Long Penciled Poems
Long Penciled Poems. Below are the most popular long Penciled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Penciled poems by poem length and keyword.
The snow on the ground is aglow at midnight
A sheet of moonlight
Like a sketchpad with shadows
Stretched from tree limbs furiously penciled in,
A speakeasy dance floor from the 1920s
Mobbed and sashaying,
Doing the jitterbug,
With black arms and black legs
Pumping stutter-stepping,
Swaying forward then back
Hands risen as if polishing the air with praise
In a wind that creaks in these trees
Like kindling wood caught on fire.
Who is the ghost, here, in this freezing rhythm?
These poltergeist dancers?
Floating
Between now and then drinking gin,
Lit by a swinging winter lantern?
Or is it me? Weaving through the phantom crowd,
A traveler from the future,
Pardon me, looking good,
Carrying a tray of translucent light above my head?
Or is the celestial artist the true spirit?
The only one who really exists?
Yes, I think it is the brilliant artist,
The invisibly sketching Goddess bringing life to the long dead,
While lurking from her corner table, cold cigarette in hand,
Diligently recording history.
Oh oblivion of time and space I make my way to her,
A coming total lunar eclipse.
During the second bout of the evening he came out so casualy to
look under the ring apron. He did it four more times during the evening. He was sheduled for the main event, against the Visiting Worlds Champion from a rival league. During his own bout he didn't bother looking under the ring at all. He stood in the far right corner calm and robed acting as if nothing at all was in accurrance. To everyones suprise he had penciled in a corner man to watch over his shoulder or was it to give advice or coach him. It was very important for him to win that title that night. We knew how he always wanted to be some big thmye trophy holder.People don't understand but as long time fans it is nessacary to sometime for what we call secondary to be put first as a priority it helps us do things in our everyday life. The idea was to take these less pretigous titles and unify them as one big trophy. The calling out the list of championships and there orgin is as prestigous as the title holdr. We wanted this! It was the caliyist to the unifcation either here or some here else. As long as it was done.Knowing that all of us could stand behind and support the union of togetherness bought us into doing things to signal the myth might be so much less mythical.They were goona toss all those belts in the ring and call it the Ulitmate Worlds Championship, it would leave here and tour moving from person to person, if only this guy could beat the other here tonight.We usaully don't recognize other companies but this was Wrestling a love of the sport and the sportmenship between rivals allowing the fans to have a unity that could give them honor to there freinds and family. Maybe this guy aint such a a lousy jerk after all you know. He defeated the champion . Now we need the other companies to throw there belts into a ring ordain the spot, and signal that unify these championships into one could start when this tile is the only one needed to complete thet task.Melt down the Chalise and mold the buckle leather fashioned and belt created. This company to then say they will unify with the others!
I must say a bewildered chill ran down my back
When I learned the gigantic billions you throw to charity,
A big heart that only the heavens could endow,
That resonates with a compassion for those in depravity
And to them that circumstances have dealt a blow.
Ninety-nine percent of your elephantine fortune,
You've chosen to give them that Providence gave not,
Perhaps an orphan or a widow desperate;
Them that the windows of heaven probably forgot;
Of basic means and amenities bereft.
May the celestial godowns full of treasures unseen,
Be emptied upon your head by the unerring heavens;
May the imperishable extraterrestrial benediction be upon your soul,
And may your childrens' children( all your descendants in whole),
Partake of Christ's cup of grace and glory,
For earth has never before heard this beautiful story.
At eighty the weight of time upon you sits,
But he can never worry who has for others lived;
Demise is only a crown fit for arms that for the hapless worked;
It's by the heavenly crew well-received
A soul that on great causes embarked,
And chose to pursue the precarious path of philanthropy.
May you live to be older than any Methuselah;
The world can never have enough of your heart,
And no matter how much I endeavor with all the skill of art,
It never can suffice to praise your benevolent deeds;
Let the gifted seraphs for you compose a rhyme
And the mute galaxies its rhythm mime,
To laud the deeds you've stamped upon the face of earth,
For you've penciled upon faces forlorn lines of mirth.
Form:
Christmas bells, can you hear them ringing?
All night long: carolers singing.
A magical night,
your eyes shut tight
waiting for Santa’s magic sleigh to land!
Penciled out: is the last day.
So tonight: is the right night.
And sleep seeds dreams,
with sugarplum themes,
waiting for Santa’s magic sleigh to land!
In the morning, we can open presents,
sharing smiles as they get passed around.
I'll ask, is one for me?
You'll say: yes, more than one:
but you must wait till Christmas morning.
So calm down,
dream of things you desire:
hang your socks by the fire.
Leave Santa a snack
then go hit the sack,
waiting for Santa’s magic sleigh to land!
In the morning, we can open presents,
sharing a smile that's passed around,
And we'll attend all the festive events,
at least the ones within our town.
On this eve, nerves are tingling.
Can you feel them?
In the air, bells are jingling.
A magical night,
your eyes shut tight
waiting for Santa’s magic sleigh to land!
One or two of us
Were home on leave;
For the rest of us,
Christmas came by mail.
Our callsign: Gunslingers.
Our Military Transition Team
Was embedded with
The "Triple Deuce" Iraqi Infantry,
For a year our home
Was LSA Diamondback
Mosul, Nineveh province,
In northern Iraq
A Team member's wife
Gave us all Santa hats.
I have an old photo
Of us standing on top
Of an old Iraqi bunker,
Bearing pistols, rifles,
And those Santa hats.
My wife sent a small
Plastic Christmas tree,
Which was decorated
In the Gunslingers' office.
My mom sent a warm quilt.
When you're acclimatized
To wearing battle armor
In the high 90s and 100s,
80-something feels cold!
I remember the nights--
Dark, but full of stars,
With Orion's belt
On the horizon.
Soldiers made bonfires
In the oddest places:
By a concrete shelter,
Or in classified burn pits.
Once exiting my office,
I saw a fire in the sky.
Soldiers were on top of a bunker
Drinking near-beer, singing.
Another night, I stood
Just outside of the light
Looking at some troops,
And the chiaroscuro image.
I went back to my "choo",
And penciled the scene.
To complete the masterpiece,
I inserted myself
Roasting marshmallos.
I went back to visit them,
Showed them the drawing,
Then completed the picture
By searing a marshmallow.
Christmas was what we made of it.
He blinks in and out in a wingchair,
overhears what visitors say
when patients
can be talked about
as if not there.
People speak well of the dying,
even of dying strangers,
to him their words
prematurely shovel earth.
The terminally sick
must be accommodated,
penciled into time slots,
eased gently into oblivion.
He listens as he slips downstream
on a raft of morphine.
These last trips are scenes taken
from childhood books.
His own life story has become
absurd, it is almost as if
he is a character in someone else's life,
a Huckleberry Finn
whistling through Dantes Inferno.
What he really wants
is a rocking horse and ice-cream.
A nurse brings him ice-cream,
but it's the wrong flavor.
He wonders if anyone can see
the horse he rides upon,
his ten-gallon hat is as white
as a flying nun's Cornette.
The occasional visitors
watch the dying in dreadful relief.
Hypnotic minds drone like trapped bee's.
Frank Sinatra jets in from wonderland,
hands him a coloring book.
If only he had crayons
to fill in the blanks.
God gave them hair, but they added wigs;
He gave them lashes — they made them longer.
God gave their lips a colour, yet they changed it to figs;
He shaped their chests — they prefer them silicone-stronger.
Their faces hide beneath make-up fixtures,
Their brows they darken with penciled skives.
Their skins they bleach with caustic mixtures,
Their bellies they flatten with sharpened knives.
Even their butts they build Brazilian high;
On their nails gleam paints and polished glosses.
Their tongues spill words that flirt or lie,
Their skins bear rings and tattooed crosses.
Better choose one — before or after bath,
Or fakeness will lie on your bed till morrow;
And when you wake to dawn’s clear path,
The truth will stand in a mirror of sorrow.
Angry clouds were above
Displaying hatred not love
With an angry growl
Came a heavenly howl
There are energy impulses
Crackling lights dished out in doses
Joined the powerful teaming downpour
Angels sending a message about this star gazing tour
Two men scheduled to be shot in the air
No return date set for the galactic dare
It took a little time
But the sun came out to shine
A natural cosmic luring test
Challenging earthlings wanted to leave their nest
Launch countdown never stopped
Plan continued from the pad lot
After placing the pair in seated positions
Patiently waiting for the ‘go’ decision
Commanding lift starting the space station mission
Clock under twenty
Big business experimenting investing their money
Word came to abort
Due to the weather who was the true judicial court
Safety concerns were the reasons
Canceling the spectacle during Florida’s rainy season
Temporary relieving the responsibilities for the dragon crew
Delaying a dream ready to come true
Mother Nature commanding man to be told
“This adventurous travel must be put on hold!
Until a new window open soon
And then it can resume
A space junket to the resort orbiting the moon”
Man penciled in a date
Saturday afternoon sounds great
Still the meteorology influence will have the final say
About sending this peaceful rocket on its way
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=98eIW6CN62k
Those Parisienne days of love beneath the Champs Elysees
I remember Paris 1949, drinking a glass of old Beaujolais wine
And I recall that summer when we kissed and you were mine
In those Parisienne days, you were always `Ma Petite Poupee``
`
Looking back at photographs, summer days warm as honey
corner cafes with creme brulee, pretty eyes a shade of rum
sharing penciled love notes and paragraphs, you ma tres jolie
together we did taste the wine, beneath the Parisienne sun
We toured La Tour Eiffel I must admit you were tres belle
with a french berret smile I guided you towards the lake
Bassin de la Villette, where you were happy picking shells
In those Parisienne days we were always wide awake
I recall that summer when we you promised to be mine
in the petit cafe, where we shared a bottle of wine.
Count First
So you're too cool to finish up high school.
consider that no one will hire a fool.
Count first.
You might be fine with selling fries and burgers.
Take some classes, sell some bigger orders.
Count first.
Before you cut along the penciled line,
Get out your ruler, measure one more time--
Count first.
Before you cook your specialty times three
Make an ingredients inventory.
Count first.
You won't impress that pretty girl so fine
If you can't pay the bill for wine and dine.
Count first.
Before you finally pop the question,
Give her an honest evaluation.
Count first.
If you want a newly-wed apartment,
Think smaller--there is a big down payment.
Count first.
You covet a car with high performance.
Can you even afford car insurance?
Count first
Before buying a new high-tech gadget,
Is there enough in the household budget?
Count first.
When maneuvers are in the planning stage,
Before you commit to a shell barrage.
Count first.
Before overdoing your Santa Clause,
Can you pay the rent? Read the fine print clause..
Count first.
Before you walk up to the Pearly Gates,
What's on your conscience--ask before too late.
Count first.
Mark Halliday 17 May 2014
Dixdeux O