Long Pantomimes Poems
Long Pantomimes Poems. Below are the most popular long Pantomimes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pantomimes poems by poem length and keyword.
No channel skipping ..no flannel...it was so gripping…hearts melt…Pant's ripping svelte pelt and belt..stripping and whipping..the fab never drab Rishab lab..was it real..felt like I was tripping… no pipping..surreal cartwheel flipping..
Some verse about the Panto Pant curse…does traverse…like a hearse….won’t reimburse..adverse bowlers terse..things getting worse…reputations nurse…Rishab flash panache smash and grab..rehearse that ramp reverse..in his own homegrown perverse.. with only himself will converse..no fretting..go getting…record setting universe..
Now has outshone and outdone..shoves show pony Dhoni.. as the Indian man alright talisman with the gloves everybody loves with the most tons..holy moly..more three figures scores on England tours than the folklore of before..Sunny and Kohli..
Records splattered shattered..gallivanting Pant parade..cascade and cavalcade …flattered .. Rishab paddled..bowlers addled and raddled..skedaddled
Ignore any naysayer…prime sublime Pantomimes…haymaker…cocktail shaker…p**s taker…tik tok peacocker..run for fun maker…cool cat with the bat..almost indecent crimes..the Indian’s best test player and slayer of recent times..
J . F . F (Justice For Floyd)
This man was murdered by a white police man's knee,
placed on his neck and the whole world could see
while he pleaded, and wasn't even resisting arrest
but was forcefully put to rest
after he kept saying "I can't breathe" many times.
And we watched helplessly gesturing, pantomimes!
This is unacceptable and disgusting,
annoying, irritating and infuriating.
I'm tired, tired of posting Rest In Peace
when we should all be living in bliss.
Government, no more excuses, no more silence.
This must definitely stop now!
Doesn't matter if the deceased is not from your town.
Justice will not be served if those who are unaffected
are not as outraged as those who are affected.
Let's stand-up for justice in solidarity & not scatter
cos black lives, as much as all lives, matter!
Dedicated to: George Floyd who was murdered by Minnesota police Derek Chauvin, on the scene of arrest in front of a store, Minnesota, United States.
VickWizzy.
Form: Rhymes.
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}.
Copyright © May 26th, 2020.
#Memorial #RIP #justiceforfloyd?? #jff #blacklivesmatter????? #letyourvoicecount
Vodka smiles up
from a glass.
Paint me in a garden chair
with nothing in it,
but the swing of white trousers.
Where are my friends,
my wife,
children, grandchildren?
A fat creamy dog licks my toes.
All who ever claimed to know of me
are right here
on the rim of this glass
as the ice slowly melts –
some cling to a slice of lime
that can no longer support them.
The day lengthens,
a shadow returns,
peddling pantomimes
I watch behind heavily curtained lids,
recollect nothing, remember everything,
until a calling moon chimes out.
The dawn will arrive with a dew
as fresh as tears.
across the busy mossy counter
servers wear alligator smiles
so large, they’re almost heard.
the espresso machine hisses
to launch smells of fresh brewed java
that weave into the scent of baked lemon muffins
tasted by charmed watery mouths.
The door swishes like a beacon
signalling its opening and closing
as customers enter and leave
curiously viewing the cafe’s hive like activity
I listen to voices buzzing orders
watch digits dance over phones and keyboards
and voices engage in animated pantomimes
cordiality is served with my espresso
and cranberry orange scone
as I forage through dog eared books -
‘for your reading pleasure’ the sign declares.
sipping my brew a voice asks -
“do you mind if I sit here?”
I answer too quickly,
welcoming the company
of their companion-
a large black shepherd like dog.
The irregular pulsing rhythm of
clicking laptop keys begins
fingers fly, the flow interrupted by
an audible slurp, followed by
more staccatos on the keys
while my company drools
on the coffee table
where a blueberry muffin waits.
Time to think, a pondering, non action's prime.
Thank you Life for the always affirmative actions of folks with intent sublime.
~Thank you for the good intentions of the pure pacifist’s present lifetimes.
~~Thank you for their prayers, non action relates richly random over time.
Thank you Heaven, they do not “Jump the Gun” an early expression, excerpt, crime.
~Thank you, this daft, deadly, denotation, fails; this mantra of sometimes.
~~Thank you, when the furious, fractious, fall in actions error aforetime.
Thank you Mother when waiting wonder, goes slowly, prayerful to Prime.
~Thank you Father as in action, breathe, beauty, brevity, pantomimes.
~~Thank you All for the smiling, simpe, shining, days of springtime.
Thank You when the hate and horror heals and with the end of wartime.
~Thank You with the creation of many more merciful pastimes.
Enrich our earth journey with patience, prudence, providence, sublime.
Praise the people of peace for all of time.
thru the middle of June
when the fireflies swoon
and the warmth of the day lingers on
the late dusk pantomimes
with the moon as it climbs
and the curtains of daylight are drawn
the dance of the leaves
on warm summer eves
isn't lost on the creatures of dark
but a lightning bug's dance
is for naught but romance
as its love life depends on a spark
up-and-down through the night
they waltz curves with their light
making sure that their rhythm's just SO
weaving reeds in tall grasses
blinking soft-lighted passes
at the prospects now drawn to their glow
but other "bright" creatures
are charmed by the features
these shimmering lightning bug lovers
and as parents direct them
their children collect them
in jars with holes punched in the covers
the endgame of their duty
would seem to be beauty
those dazzling scintillations, to see
and while most admire
insect glimmer and fire
when finished, not all set them free
you see …
some squash them with fingers
while that glowing stuff lingers
so they write with it, words, or their name
they continue this act
hence learning, in fact
to kill without conscience … or blame
now though it might seem
that this childhood scheme
only ends a few creatures that crawl
that lesson will impeach
the one we should teach
that ALL life is precious, no matter …
how small.
Catholic education taught me all my Ps and Qs
when nuns and priests coached a child's reluctant view,
in a quandary and a quiver
to kneel up straight and perfectly perpendicular,
amidst the gold and platinum rich cathedrals
churches of quicksand-like quag pews medieval,
shaped for the prostrating prayerful penitent
awaiting an offenders penance and its remnants,
in somber quiet of quaint old confessional tombs
while incense burns a bitter scented perfume ,
quintessentially questioning everything qued
perpetuating a quay to conclude
when to sink or swim in perplexing quirky quotes
of pseudo pallid pantomimes of forgiveness and hope,
when tranquil poise in prayer
extolls the loss of childhood innocence repaired.
Using up those Ps and Qs with an added one or two.
Penance Poise Perfume Platinum
Quay Quiver Quandary Quaint
for the sponsor of contest Mind Your Ps and Qs
Michelle Faulkner
2/19/21
*VIDEO of San Francisco by Scott McKenzie, Cheers to Tony Bennett.
City of Hearts and Home by the Bay
Day star's mist yields to its grip of a bridge,
Span steel strands, harp-like, golden tags a smidge,
Light drapes the streetcars, up and down the hills,
Chimes, mass speeches, music, and painted stills,
Juggling pantomimes, street fair atmosphere,
Haight and Ashbury crossing yesteryear,
Fisherman's Wharf nearby Pier 39,
Seafood platters and fine dining with wine,
Downtown Union Square, lunching alfresco,
Market Street, Tiffany's, a Broadway show,
San Franciscans, whenever we're in Rome,
Ideal for some, but we call this home.
2022 December 31
*2nd Place*
Take Me There
~~Margarita Lillico: Judged 2023 January 21
*RZ & HMS.
They closed my mother's casket
to be buried next to Dad today.
The crowd that came to honor her
began to walk away.
Nothing left but tiny breeze
a cold and lonely final stare,
and I her dear beloved son
just standing there,
just standing there.
I'm left with only shadows
and whispers in my mind,
as though it never happened
a stage of pantomimes.
A faded mist uncaptured
has evaporated all too quick,
like fruit attacked by fire blight
and I the striving stick.
Thought to be a stone at last
is now a simple ball of clay,
the meaning of my life
now washed away.
Washed away.
What now I sigh with fading eyes
I search for new beginnings,
but deep inside the voice will chide
Thus begins the ending.
Thus begins the ending.
He smells the passion and perfume,
the mild and manic moments
of a young love.
Here comes a ragged flight of crows;
he squints in the cold sunlight.
Blue shadows glimmer and glint.
He has a lover in mind;
a dead one,
the crows carry her memory to him.
The aroma of deep red wine,
silk stockings discarded
yet still writhing and tangling.
The clumsy sincerity
of sexual pantomimes,
Tipsy lipreading's of arousal
utter their naked words,
glimmers sculpture
tantric passions into recollection.
He wonders
did any of this change -
the girl, the crows, the tidal musk,
the surfacing ebb and flow
the sense of it all?
Autumnal flares
restore a late warmth
to cooling images.
The long-lived
out run their dreams.
Ardor awakens once more
between scarlet lips.
It's a kindred, half-living
kind of being.
The seasoned
shelter such memories
under concealing crows feet,
or beneath
chameleon-lidded eyes.