Long Pealing Poems
Long Pealing Poems. Below are the most popular long Pealing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pealing poems by poem length and keyword.
Scarecrow Addict
Gritted and dusty
Powered by flack jacket eyes
Bootsteps through grey puddles
Flotilla of cigarette butts
Trash kicked aside
In a desert of litter
Seeking the soulless of death
Chattering on split lips
The grimy irk of air
Festoons the rink and rack
The floating black
Sucks unbidden
Horses into battle ridden
Scream through his lungs
Broken weapons
Filled with empty bullets
Enemies in their colours run
Demon angel
Of the iridescent metal
In the bars of sculptured hell
For the hot choke of alcohol
Has squandered his nights
And burnt his will
The vengeance of mirrors
He cannot defy
He has become
The man with the gun
And rabid dog bark
Is the music
The fang gangster rap
Chews on his pride
Coughs back and spits
Too many drugs
To fill his hate
As he seethes through the alleys
The ricochet sound of poverty
Slaps hard at the cold
Whistle through the doorstep
The vicious snide crack
Scavenges his chest
Scarecrow buckshot
Trammels his lungs
And coughs up plastic
Iron girders against shattered walls
Where the whole world threw up
His sick
Chokes on the disgusting chuck up
Of need
So full of promises
But still lets in the freezing winds
To whined up urine stained
In the pallor
The colour
Of his sky
Bandit warrior and loser
This brave young man
Watched this driven and ploughed memory
Eat away
By iron vice drag
Devastate his pale haired wench
Leaving blood trailing on her breast
Pimped
She was
And hate in grey battered uniforms
Drove the callous on
And lifted him from the reeking cans
Of his desolation
Bled him through nights of sweat
And cold turkey chewed regret
The plaster wet billboard and pealing advert
Have no idea
What they have unleashed
Brittle as long dead bones
And screaming head
No longer hates
But still sneers revenge
In tattered loose rags
He staggers from the vomiting pit
Emaciated wolf
The grinning scarecrow eyes of merciless
And the jagged teeth of candle lit
The reek of vendetta
Hangs ever about his lips
And woe betide the gun smith
Woe betide indeed the needles
Wet prick
Nothing left to fight for
Other than
A long dead
Lover
The task begins with awareness, and freedom without it is harmful. So let us not look back in fury or forward in panic, but rather around in awareness. By Poet
Let me tell you a story.
Can you Imagine a harsh quiet? Jeers sneer idleness,
or scoff to classify the ultimate sinful act of sadness;
or quashing irk for an eternal colossus of havoc,
perhaps the planet was spaed and will be ruined here.
Cynical scorn asphyxiates, cauterizing all life on Earth;
who can imagine how vile days linger eerie memories?
how often tongues are swelled with astringent tartness?
those with acidic sadness tease with a biting reply.
Soul was sunk on all live paws to quell a herd of verrucae,
could you kindly scan feeble shapes on a pealing day?
how would you handle a splenic tongue with an awful zest?
or apply on a scorching sting a horrible sneering welt.
Mortal musings slay my sight while roaming ruins,
I feel the pain, frocking seconds ripen fruitful minutes;
none to stop him, acidulous hours burn a swollen body,
did you honor your vow not to view your tears in public?
Or, to win, they select the nuclear light to avow the day,
scavengers swarming forbidden self-destruction zones;
where the war had started, it was awarded might;
whenever beguiling eyes and spite the sight,
I hate lethal viruses as much as a police car passing by;
I hate falling asleep at night as well as not falling asleep,
I hate the doorbell at night and massive storms,
I hate going broke or having too much money.
I fear being late and fear being the first to come;
I fear that all I yearn for might jeopardize others I love;
I fear death or a miserable existence for a long time,
I fear not adoring enough and being confused.
Slow slurps, wearing vengeful speeches bleary;
on stage atomic bombs were used to turn the sky purple;
Insouciance fosters the dreadful pulverization,
I should have dropped my Kyiv pass.
wabbling world......
2ND PLACE CONTEST WINNER
Written: April 17, 2022
Theme: War
Form N - Narrative - New Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
At eventide,
Under the roseate glow
Of the receding evening sun
I sauntered down the road
To where my beloved dwell
Not far-off from my own abode
Fast by his threshold
A low moan issued from his room
I made open the unlocked door
And so I happened upon him
Mightily taking his mistress
My eyes grew wide in shock
I made as if to storm,
But then stopped
Loosed upon me, an exquisite pain
Felt with every fibre of my being
Soundlessly, I turned around
Post-haste, homeward bound
In great dolour, I walked onward
Carrying my enfeebled feet
Heedless of the lowering clouds
Lightning flashing, thunder pealing
Yet I walk onward
And so the heaven opened
Pouring, the rain
The entire me suffused with it
Thus I quiver in frost, yet
I walked my leaden leg in the drenching rain
And so the inky blackness of the night cast over me
The evanescent rain went home
Afterwards , I gained my shelter
All rain-drenched
I laid, inert in my bed
With an unblinking stare,
My eyes cast into the void
Benightedly, I fell in the arms of Morpheus
And I saw the door opened with a groan
Came in, my inconstant lover
He drew nearer and sat fast by me
I couldn't cast a look at him
For scalding tears welled up in my eyes
He pillowed my head on his chest
And nursed me in his arms
Touched his lips to my locks
Now patting, now caressing
My shoulder, my tresses
His heart beating pitter-patter
He held the nape of my neck
And with an undertone voice
Whispered to my ear
Forgive my failings, my Inamorata
You're a vision of beauty,
And you're my true love.
I harkened to the honeyed words
Falling from his silver tongue
My heart leapt
Thus, hungrily,
I bathed his lips with sensuous kisses
And I melted into his embrace.
I arouse from my slumber, behold!
E'en the murky darkness of the night
Has passed away
And the sun, smiling in the heavens
But my heart, still heavy with pain
Alas! Who to bring solace to my lugubrious tear-stained visage
Granny’s been a worrying the neighbors, as she drives without delay.
She takes off, in her golf cart, driving one handed, waving all, good day.
Pealing out of the driveway on two wheels begins her trips, come what may.
It would truly be a great thing, if she’d at least try to look, either way!
But this is dear sweet, set in her ways, old granny; she knows she’ll be OK!
As she travels with her petal to the middle, you know to, not get in her way.
Her eyesight’s getting a smidgen dimmer; it’s been fading steadily with time.
Everyone knows to stop, as she cruises right on past, and thru the first stop sign.
By the time she hits the second block, her speed is going past thirty-nine.
That wouldn’t be so bad, if it wasn’t boldly posted, at a stately twenty-five.
She tops out rather quickly, at a little over her usually crazy forty-three.
The repair shop once, secretly put on a governor, so she’d live ninety-three, to be.
Granny loves to tinker, and is a mechanically inclined, determined, old broad.
She’s found a way to change it, to get a bit more horsepower, for her marauds.
The other day the police got right behind her, with siren, lights and all the bling.
She didn’t blink at all, since she really couldn’t see or hear a single blessed thing.
Or at least that’s the story, she gave them, when she finally got to the store.
But she had just passed, to get her new drivers license, only the week before.
Once, they impounded her cart, but to no avail, as she’d bought another by nightfall.
The next one was even quicker, after her touch of granny’s new quick over haul.
They rightly guessed, she was a telling them, she would do it more next time.
And they took away her license, but she still drove it, though it was a crime.
Her son must have been someone important, as she was finally given a daily escort.
We all laughed, as we suspicion, that was what she really wanted, from the very start.
Eulogy For An Unsung Hero ©
The late John Sidney McCain III,
now flies with Arrow Smith,
Babbitt, and Jefferson Airplane
five days shy of his
eighty second birthday,
taken down (to his demise)
courtesy, sans metastatic cancer of brain
defeated by an aggressive
deadly linkedin chain,
yet still earns kudos
no matter 1967 USS Forrestal fire
(during the Vietnam War)
his life source did
nearly completely drain
though purposeless prevails,
asper absolute zero gainsay,
no rhyme nor reason
can even feebly explain,
when approximately
a quarter million young men
(oh...yes, perhaps
some women too) perished
at sea, on land, or floatplain
sacrificed their lives for nought,
zip, nada nothing to GAIN
(my bald, billed,
and bold assertion,
a mere minor tirade
subpar class 1 hurricane
non-veteran civilian personnel),
nonetheless afflictions by said
United States veteran and,
subsequent Senator from Arizona,
what posthumous praise me expresses
merely mildly silly putty,
piddly, paltry and inane
as anti septic (of danger)
such as books
for children star
ring Dick and Jane
does disservice, injustice offends,
(perhaps descriptive word choices
might smack of hyperbole,
my humble apology if in apropos),
thus a more app pealing appellation,
could be Citizen Kane,
whose corporeal being got lain
to rest on a grassy hill
adjacent to the main
starting point of his storied existence,
the burial plot (right next to
lifelong friend Chuck Larson)
amidst a plain
extolling grandeur and solemnity,
where grim reaper didst slain
of Arlington National
Cemetery in Virginia terrain
concluding mine poetic epistle,
that didst wax and wane.
Prevarication permits pretend perception, presenting
piquantly piqued, pimply pimping playboy, plucky
pulchritudinous previously pusillanimous, prevalently
puckish, psychic packman, pokemon playing proletarian
puppeteer pygmy, peevishly punky, plummy, plumy,
pompously pushy, pampered, prefabricated pinchbeck,
pokily plying plowshear, plodding peregrination, pied
piper pitifully peppy pornographic potato pealing,
parsimonious paradoxical protagonist, proposing
preposterous panicky pacification plots, prioritization
pertinent penultimate peroration, perhaps perceiving
perjuring, perplexing, perverting puzzling pronouncements
projecting pulsating pixelated pulpy pinball pinging
packets prompting pacific, poetic, phlegmatic purplish
psoriasis plagued, plumbum pallor pallid, Paleolithic
protuberance pronounced, psychosomatic prohibitionist,
polarizing perfunctory peculiarly progressive, patriotic
postmodern pathologically proud paternal panache,
peripatetic panaceas portraying prescient perfidious
puerile president, predominantly proposing parochial
principles, plenty public parking, purposefully
promoting pharisee phalanxes, pilates practicing
paragons, perennially peaceably proficient protesters,
profitable polygamy, pugnacious pitbull powerball
players, pandering polyandry, propagating professional
palindrome pensive peeping people, peddling,
proselytizing predicating prostitution, proliferating
phenomenally, populist persona promulgated peyote
phased physicians pioneering prescription promoting
paradisiacal pricey photographic pictures, placating
phrenetic physical perturbation partaking place
purchased (paid paltry pennies) por palatial piazza.
What a quaint and small conception you have of the world
Sunday
Sunday
while you are polishing your rhetoric in pews
with the silver laden coffers of your charity
tucked neatly into your wallet
Sunday
A bright angel of hymns goes dancing through grave yards
where you have lain all heavens in death
and spent life mourning the passing of a cloud
when the shadow it cast
was the hand of God
Sunday
In pealing bells crosses the un-open fields of ideals
Sunday, brings to its alter of blessed wine
the mockery of blood
sweet sugar Sunday, coated, painted, white
and powder puff heresy
Sunday, a Ploughmans Lunch of righteousness
and self confessed aggrandizement
a roast beef deliberation of the eternal joke
has you kissing the priest feet
instead of the sun
Sun-day
Sunday; the candy cotton collected plethora's of worship
forgives the villain and felon with confession
and still breaks its bread on the table of the starving
virtuous bloody Sunday
beating at wrist with Roman nails
wearing its tears in a crown of thorns
and sumptuous retires in a fat kissed bangle
Sunday; the barricade of belief
that knowingly knows no one should work
while the vultures are picking at societies bones
and the Papal sacrament makes you homeless
on the bleached and baking wastelands of Earth
This is Sunday
in all its finery of dripping candels
and out of tune hymns
stained glasses of faith
and broken bent knees
Sunday
feckless
Sunday
Walking down a forsaken road will often lead to mourning
Life offers no guarantee of happiness. There is no warning
that in dark places, there lurks a wicked demon, spawning
temptations before us. We should reject him with scorning
Never make a deal with the bird catcher who lies in wait
He'll know your weakness and cast a line with lure and bait
He knows you wear no armor, nor a protective breastplate
impregnable enough to prevent him from sealing your fate
Faust, the fool, sold his soul to the devil in return for power
It was an unwise pact from which any Christian should cower
But the need for greed causes a heart to be cold and dour
unable to repel the diabolical one's angry stare; his glower
Flee from the serpent's talons, close your ears to his flatters
or you will discover your life torn apart in pieces and tatters
Too late to right your wrongs when your whole world shatters
Before bargaining with the devil, think about what matters
Selling your soul will do you in. Sin will lead to your doom
with you trapped in his cage; a burning hell with fiery plume
Don't be like Faust, faltering when choosing power to consume
Turn your back on the wicked beast or live your life in gloom
Stay your hand from signing your soul into the pit of hell
Raise your defenses, unlike greedy Faust, who long ago fell
into the clutches of evil when his integrity he decided to sell
so, the dooms day bell will not be pealing your death knell
Vanishing varnish kindly stood the test of
time in sweet and salty impermanence
A boat shed overgrown and faded into
significance of messages and meaning
of rays and days going by and moving on
And nights of course with moon and
stars abiding wheels of life’s abundance
The window graced with murky shades
of innocence where a young man had written
‘I love you’ into a heartfelt arrowed heart
The frame of recollection held the pane
in fading colours like a rainbow on the wane
Distressed wood weather beaten yet
many layers of green and red and yellow
sing the blues of long forgotten journeys
Flaking pealing retreating and still appealing
to nostalgia and loving longing contemplation
What once was stark from mighty strokes
brushing over knots where branches twisted
have retreated to embrace a new beginning
Holes in the door reveal a vessel still with oars
one holds a violet rose in innocence and love
The seasons have moved the man-made paint
towards new adventures where winds of change
have waited on the surfaces caressed by storms
How much I’m deeply touched by ageing shine only
the boat house knows as I speak to it in sandy whispers
It answers ‘Please don’t cover up my codes of beauty
Do not coat another overlay of glossy lamination
Let the elements take over because they know for sure'
05th October 2018
"The darkened sky stole my tears" Quote by Sponsor.
As the brisk morning light illuminates my room,
I feel overwhelmed by a foreboding air of doom.
Melancholy presence within every waking pore.
Is it I have been missing that someone I adore ?
Tears on my pillow were left there while I slept.
Wonderful memories of him so preciously kept.
Guarded by the night, for only dreams to recall.
Then why in slumber did these moist drops fall ?
The night keeps my secret? I miss him so much.
By day all smiles, while I'm longing for his touch.
Now this tearful tendency, I'm uncertain of why.
Remembering arcadian times shouldn't make me cry.
Mendacious vibes are now quite pervasive this morn.
Is it missing him? Is that the reason I am so forlorn?
Knowing him and his love, gives a euphoric feeling.
By day all smiles, loving him gives the affect of healing.
At midnight the clock chimes, twelve will be pealing.
The darkness of night, its my tears it will be stealing.
Deep in slumber and oblivious, I wouldn't even know,
If I didn't wake in the morn to find tears on my pillow.
Maybe in my sleep, I dreamed away all my fears.
Maybe "The darkened sky stole my tears"
Guarded by the night is it only then I cry?
Tears on my pillow, all that's left by the darkened sky.