Long Neons Poems
Long Neons Poems. Below are the most popular long Neons by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Neons poems by poem length and keyword.
It is night yet in the West
and the planes land between listlessly burning tarmac lamps
stealthy fingers scurrying through diadems of neons halogens and amber
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
The cowherds’ bare blistered feet already trample yesterday’s dust into mud
and cartwheels strain in crusted fissures where rains fell only once or twice
while dreams fester in cosy centrally-heated silken beds in luxury flats
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
Tomorrow is yesteryear’s planned strikes
buses trains taxis office machines lie soundlessly asleep
and will not wake until the battle over psychic comfort comes to an end
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
For You there is no respite no pause
no tea-breaks with cheese biscuits or croissants
there’s only the last container to crane over the dock in unpaid overtime
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
Your eyes will hurt in the twilight’s hazy glimmer
no time to brush your teeth nor shave in hot and cold running water
nor the right to flush a toilet nor heedlessly course through in cosy tubes to work
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
The sirens rave through boulevards in broad night-light
rushing hypertensic cardiac cases from their delight-full beds
cholestrol and diabetic cane sugar within reach of every child in supermarkets
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
Let those who succeeded their former masters
sip their sweet sweatless porto before the hors-d’oeuvres
and flap their tabliers hiding their secret shame under cabalistic arms
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
Wake! there’s little time left for your own bickering differences to fester
the dawn signals the tasks that lie ahead unfinished
and the carrion hunters trained in their old master’s image club together
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
(Continued in Part One - 2)
The door was ajar and the flitnit sneaked in,
not so much sneaked as zipped in with a zing.
Flitnits are very hard to see.
As soon as they sense you are about to see them
they flit away in a flash and hide in your hair like a nit.
They are very brightly colored with four legs and four membranous wings.
They are iridescent and glint in the light and also sparkle at night.
The tiny flashes and sparkles you see out of the corner of your eyes
are flitnits just gone, avoiding your notice in the nick of time.
The only way to see them is with a slow motion, very fast camera.
They look like fat bumble bees on steroids
with four big black eyes and mouth in perpetual smile
clothed outrageously in gaudy array of super bright colors
mini lights flashing like neons, pulsing in tune to the buzz.
They have no need to tone it down
as no one every sees them except for their kin.
They mate in kinky groups of four
and lay nits in your hair disguised as louse.
The young bitnits, as they are called, are just like their parents,
but they start of beige, until after their first molt.
They feed on human ear wax, feeding at night when you are asleep.
Sometimes you hear them as a buzz in your ears.
Flitnits are harmless and not knowing about them
is ignorant bliss amiss.
Women run into stores and buy up all the tan crap, oohing and ahhing.
Thinking how wonderful it is going to be in their beige houses
with their brown trim.
I paint in neons – neon pink, neon green, neon yellow, neon blue neon purple.
I saturate my walls with anything and everything.
My house is a colorful sanctuary.
Other women ooh and ahh over a woman “designer” on TV
whose every room is the same each week.
Identical almost to a “O” to the room before.
I would say to a T but a T is more interesting than her stuff.
Her “make overs are exactly the same”.
Beige, white, a streak of pea green – a very small streak.
Maybe a tiny red rose in a corner giving a glimmer of hope and people cheer.
What kind of a world do we live in where women trade color for beige?
Where women will trade individuality for blah?
Where women will trade their money for books
on how to make their houses tan?
Where men stand outside, to get some color, and to smoke?
What kind of message is this sending to our children?
Be creative, but blah.
Be inspirational, but tan.
Think outside the box, but we cannot use any colors for colors are bad?
Sad to me and to my neon princesses,
pirates, faeries, warrior women, elves, and dragons.
A world I am glad I do not share with the masses.
A glowing aurora seems to rise,
slowly spreading above the slumberous beach
A dewy luxury surrounds my eyes,
eternity,whose end no eye can reach.
Bringing up fragments of long buried shells,
my toes sink into the sand,still warm and gritty,
Why do seashells sound like the ocean; the question still dwells.
I ignore it and stare into dawn,dazzling,bright and pretty.
As all daily concerns wane away from my mind,
in the desolate expanse of the still waking sea,
Engulfed by love,and thereby blind,
my universe condenses to just you and me.
Just like a longing wish made to a fiery shooting star,
darting with a flash,rousing the otherwise gloomy sky.
For that star itself is long dead,is that not bizarre,
maybe not; like such true faith,may my love never die.
Under the changing purplish hue,of the yawning summer sky,
the day began with the warm sun emerging amidst its cloudy arms,
But now it contently nestles itself,its glow does not now,hurt my eye.
I enjoy the spells of nature,i thank its charms.
As i drive away,i turn the music high
yet again you invade my thoughts,i won't lie,
As the neons light,and i approach the city
it amazes me,such less is needed to feel eternity.
The mist in Regent Gardens air
awakes a single rosebud there.
Her scent drifts past Trafalgar Square -
England’s summer has begun.
The rising sun above the Thames
shines brighter than a crown of gems;
peeks through the panes of Buckingham
until the day is done.
Saint James Park invites the dawn
as sunbeams nudge the regal lawn.
Grass blades spread their arms and yawn:
"Good Morning, Summer day!"
Big Ben chimes a fond embrace
whilst daybreak warms his noble face.
Tower Bridge can sense sweet grace -
Summer’s song is on Her way.
Chiffchaffs adorn the royal parks
as children’s voices trill like larks.
Blooming dogwoods deftly bark
in praise of Summer’s song.
Purple lilacs perfume the breeze.
Lombard's merchants aim to please.
Harrods unfurls green canopies
to shade the heated throng.
Piccadilly Circus burns so bright.
Vibrant neons illume the night.
A merry moon beams with delight -
enthralled by Summer’s spell.
Bells of St. Paul sing me goodbye,
as o'er the River Thames I fly.
My heart begins to sigh, as I
bid my London Summer - farewell.
Inspired by:
Summer Enchantment Rhyming Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Karen Neary
Word Calibration in G Major
‘Don’t worry honey.
No one walks this way.
At least, not at this hour.’
The neons inside the dark house,
Across the street over there,
Are aglow with ghostly shadows,
Flickering like strobes in slow motion.
Just our car parked here now, and
No one is around. Nothing
Except Dream faeries dressed as opossums.
We are alone at last, and
It is time to touch firm bodies together.
It is time to be alive once again.
Your top two buttons are unfastened, I see.
Shh, be still as I unbutton the bottom two;
My left hand knows where to go;
I will now kiss and caress your soft perfumed neck,
As my searching fingers follow their bead.
‘Shh, what’s that sound?’
Loud voices coming this way,
Formless voices strolling by on parade;
‘Shh, duck down and don’t make a sound,’
As we continue to kiss and lick excited flesh,
Embracing in silent sweat,
Ensconced under a flaming white blanket,
Inside a lavender blue ’72 Land Yacht.
There is a moonless sky outside, and
A creeping fog beginning to settle in.
‘Ahh, I see that you are cold, honey.
Here is my hat,
Cover yourself.’
I went to my art studio to view my latest paintings,
because frankly, I had completely forgotten what I was
working on, or whether I was working on anything.
I recognized none of the paintings on first glance,
then one of the skies rang a bell. I remember adding too
much glitter and being annoyed with myself. They are all
my style, and I have used my favorite colors, so I guess they
are my paintings.
My signature neons grin at me from three or four unfinished
canvases. Pinks, blues, yellows, greens, reds, and lots of oranges.
I love orange! It is maybe my favorite color this year. My enthusiasm
for these canvases has waned, maybe totally died even. She expired
so quickly, I do not care about finishing them.
Like my poetry, I often do not recognize facets of my personality
as she flings herself onto a page, into a word processor, or against
a rough linen canvas. These ideas clearly live within, but so deep,
I do not bother to keep them in my conscious mind or cherish
them after I am finished with them.
I am so irreverent to my stuff, it should be embarrassing.
But it is not.
When nightfall dips in palest of gold
I feel a sense of indignity,
As owl's melody loses its eloquence
Through the absence of a safe abode;
Where quietude calls for avian coos
The kind which never seeks to intrude…
And its orbed eyes larger than neons, freeze
In need of natue's hued, aerial parade---
Startled, bird's forest trail is washed out
By mourning dew of poison
Denying the barren woods of nourishment
while allowing thieves to skin owl feathers,
mangled talons like so, wasted ---
Wise keeper of secrets, hushing the noise.
Life marvels at your nocturnal guardianship
yet, this world shares not your moonlit toots
lithography of hills no longer owns
your delicate interludes of silence...
Man ravages bird navel, flesh , and plumes
For trading quests, for self- interest ---
Can this earthly slaughter cease
sucking nectar soil of birds dry?
Somehow, I still hail the dwindling number
of hooting owls
Which believes that the next generations
will wander on an environ,
Soaring their wings... joyously free at last.
The truth - it is not armed hand.
The truth - it is not the boot of iron,
compulsive stigma of force
and determined heads.
The truth it is not the screech of demons
and the sound of their lute.
It is not the brightness of foggy neons
and the wisdom of their quarrel.
The truth - it is the daily bread,
straight speech, straight calculations.
The truth - it is the light for oneness,
heart on the palm; ways, directions.
The truth - it is everyday people
and knowledge of things as they are.
The truth - it is the broken shackles,
not captives and not the serfs.
Prawda (Polish Version)
Prawda to nieuzbrojone ramie.
Prawda to nie but stalowy,
rozkielzanej sily znamie
i uciemiezone glowy.
Prawda to nie skrzek karlów i demonów
i dzwiek ich lutni.
To nie blask mglistych neonów
i madrosc ich klótni.
Prawda to chleb powszedni,
mowa prosta, proste rachunki.
Prawda to swiatlo dla jedni,
na dloni serce, drogi, kierunki.
Prawda to ludzie codzienni,
znajomosc rzeczy takimi jakie sa.
Prawda to rozerwane kajdany,
nie zniewoleni i nie poddani.
My living room is full of brown furniture,
but you do not notice it
because my paintings have
exploded onto the walls.
My paintings are not landscapes,
or faces. They are cartoons, and they
are gloriously a part of twenty whimsical
themes. They are hippies, faeries, art deco,
warrior women, pirate women, or dragons.
My husband says I might be a lesbian,
and I cannot say that he is wrong.
I used to paint in regular colors, but they
got as boring as the couches, so now I
paint in neons. Neon red, neon orange, neon pink,
neon yellow, neon green, neon purple. On my walls
are neon paintings of Steampunk women, gardens, flowers,
unicorns, cats, woodland creatures, Christmas, and Halloween.
I have gone painting to painting to see if I have given you
a clear picture, and yes, they all fit into these categories, as long
as you add butterflies, bees, and owls. I have no idea what my family
will do upon my death with these glorious paintings. I am enjoying them
now, and this is enough.