Long Pansy Poems
Long Pansy Poems. Below are the most popular long Pansy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pansy poems by poem length and keyword.
This gypsy soul is on the road
It leaves castles far behind
It abandons ghostly mist
which sabotages the caravan of life
It passes along the mountainside
by golden hay fields where daises bloom
By streams of waters which sweeps a withered rose
towards the decayed lumber fume
This gypsy soul is on the road from Edinburgh to Loch Lomond
against high winds,against the rain,against aquatic monsters of pain
This gypsy soul is on the road to the woodlands of your heart
where I would camp inside your tent as our blissful thoughts impart
This gypsy soul within myself and all the woman in me
would wantingly await your fingertips to compose soft pastels'fantasy
The smell of early coffee then fills our empty cups
The song of the cicada would echo in the shrubs
And as the chimney smoke drift sideways in the breeze
as warm dappled light filters through purple pansy leaves
The pressing of my lips would leave their crimson mark below your sun-kissed cheek
My arms would cling around your once muscular physique
We laze upon a hammock strung between two old oak trees
I play on your guitar my hundred melodies
As the incandescent half moon rises above the dusky hue
and orange paper lanternes float high in cobalt blue
We'd chase the opalescent glow of a million firefly
You'd be able to touch me before last embers die
This gypsy soul is on tne road in search to be set free
Across bridges on a journey,your compass -my destiny.
This is a repost of a poem I've written the 30th of April 2014
CHILDREN OF SPRING
Spring spreads out her parasol
In April, June – always May;
Invites the children of her garden
Come with her to play today.
Yellow Daffodil stands straight up
Announcing Spring with his horn;
Spring arriving! See! Spring now here!
Smile! Not the time to look forlorn.
Jonquil quite often mistaken
For her cousin – bright Daffodil;
So she spreads out her sunny dress
To smile upon the windowsill.
Quick! Open up the garden gate
In rushes Poppy - loves the sun;
Leaves to wander rolling hills
Wears orange bowties – riot of fun.
Tulips gather in the garden
From a land so far away,
With wooden shoes and silver skates,
Sunbeams and rainbows want to play.
Primrose wears her best party dress
Ruffles of purple, pink or gold
She laughs at storms of ice or snow –
Little child but oh so bold.
Thoughtful Pansy sends out greetings
To her playmates missed in the snow;
Her sweet face mirrors her feelings
Open smile sets her eyes aglow.
Bachelor Button – proud as punch –
To be the season’s sparkling bling;
Blue as the sky – rolling oceans –
Sapphire gem – the heart of Spring!
Come back sleepy Forget-Me-Not
So shyly blinking through Spring rain
Laughing when you sly wink at us
From sleep we welcome you again.
Sweet Pea clambers up a trellis –
Tomboy – climbing her delight -
Explores plain, old, wooden fences
Trailing blossoms – lavender – white.
Lily of the Valley child –
Graceful arms wear bracelets of bells;
Listen closely when the wind blows
Springtime’s story in song she tells.
Many children Spring brings to the garden –
Too many to mention all here;
But in her bright smile she pardons -
Loves rhymes and cheer so like Shakespeare.
5/4/20
Spring Rhymes Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
(By the time of the shooting of
"The Misfits", the Miller-Monroe
marriage was in deep trouble.
The Pansy is Montgomery Clift,
The Tusker is John Huston.)
After the Fall
It started as a mental exercise.
I wondered if an East-Side Jew like me
(Richard Rodgers, Brooklyn Dodgers,
Staten Ferry, Tom and Jerry,
Radio City, Walter Mitty,
Buddy Rich, Seven-Year Itch)
could sing the song of Stetson-wearing guys,
could capture something of the poetry
of men who have no words.
But then it grew, as all these projects do.
And then I fell in love with Norma-Jean
(no, Marilyn is someone else). I knew
I had to show the world what I had seen
of men who chase the herds.
(Levi jeans, chilli beans,
mustang culls, rodeo bulls,
Misfit Flats, lariats,
pony carts, engine parts,
happy hour, whiskey sour,
bronkin' bucks, pickup trucks,
buying beers, tying steers,
fancy boots, turkey shoots).
Sincerely? Dearly? Yes. I loved that woman -
the one inside, not on the billboard, pouting.
I cared so much, I guess I had it coming.
I was The Man, the one to take it out on.
A mustang in the dirt,
the more I squirmed, the tighter drew the ropes.
She ran to Gable. Primal passion? Rather,
the one thing that extinguished all my hopes:
he was, to her, the archetypal father.
Varieties of hurt
are infinite. The Pansy, Gable, Tusker -
all sorrowing for something. Norma-Jean
has kept her looks (can't say that for The Husker).
Inside, she putrefied. Love turns to mean,
it's ugly to behold.
The pills? The booze? Or was the problem me?
Or maybe everything just comes unraveled,
but some can hide it where the world won't see.
The consolation of philosophy?
The journey is itself the prize. I travelled
in the realms of gold.
The study all alone,
in the corner of the home,
where a man can think,
reflect and have a drink,
be free of charging kids,
of daily cares be rid,
read what ancients say,
this is a male space.
In the wood with a gun,
tracking deer that run,
putting his wits and wiles
up against the wild,
Field-dressing the game
in frozen winter rain,
embracing primal days,
feeling the male space.
On the battle field,
the consequences real,
has to take it all,
or is doomed to fall.
Gunning down the foe,
ever harsh to know,
sometimes you have to hate,
it’s part of the male space.
In office or board-room,
facing ruin and doom,
competing for a prize,
Struggling to get by,
it’s always looking grim,
yet he plays to win,
his family must be safe,
he stays in the male space.
Ye olde barber shop,
blades Ol’ Charlie strops,
shaving with straight-edge
his best customer Fred.
chewing over local news,
the good stuff and the blues,
away from the rat race,
here in the male space.
Dimly-lit gentlemen’s club,
up against him she rubs,
sells him simplicity,
an illusion for a fee.
For a moment he is sane,
not trying to play the game,
she throws them in his face,
He loves this male space.
Some say it has to go,
like the men’s clubs of old,
their ideology demands
that of men they are no fans,
they forget we undergo
troubles they’ll never know,
to bring up boys that rate,
you’ve got to have male space.
If not, boys lose control,
don’t live to grow old,
with no male sanctuary
they gang-bang on the street,
Oo they have worse luck,
become pansy, Beta-cucks,
with no pride and no place…
better to have male space.
These twelve acres are mine,
out in the country-side,
to teach my son things
a man should be knowing,
to hunt, to think, to drive,
to fake being civilized,
won’t leave it up to fate,
don’t tread on my male space.
BEWITCHING NIGHT
Nascent crescent descent Moon
shining soft enchanting, enrapturing !
Gleams of beam bathe
crazy lovers beneath night sky,
mesmerizing both.
Fantastic fantasy, bewitching night.
Divine dream drinking dormant desires.
Romance rolls, ripples, rushes.
Shy lavender love blushes.
Sober hesitance suddenly flashes.
Night time musing to amuse budding couple
in luminous glow of amour dancing in glamour.
Hypnotic night bewitches, enthralling
captivating young hearts
in symphony of silent song on mellifluous melody.
Tender touch, bliss of deep kiss,
Pearly pansy passion bursts in lucent lust.
Tapestry of stars like sparkling spangles
spread on charcoal sky holding
slender concave shaped pellucid Moon.
Bubbling blood is flooding two wobbling hearts.
Fiery flame of love kindling upright
glittering glistening blazing bright
in the beautiful bewildered bewitching night.
There once was a pansy named
Fancy and she was as pretty as
could be.
She would stretch high above the
other flowers as tall and straight
as a tree.
Raindrops made her petals glisten
like stars in the sky at night.
Perky little leaves tucked in tight.
Then one day the gardener seen
Fancy's beauty noticeably clear,
So she reached in her basket for
her flower shears.
Oh! Please don't clip me from the
lovely garden here.
For I would surly pass and my beauty
would disappear.
The gardener in amazement touched
Fancy's little face and promised to
keep her there in the garden until the
last of her beautiful grace.
The blade penetrated the flesh
like a prong to a pitted plum
he had played with war
toyed with war
yet the gun
well the gun didn't have balls
Not for him the sterile
three shrouds removed
expunging of visera with a gun
sissy pistols
pansy takers
Stick um good
part the seas of red
wake and feed the hounds of war
plastic pop-guns shatter beneath the heel of Mars
Man UP, raise the staff
and shove the pig sticker into mother's child
Oh man, war, Old Man War
do you visit him each night as you enter
what should be the path to love?
Have a poke little man
just remember, all that was is ...
and will be born again.
Dedicated to a constant friend and inspiration Chris Aechtner
Inspired by his write "kids use toy guns'
Raul Moreno
(a Poetry Dish)
4c. of God 1 sm. tsp. of talent
(23oz of chromosomes) pkg. Mom (23oz of chromosomes) pkg. Dad
¼ tsp. of my older brother ¼ of my other brother
2 c. of my sister 1 lb. of my surroundings
1 oz. of knowledge ½ c. of heart
½ c. Nature ½ c. Inspiration
3 c. Oklahoma 2 c. of my friends
(8oz.) of Pansy 1 pkg. Gracemont
¼ t. failure ¼ t. faith
A pinch of discipline A dash of hope
Mix contents together,
In a large bowl.
Top with family members,
Better if served cold.
Set and let cool,
And eat my poetry.
Without these ingredients,
There would be no me.
_______________________________________
An homage to everyone who has supported me,
believed in me, and applauded me.
Without them, I wouldn't do what I do!
find him on his back and think, he is a withered leaf so i pick him up from the
porch but he buzzes, his whole body vibrating, it is quite wonderful really, so
i know he is still alive, gentle, I place him on a pansy flower where he sips
nectar, and he sips to my delight, but can he fly, his long legs feel and cling, so
i place him in the shade of a leaf, and tell him to get some rest but first i admire
his beauty, nature did that, when i come back to check, he is gone and that
is true happiness, i weep because i saved a bee today.
little bee landing
on my pansy for nectar
butterfly came too
_________________________
June 4, 2018
________________________________
Added after contest judged- July 5, 2018
Poetry/Haibun/Bumblebee
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1028-431-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Haibun
Sponsor, Mick Talbot
Second Place
To call you a pansy insults the flower.
It seems you cried for nearly an hour;
your mother called to say she’d lost.
So ‘space to process’ at a cost
of fifty six thousand for the year
to cancel class and sip craft beer…
‘Buck up’ is what my mum would say,
but then of course she’d never pay
so I could breakfast with the dean
and wring my hands about well-being.
I guess I’m old; my youth is gone.
I’d likely say, Get off my lawn!
But hun, you life is going to hurt
when you discover things like dirt
and sweat and toil and grit and grime.
I hope that in some future time,
you’ll look back on Trump’s second win,
say, Man, I was a pansy then.