Long Plying Poems
Long Plying Poems. Below are the most popular long Plying by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Plying poems by poem length and keyword.
Where once verdant rolling highlands...
Spanned into infinite vista
far as these myopic eyes can see
now yellowing Whitmanesque
leaves of grass encompass field of vision.
Nary a dark dreadnaught cloud in sight,
nor unbeknownst if/when threatening storm
looms on horizon slaking parched land
delivering precipitation quenching thirsty terra firma.
I too experience vicarious dehydration
during bonafide dry spell
constituting theoretical string
hoop fully curtails weather beaten
flora and fauna
conceding blindingly bright
cloudless summer days
across disc (sky)
to amply liquidate shriveling assets.
Unbeknownst when spate of rainlessness,
(i.e. I pray for moderate soaking precipitation)
thwarting immediate indications
meteorologically signalling onset
regarding definition of drought.
Nothing more humbling
than cacophonous thunderstorm
nsync with jagged bolts of lightning
accompanying drenching downpour
analogous to downed wall of water
cascading from upper atmosphere
intermittently pelting landscape
albeit immediately, magically, quixotically...
transforming parched land (Highland Manor)
into profuse lusciousness
harkening Edenic denouement.
Impossible mission (this simple bumpkin)
(one local Schwenksville yokel)
(Civil War union soldier incarnate)
to forecast today/tonight
eventide of June twenty fifth
two thousand and twenty,
when Zeus will doctor
animals and plants courtesy
of requisite life source
also known as H2O,
comprising above mentioned
two hydrogen atoms
and one oxygen atom.
Ironic, how approximately
three quarters (seventy five sense)
engulfs planet Earth,
yet many environments
suffer inadequate deluges,
more so now with climate change
(global warming) increasing temperature
across oblate spheroid
compromising habitable places,
yet methinks coronavirus (COVID-19)
gave mother nature
much needed reprieve
cleansing heavily polluted urban areas
courtesy partial lockdown and restraint,
whereby *****sapiens
deterred, jackknifed, prohibited...
spewing noxious forth fossil fuel byproducts
encouraging, mustering,
plying, telecommuting, zooming
avast array of activities
augmented by virtual reality
technology supplanting mass transit,
thus diminishing deadly toxins
absorbed by all creatures
great and small.
Oh...and hello
to you, some hours past, I
returned from counseling,
(hence this boy yent -
albeit beastie boy
figuratively basking
in fading afterglow)
great kickstarter session,
countless moments ago,
sans treatment plan,
she facilitated emotional airflow
i.e. Stephanie Dodds,
(sat straight as an arrow)
whereat this client purged, avow
hid lee, his psycho
logical reflux backflow
(Matthew Scott Harris) did crow
as said professionally trained
medicine woman actively listened,
(no doubt other male patients
similar to yours truly entertained
(alignment with see
thing hormonal concurrence,
where ego super vies iz
Id dee hot - hook line, and sinker
attributed to Sigmund Freud,
who sired, midwifed, and fathered
psychoanalytic theories)
sexual kindled fantasies,
viz being bedfellow
this soul, hood doth not bellow,
but keeps mum
(during my allotted time),
yet willingly shares
with utter strangers
intimate gal olive
hunt ting fantasy,
that doth beshadow
obviously no intent to breach
such prurient thoughts, bestow
foolscap upon mine noggin,
and most definitely blow
future appointments
with aesthetically pleasing
(tomb maa cryptic) bowwow
wing hot diggity
dog inner primate, perhaps,
and not surprisingly get brow
beaten, where dire
erect tor of facility
wilt hell me
"go take a hike to
penile solitary bungalow,"
where all manner of
libidinous desires wanna burrow
(where warren peace
can thrive hare and now),
on par with rabbit - burr reader,
which confinement would
not principally peter out
till dawning transgression vetted,
and avered final cockrow
trumpeted, norte - til last cornrow
reaped, hence unable
to thwart counterblow
permanently, doth nada
different she hate
lustful zeal from eye
dims sum – genital fateful dayglow,
thence high lee
grant ting deathblow
to testosterone laden satiety,
randy proclivity, and
concupiscent adoration from
combine nation of #endow
ments to ghost of - Grant
yule leases eyebrow
raising candy cane upon fallow
da weeder foreshadow
wing sowing field of poetically
wet dreams plying fecund,
feminine, and fertile ground
godaddy on his gangplow.
Water rains the philosophies of mums each morning plying jeer can with tough
faces because the taps have been experiencing months of loneliness in it
gush.
The waking of sleepless mums gluing their hope to the taps gush, merely
believe this city certain to save the mums from slavery of their own. Owed
the boredom drenching in strings water to the songs of birds close the
window to the windmill.
The nights become longer to the size of river Nile wishing the night to
swallow the day, their pace can be heard in parliamentary to the voice of
the kettles rumbling in the morning
Their sweat determines the pain they have been through to ignorant of the
truth the pipes are like dead snakes on the roads biting us with fear.
It gushes no water that too melancholy on milky tooth of incompetent man
hovering his wings to the nation and attribution regretted.
She colors her behavior to spit the crowded of women around the well to
the crisscross that wills the nation to notion active only by the title of
competency if imagined.
The cascade of the city to scent of village with tantamount hope boiling no
interest to glue in city that with no sign of before, but backwardness
rumble to the dumbbell in the morning to mothers cry.
The dampness of their clothes to the scent of cockroaches well being, the
fake manifesto entertains poverty and glue the water collectors to
colloquial gossip in the morning hoping to ram the messed up and the big
mistake ever nation has cried that circulated in short saga.
Dumb in parliament to the palatable junks of protruding stomach shining
gown to the shake of lizard to the fall of Julius Cesar by the sword
And by the oath of power to the pointless of being a President to the
resident overdue of coalition of poverty is fence of blunders on the frying
plate
by then the imagination of mums fetching the tinkling of water enshrined
them each morning to months of lamentation
They rallied you to paint their faces with hope of impregnated oath to
breath of thief with heavy sombre spell diction's where we must defend to
the arrival of Jesus by jumbling solutions to fix broken ideas to the
weight night.
Dragon badly wanted to visit the Snowman Convention this year.
He knew they go to the South Pole when spring begins to appear.
Dragon was resolute about this; he REALLY wanted to go there.
So he wrapped up in a blanket and rolled in the snow, so very fair.
A burly-er snowman had never been seen before, plus he had a tail!
But he quickly started to melt, our little, hot guy, of massive scale!
So the snowmen put him in an igloo, determined to save their friend.
They carried him like a pharaoh, up on their shoulders to contend…
But they were fighting a losing warm weather tide, from deep inside!
Never had they met such a melting snowman, no matter how they tried.
But snowmen never give up; they kept plying him with ice on all sides.
Finally they climbed upon a glacier, tucking him in a fissure, deep inside!
Now the fissure melted to an ice cave, as it continued to melt all around.
Before they knew it, a huge palace formed beneath his feet, quite sound.
Slowly a ballroom formed, and dragon sunk lower, as ice Melted beneath!
Yep! The Dragon exhaust was daunting, and worrisome, at the very least.
Then the moisture dripped into chandeliers, as mirrors gave them such light.
As the interloper who’d caused them such trouble, became a welcome sight.
Indeed this was the first home these poor snowmen had ever, really had.
Ballroom, bedrooms, meeting places, and halls, made everyone, so very glad.
No more, would they have to stand out in cold driving winds, for all their lives!
Dragon was a hero, honored, as they chiseled him, a statue dutifully made of ice.
Stories would be sung on the wind for eons, of Dragon’s serendipitous surprise.
And the Snowmen would have a comfy home so artfully, perfectly contrived.
And no one minded a sneeze or a fart as another room had appeared with a start.
Indeed, they actually welcomed them, for all that they could eventually impart.
But even Dragons need help to go home, as everyone pointed the way to roam.
Luckily, Dragon’s penguins had come, to help our little guy, find his way…
All the way home, and of his story…nobody believed him, except his penguins,
And us, of course… The End.
Written 12-29-2016
While walking I saw
something move in the corner of my eye.
When I gazed straight at it,
it was gone.
But, on second glance, askance,
there it was, again.
To and fro, direct and peripheral,
it appeared and disappeared on cue.
Head down, focused, tunnel-eyed:
I missed the cherry blossom burst.
I missed the fledgling bird's first flight.
I missed seeing clouds both sides now.
I missed the birth of mirth in common in crowds.
I missed the context of milieu's view wide-angled
With eyes binocular.
Head down, glued to the viewfinder, set to myopic focus,
I had no inkling of what I missed
as I walked.
Night fell.
I back-tracked the path in the dark,
under the gaze of the crescent moon.
But, the path was vague in darkness.
The harder I looked,
the more I focused straight-ahead,
the less I could see the path.
It disappeared from view.
I stumbled into side-walk bushes.
I tripped over a log.
Weirdly, the path loomed up clear,
outta the gloom, in every sideways glace I made,
Clearly spelled-out in peripheral.
Whenever I picked myself up from a fall.
or glanced back askew from the side-walk,
the path was clear as a bell,
in sideways view peripheral.
But, if I looked back directly dead-ahead,
to see the path clearly defined, in twenty-twenty,
it was gone.
The only way to track the path
was to flick the eyes
to and fro in glances,
into and out of the corners.
Like a boxer in three minute rounds.
I struggled ahead along the path dark and gloomy.
Weaving like a wayward drunkard
pledged to be sober as a judge.
Plying the wobbly peripheral path
with view finder
set to landscape,
lens set to fish-eye.
-----------------------------
21 July 2021
Central vision is weak in the dark. Peripheral vision can detect faint light sources at night hidden from central focused gaze. Peripheral vision is better for detecting motion, especially flickers. Perchance ponder the implications if you will.
----------------------------
no emotionally ecstatic experience compares
to the seminal instance
whence spermatozoa
(from profuse ejaculation) beget
the miraculous propensity
to procreate despite the steep odds
female fertility fosters potential impregnation
fusing the hereditary debt
of feral, fiery, fomenting friskiness
fueling fancy free footloose fornication
prior to seminal fertilization union
sans ova doth induce fret
full ness in tandem with
diametrically opposed exultant sensations
(biologically, embryonically, microscopically,
et cetera) seismic shocks inject
when deliberate intent arises to disregard
applying prophylactics choice
plying reproductive roulette let
which analogous fruitful uterine plain
bastes the "cooking" egg omelette
which impregnation upends cessation of "self"
first and foremost asper desire to breed
wrenching role of "me" as operative
of webbed world de jure upon
consummating that most miraculous deed
necessitating yet for the fecund female relief
from messy menstrual cycle
she becomes temporarily freed
that perhaps a novitiate (or even a gal practiced
in the euphoric family, she instinctually
abides prenatal signals that heed
without feeling debased, harangued, lectured
pedagogical, polemical, puritanical, et cetera blast
assessing copulation enjoyed gloriously,
ineluctably, kinesthetically
lectured by elder, especially cast
in thee reel life drama, that nine months
til offspring utters initial whimper
elapses exceptionally fast
emitting a radiant golden halo wishing
to bottle confluence of hormonal secretions last
ideally fully awake to the birthing process,
when juiced the first stage of maternity past
cuz every moment thee inconsolably
(perhaps colicky infant)
gets first dibs to suckle,
which round the clock nursing
consumes moments many vast.
‘ Legendary … ’ ( Part 1 (of) 4 )
Step with me into History
Step with me, to ‘Days of Yore’ Pageantry
Let Time and Mind, March Back Momentarily
Let Mist and Musings … Merge in Front of Thee …
… On Mare, or Mighty-Destrier … Ride Along with Me
In Rich-Carriage, or Hay Wagon … Come Along with Me
Thru The Forests … See The Hunters, Plying Falconry
Thru The Elms, See Caravan … of A Girl-Gypsy
Over Sunny Knoll, and Shady Dale … Onward We Journey
By, Merchant-Trade, Lo’!... We Made – A Medieval City !
… Now, Hear Drummers, Beat Cadence … Dramatically
Hark, The Trumpets, Blare Forth, Thunderously
… Hear A Herald Invite: “ Hear Ye’ - All Heraldry “
Come to The Ball; Lyre and Mandolin Pluck Persuasively
a Lone Flute, Floats a Tune … so Melodiously
Perchance … Join The Dance and Step Accordingly
Twirl and Whirl, Do A Bassa’ … then Bow and Curtsy
Forsooth, from the word ‘Court’, comes such ‘Courtesy’
And Tis’ Adamant, for Manners, Donned in Such Finery
Swirling in Silk Gowns, Vests and Veils with Embroidery
… Gemmed-Cloaks, Headdress and Hose, Bedecked in Luxury
bearing Crested-Medallions and Daggers: There is no Subtlety
amid Scented Candles, Flowered Columns and Alcove Settees
and Banquets, where Sweetmeats and Puddings were made Ready
… also Victuals of Venison, Fruits, Cheese, Wine and Meade Aplenty
for The Wayfarer and Time-Traveler, who Ventures Back With Me …
And Now … may Troubadour … Spin A Tale, So Precisely
Aye … May Bard, Weave Thee Well, into This Tapestry …
Chorus:
Sweet Wine On My Lips … Drip In Ecstasy
Sweet Touch On My Hips … Smooth as Warm Honey
Sweet Love of My Soul … Last An Eternity
Sweetheart, Be Thou Bold … In Bravery …
… and if Sweet Talk, Be A Token … and Language Be Spoken …
… Be Legendary … Be Thou Legendary
( Part 1 (of) 4 )
There is a river nearby
A black green mystery of water
That standing at one end
One can hardly see the dim
Outline of trees on the other side.
The river is deep
And in the stillness
Of early morning
A mist comes
Off it
So thick and impervious
That you literally can't
See your hand
In front of your face.
We frequented the place
My father and I
On Sunday mornings
After the sun burned the mist away
I, as usual, hurrying up
To keep up with him.
Years later when I left home
My father shook my hand
A formality I was
Unaccustomed to
And one that left me puzzled.
Awkwardly, we said goodbye
Then he walked away
His broad back
Slowly fading
Into the caverns of Grand Central
Until he disappeared
In the noise and smoke of
The station.
When the train whistle blew
My heart jumped
I felt a thrill
Of adventure
My life had a purpose
Finally, I was on my own!
Events tell a story
I made mistakes
Stumbling from impossible dreams
To vague ideas
And found that loneliness
Was all intimidating
Painfully, I realized
All I had to offer life
Was my own confusion.
Not every life has a storybook ending
And mine was no different
I retuned home
After one year.
Restless one night
I stood on the river's edge
Listening to a solitary boat crossing the river
Plying its cargo up and down the coast
In the darkness a buoy gave up its warning
A deep clanging sound in the mist
Turning to see where the sound came from
I stood motionless
And listened
There was nothing but silence
And the soft lapping of waves on the shore
As it was since the beginning of time.
In the quiet
I remembered the early morning walks with my father
A familiar Sunday morning ritual
I now missed.
Overhead a moon shone
Casting a pale light on everyone and everything
And I stood still
Knowing that I had lost my way
Knowing that the river was calling from the night
Knowing that I was a solitary figure
Lost in America.
I imagine relief while feeling comfortably numb...
anesthetized courtesy central air
analogous to gulping down
a tall glass of ice cold water,
which equals ultimate thirst quencher,
especially for those
experiencing onset dehydration,
the following poetic opinion/editorial
shared by yours truly, a former consumer
who quaffed truckloads sugary and sports drinks
found mine once sculpted baby boomer body
undergoing gender reorientation, particularly
nondescript breasts incrementally found
busting (rivaling playboy bunny chest)
necessitated this garden variety
NON GMO gluten free husband
"papa," an endearment
addressed by the missus
puzzled when her
brassieres went missing
loathe to believe what sounded
like cock and bull story
embarrassed, yet finally
relented into pestiferous
inquisitiveness hen pecking wife,
she stood agape, after I dare bare
unclothed upper torso revealed
floppy, limp biscuit sagging
sorry excuse for bosom
hence necessitating yours truly
to resort as partial crossdresser,
yet never foreseeing
anatomical morphology transforming
(analogous to mushroom popping up
following bucketloads of rain)
thus went cold turkey,
(as attested by this gobbledygook)
to swear off high caloric non nutritious
popular beverages
(generating bajillions dollars),
and additionally forced non chipper infowar
i.e. internal three ring circuits
uncivil insurrection
(a tad more'n eighteen months ago)
as weeks elapsed months
(this unplanned resolution
dated June seventeenth
two thousand twenty two),
discarded over the shoulder boulder holder
in tandem with exercise
few times per week
alternating plying twenty pound dumbbells
and exercising viz pedaling
(quasi bicycle) machine
a pronounced reduction
saved me big bucks
undergoing cosmetic (Liposuction) surgery!
The image of morning mapping from the four cardinal points at the center of
busy pedestrians running ups and down to the bottom of their energies,
Chasing the note they never designed to decimate
ownership.
The smiling morning bubbling their imagination to the high magnitude of
Success languishing behind heart seeking to control situation to the center
of the market, number of desperate merchandises queuing to drink their
Imagination protruding bellies where Satan jolts their hearts to refine
thirty with disastrous desires.
The noise is enough to tantalize the talon of termites boiling at the
center hopping to solve dove segmented wants which never will be OK to
Occurrence of the occupation that too schlock to crumble tantamount to
desire of the heart.
Despite the pain still depicted on his hustle still never give up searching
the treasures that he never keeps no he pinpoints the right place, but just
Living in dilemma of success rocked of magenta quill of shaving beard.
The center of plying to control the Flocks moment of people from all
Angles, prices are bargain with sometimes smile with sometimes waged with
Sadness, the sanity of controlling the market trends is far from certain.
Stalls from left to right which drank the movements of people from one
Place to the other impossible night mad with workaholics perambulating with
Stitches ideas like the mountains of women flashing around with eagerness
to cook the dinners for husbands paying the prices for being too long away from home.
I blame the desires that preoccupied the daily lives of individuals
Superseding with treasures that don't accompany neither nor accomplish your
Bills for the prayers you missed and messed your time behind rouged
the Treasures that still is your colonial master.