Long Portly Poems
Long Portly Poems. Below are the most popular long Portly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Portly poems by poem length and keyword.
On the exquisite wings of fated infinity.
We move with subtle elegance and fluidity.
To sail into odd space on a vessel of silence.
It is clearly the domain of the swanky credence.
I desired you to be hither on a grisly day.
Hardship had exhausted my psychic spray.
I hailed you while gazing at your charm.
On the verge of a crux in winsome smarm.
Here you'll find the hustle and bustle.
We will rest and unwind as the term shuffle.
After you've aged through the up and down.
Our stature in a senders mod panel is known.
I'd been deprived of any expectation, developed.
The pre-winter light was precisely what I scorned.
What's beyond, yelled out, "Let the haziness in!"
The portly flare ought to be turned until the spleen.
We are enjoying areas that are beyond our side.
When we beget to maturity, all effort has died.
You can willingly view we've arrived at the wallow.
Waivers serve as the lessons we should follow.
Written: November 09, 2021
This or That, Vol 8 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
"I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart) I am never without it"
Quote _ by E.E. Cummings
Elizabeth was my father's mother,
a portly woman who was country raised.
She was called grammy, never grandmother,
and told me stories that held me amazed.
She was wise but could neither read nor write,
spinning tales of magic and fairy folk.
Whenever I got scared, she'd hold me tight;
and I'd listened to every word she spoke.
She'd check on me before she went to bed,
lovingly tucking me in for the night.
And she oft visits my dreams, though she's dead,
assuring me that she entered the light.
I carry her image within my heart,
for even Death cannot keep us apart.
(Sonnet)
09/07/2022
Writing Challenge- In My Heart- S Forms - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Lost to Heaven- Grammy
A skulking werewolf, all dark, and hairy, and keen.
A dainty elf, flitting about, barely being seen.
A dragon, with a fat body, that is hard to drag about.
And me, getting portly, I think I am now rather stout.
We were dancing around in the terrific forest this summer.
The elf would not sit still, which for the dragon was a bummer.
The werewolf tried to secure her with his well-intention-ed paw.
But a crow distracted him with a wild and deeply ugly caw.
So of course, the elf got hurt, and had to be taken to emergency.
The faeries were mad. The werewolf got stung by angry bumblebee
This infuriated him, so he took a giant bite out of my side.
Now when I see this threesome coming, I stay inside and hide.
The summer day four good friends began distancing themselves.
All because of an unfortunate incident that happened to friend elf.
This is what happens when you are all dancing and carefree,
Not paying close attention to feelings, or the way true friends ought to be.
A werewolf, all dark and hairy and keen, ran away that night.
An elf, lost her fingers, part of a wing, and her eyes lost their light.
The sweet dragon and I are still friends, but not nearly as tight.
An apologetic friendship that used to be vibrant and bright.
My birdfeeder is a meeting place for many feathered friends,
Delighting me with hours of pleasure that knows no ends.
All sorts of fowl gather there from miles and miles round,
Chattering with the latest gossip creating a melodious sound!
Two mourning doves dine on seeds found upon the ground,
A pair of svelte lovers, billing and cooing, not caring who's around.
A magnificent falcon silently appears in a graceful swoop,
Startling dozens of finches, breaking up their social group!
A couple of haughty ravens stop by for their daily repast.
I may have to refill the feeder since their appetites are so vast!
Sprightly, cute little chickadees flit about to and fro,
Hardly taking the time to feed - they're always on the go!
Golden finches, blue jays and robins add a colorful hue.
Mr and Mrs Lark Bunting, Colorado's bird, make this their rendevouz.
Portly pigeons strut about gathering their fair share.
Lowly sparrows perch in nearby trees awaiting their daily fare.
I've yet to find a feeder that keeps those wily squirrels at bay.
I reckon some inspired genius will figure that out someday.
'Til then my backyard friends will have to share the seeds,
As I strive to cater to their very voracious needs!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
The dark, drenched forest
was tinkling with tuis and bellbirds,
blind to the ledger book,
the bill of lading,
the glint in the eye of the ax.
Pious settlers wired the land for religion
and switched on the lights.
The natives were dazzled,
but loved the portly man in the red suit
who gave them everything they wanted.
On the Historical Society outing,
we struggle for footholds
in whirlpools of organized ennui,
clutch at the slack rope
that cordons off irrelevant ancestries.
‘The end is not nigh,’
the Dom-Post tells its readers.
Doors are bolted against the wind,
the tick, tick of the electric fence
around eroded pastures.
First published in Southern Ocean Review
The bowmen stepped up to the line
with a twinkle in his eye;
he knocked a feathered arrow,
and set a single shaft to fly.
The paper gnomes in pendulous sleeves
about painted maidens lurked;
the bowman knocked his arrow and,
aimed for the gnome silly shirt.
A puny gnome of paper fell,
pierced through his pendulous part.
the maiden squealed in mortal fear
as the bold archer missed her heart.
The bowman launched a final flurry,
of the finely feather shafts;
and many, many, portly gnomes,
were felled, with arrows in their sashes.
And, so the field of battle cleared,
of fearsome foe that sunny day,
with every ignoble gnome,
set to rotting in the rye hay.
The moral here is quite plain,
for all whose joy seems sparse;
the fool who insults an archer
will find an arrow in his ****.
My old four paw boy is a senior
Although older he has a nice demeanour
He is strong, loyal and portly
Turned from centre stage to mr grumpy
His eyes still shine bright
His mind and tummy are still right
Brings so much joy to the family
And enjoys his days lazily
He is the dog version of Goldilocks
Everything to be just right with no shocks
No fireworks or loud noises
Not too hot or too cold, only wants specific voices
He is a wonderful boy, kind and compassionate
Always listens while sat up straight
Friendly with children
He is one on a trillion
The best friend anyone could ever have
Just have a treat close to hand
Steep In thee seat of tradition
poor as a country man can be
readin' my paper for my world about me
lonely, without companion, my impression
wow; I think I've misjudged some things
whereas in my heart, what is important
is to find my mate, my wife, what sings
change my life's importance
say, may we live in peace
with a thousand reasons to rejoice
my health, wealth are before me
portly or thin, indeed I see...
by choice, my Bible, my mate a perfect match
so to Love, so governed by religious laws
traditionally so deep routed, such a great catch
I've always looked rather young for my age, or so I'm told,
But a kid in the burger joint today was ever so bold!
He rang up a "senior rate" for the burgers that he sold!
That little scoundrel! How dare he assume I'm that old!
Nowadays, when I go to the barber and settle in the chair,
She suggests a subtle "retouch" would really enhance my hair!
The dermatologists says the "wisdom spots" on my hands and face,
Must be eradicated since they are a terrible disgrace!
I used to wear stylish shoes, they'd really knock you out.
Now I wear ordinary Doctor Scholls to accomodate my gout!
I wore suits of the finest cut when I was young and trim.
Now to oblige my portly physique, my clothes look so grim!
Seems my ears ain't functionin' too well as of late.
Hearin' aids would rectify that, accordin' to my mate!
I'm obliged to wear trifocal spectacles to improve my sight.
They hinder my depth perception and besides they look a fright!
Doctor visits leave me concerned about glucose and cholesterol,
Shingles, hypertension, triglycerides and acylglycerol.
Maybe that young burger vendor was right, truth be told.
There ain't no gittin' 'round it, I guess I'm gittin' old!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
A meal worm eats me like a gourd of flesh,
this slimy beast I dread; two weeks or more
until my heart's (that once was young and fresh)
a hole that brims with the plaque of its gore.
Soft-bodied, legless, and writhing, this meal worm,
like yeast that leavens a raw loaf of baked bread,
or phage that necrotizes like a germ,
consumes its host until it's thoroughly fed.
Elongated and portly, like a porcine
(a fat creature and ravenous parasite!)
with the over-sized appetite of a swine,
you threaten me with a sick, terminal blight.
But if I were the brave one, O meal worm,
I'd make a meal of you and watch you squirm!