"Hi!" she said in a happy, friendly way.
He jumped back, frightened.
She was the scariest almost human he had experienced.
"Hey!" she yelled, motioning with her fist.
He ran back into his sky cave, daring not to come forward
Until he heard her singing.
It was melodic, better than the chanting!
"Hey!" she said, "Come closer!"
He did not think she aimed to hurt him, so he did.
He put a claw down, but he was trembling.
Scared to death of what might happen next.