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.
She couldn't believe her luck with the knock at the door,
This day of all days, the one day she can will a way.
One can only trap with the appropriate bait laid;
She preened herself in the mirror plying red "trap set"
Winking at herself with the smack of the lipstick case.
She knows she's got one this time. (He'll make the perfect plate!)
Fine meat wrapped in brown, clean shaven and recently bathed;
The fresh scent of his flesh had her drooling already.
"How may I help you" (to myself? she thought with a smile)
"Oh hi" obviously surprised by her beauty, brash
As pheromones filled his lungs he forgot who he was
"I'm uh"... "You're here for dinner" she whispered in his ear
Taking the package and closing the door behind him.
17.10.13
Composed for Russell Sivey's
"Halloween Scare"
Set sure sightings sensing stray say,
Mind moans missing mad mulling may.
Late laughter lulls sleep sad sounds,
Moody moves mull greasing gripe grounds.
Be beyond blame when worry whirls,
Feel fancy flame such stirring swirls.
Glad glimpses gain meek moments mild,
Vouch voices vain with wonder wild.
Thrill telling tale as action aids,
Set simple sale pointing poise paid.
Weary world whines weaving worry,
Private play pines puzzling purely.
Time transits trend playing proud prance,
Blind blunder bends choosing crisp chance.
Niche nicer notes that troubles tell,
Reap richer rote with wise words well.
Wonder works well with wander wise,
Time tramples tell that terrorise.
Soon something swell surrounds sure streak,
Dust dreamy dwell plying prompt peak.
Leon Enriquez
30 March 2016
Singapore
The Glistening of Formica Memories
Stepping on wet lateral stones,
at the Source of the Bicuspid,
three timeless tree-girls,
dressed in Colorado feathers,
urged on to fly,
as far as the harbinger’s voice,
reverberating from the source
and onward to eternity’s margins,
assume the mad ascendancies
to the highest peak, the farthest city;
their three steeped voices slicing
the formica memories
into shards with bitter fingers.
The glistening call,
of that farthest city,
wallows in the mirage
of seeming imaginations,
of fluid want with foreshadowing
remnants of lateral intricacies,
of standard practices
in the unseen interludes;
why is it when the wind blows
from the source we can listen,
but not hear?
Has memory succumbed
to the vacuum of time and warp?
On which wetted lateral stones
does source-wind lay out
the patterned template?
But now the feathers amerce
the wind’s seasoned harbingers,
plying the stars to find their elàn
amidst the mirages,
urged on to fly, ascending lofty peaks,
beckoned by eternity’s margins,
three arbored fems,
imagination becoming flesh,
stars and stones merging,
as timeless as formica;
their fleshly lateral stones
finding the Source of the Bicuspid.
Forlorn, my treacherous heart has betrayed me.
Pricked my conscience and disobeyed my mind,
for it desired passion, and chose to set itself free,
seeking a love, it should've declined. Love is blind.
Feigning childhood innocence, it took control,
and its betrayal caused great weeping in my soul.
Since then, my life has been filled with gray skies.
My soul empathized with heart's burning flames.
Without my consent, they spawned a compromise...
forming a treasonous tryst, making intimate claims.
I was disturbed by the self-betrayal taking place,
and prayed for God to forgive me with His grace.
My soul longed for freedom to sing its spirit song.
My heart yearned for romance, plying me with deceit.
What could I do to show them both they were wrong?
To them, my voice had become droll and obsolete.
I will find a way to surmount the sabotage committed.
Guilty, I find them, but with hope of being acquitted.
April 15, 2022
Soul Betrayal Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Unseeking Seeker
she sells goat's cheese, not my favorite
plying the beach ramada to ramada
at times she sits with me
lowering the basket from her head
her clothes are worn, patched
i roll eggs, beans, chorizo into a tortilla
hand it away, she always accepts
then throwing her arm over the chair
she begins the badinage
i understand little sometimes
others, far too much of humanities plight
i too throw my arm over the chair
rattle slowly in my aspiring Spanish
making verbal notes of words
similar in English and Spanish
she teaches verbs, vernacular
we share more than just language
if you would stand afar
you would think us old friends
lost in the chatter of complaints
news, reminiscing, and aren't we
the same expressions, gestures
friends in small talk
sharing a similar nature
delivering the points quite well
it is a beautiful day
we are happy to be alive
sharing breakfast, languages
she returns to her vending
soon Isabella will be by
with my freshly baked banana bread
Jorge will drop off the tamales
sometime this afternoon
and i will have gone to the bank
for money, Maria's children
are in need of school clothes
i return to the waves rolling in
watching the pelicans
riding the uplift provided by the surf
this is what i need, not poetry readings
life is a continuous poetry affair
that moves thru existence on wings
of opportunity to grasp it
cherish its every moment
neuropathways accompanying Death
in little smiles, no one hears
San Blas 91
And in a pinch reluctantly talk to yours truly,
a very reformed Jew rarely attends Synagogue,
(he who cannot be named) hails from Prague
offtimes provides a wonderful monologue,
whereby his eloquence usually finds me agog.
Propinquity between scribe
of Schwenksville (Pennsylvania)
heavily shuns engaging in diatribe
loathes bombastic, egotistic,
imperialistic, narcissistic, terroristic...
zealot trumpeting art of the deal
if necessary even coaxing bribe.
I would be up to the task and not averse
to extemporize unless stage fright did curse
ambition to chat up intellectual conversation
and/or solemnly soliloquizing regarding
recent deceased driven away courtesy hearse
(yup another coronavirus/COVID-19 statistic)
despite heroic measures
exerted by selfless nurse,
whose tears trickled down flushed cheeks,
while her lips she did purse
methinks she wondered if pandemic
would get worse.
Oratorical predilections quake
these lovely bones, which at lxii ache
after lugging a load of Bananas
after me and the missus did betake
ourselves to purchase said fruit at Landis
(841 Gravel Pike, Schwenksville, PA 19473).
The main rhyming reason
for jaunt at aforementioned market
unquenchable thirst for riches to slake
aware improbable odds winning powerball
nevertheless bought two tickets,
fat and/or slim chance reality would wake
one average dirt poor Joe Biden his time.
A lofty song Enya doth sing
plying her lilting heavenly voice
titled "Marbled Halls"
for no rhyme nor reason came to mind,
perhaps momentarily fantasizing
how gobs of moolah tickle me fancy,
although the lyrics strongly in apropos
especially opening line -
I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls
With vassals and serfs at my side...
Workplace harassment is rife, alive and well,
Occurring too often in this pseudo company.
Derogatory, condescending words roared, inches from your face,
Sounding like a battlesque symphony.
People in charge making foolish demands,
Then usurping workers places, employing visible stealth.
Not being productive, effective or profitable,
To any of the workers, or for the companies health.
Forcing workers to feel small, inadequate, not bright,
Forcing workers to accept their lot in life.
And, to any workers who bring up any questions,
Publicly back stabbing them, with a knife.
Workplace harassment in this office, it’s cruel and demeaning,
To the folks just plying their trade.
It’s easy to see the bullies in charge, strutting around,
Ready, waiting, clasping a shiny switchblade.
As day dawns, the sky gleams bright.
Fresh clean reborn, the morn's alight.
I am the glimmer in the sun's feeble rays,
That its hope will bring me better days.
I am the dew caught on blades of grass.
Glinting beads that gleam esteem in glass.
I am the caress of the gentle breeze,
That dances, awakening rustling leaves.
I am the artist who paints the scene,
With soft warm gentle hues, so serene.
I am the sunbeams plying the sky
For clouds to kiss that come on by.
I am the hush of silence the quells
Night's clatter with quiescent spells.
I rise with hope, to chase my dreams
In the warm glow of sunlight streams.
It is such a pleasure to be up and see
The symphony of each dawn abide with me.
The kids are gone, I'm retired, I'm taking a long vacation,
To an island with sunny beaches - that's my destination!
I'll spend the days savoring a climate of seventy-two degrees,
Snoozing beneath the palms, fanned by an ocean breeze!
Each morn as I stretch and yawn to meet another gorgeous day,
A glorious sunrise greets me from across the shimmering bay!
I release the worries and frustrations from my languid soul,
As upon the beautiful, sandy strand I take my morning stroll!
'Tis soothing to the ear as the surf floods the pristine beach.
Beyond that there is heard only the terns' occasional screech.
Sandpipers and sidling crabs entertain me scurrying about.
I watch a ship across the aqua sea, plying its leisurely route!
'Tis relaxing to sip a rum swizzle when another day is done,
And just sit back to enjoy the grandeur of the setting sun!
Later, as though emerging from the sea, rises a brilliant moon,
And romantic music serenades me from across the lagoon!
I'll have a lobster dinner, then to bed because it's getting late,
Or maybe a dip in the surf! But hold on! Just a minute! Wait!
Gliding across the moonlit beach something makes my eyes gleam!
A bikini-clad beauty....! Alas, the missus pokes me shattering my dream!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Wolfgang sits alone in a Berlin bar
Plying drink to drink's still darker state,
Depressed, alone, and full of hate
For what he has become.
Young backpack enters and with uncertain
Tongue a conversation starts, until late
Drinking talk is done and Wolfgang must
Depart, but bids young backpack home
With prospects of a sheltered night and promise
Of a warming meal some streets way,
Not far. Wolfgang's wife is waiting.
A meal is cooked, unsteady Wolfgang sits
As wife joins to the right and backpack left,
Still drinking, until now beyond himself
Eyes roll, frame slumps still closer to the table.
Dear Wolfgang's wife at last explains
That Wolfgang is unable. "He's impotent.
My husband here has brought you home",
She says, eyes to the table. "He's brought
You home to be with me so I am not alone
At night. But see how much this hurts him.
When doing this he drinks to stave the pain.
And every time he brings a man, 'dear Wolfgang',
Is what I want to say, 'please don't do this again.'