Long Pound Poems
Long Pound Poems. Below are the most popular long Pound by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pound poems by poem length and keyword.
Seduced, I Fold the Known;
Showering the bleeding moments
To allow the Soul to dance
Delighted
Devoured
carefully caressed
to uphold the unfolding Unknown
To notice a moment of such a wonder,
sometimes passed in silence
where ghost-like bodies melt into skin;
footprints are evident to Existence,
shadow-filled heartbeats pound Times into Lifetimes
for a split Forever shared
It's dreamlike and lust filled
when worlds are weaved into a star-like parlor;
Breathing Heaven empty of Angels,
Licking words upon peeling skin,
voicing the resonance of Sound,
[moans and sounding breaths]
unto the dripping Void
I'm Unfolding
between being alive and living;
To Fold the Known
and reach further still
Limitless
There is a beauty in the written word
When not so much of it is spoken
The verbiage lingers in my mind
Like the taste of a fine wine
The words pass before my eyes
Floating…
Floating…
Floating…
Like ethereal clouds across the skies
And can bring tears unto my eyes
Like a joy so unrevealed.
There is a meaning in some words
That can cause my heart to break
Or cause my spirit to elate
Words can cause your heart to pound
As I ponder the mental sounds
Reverberating in my chest
It gives my soul unrest
It moves a feeling in my breast
Of the beauty
Of written words
I will never grow weary.
(November 26, 2010 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved
There is an hour
which interferes with work -
"our hour".
We use it, or are used by it,
to bound round supermarket chains
or sandwich bars.
See? We're bound by bars and chains.
Workers pound the counter at
the Queen's Head every lunchtime.
Time for lunch, not time for hunger -
hunger learns to coincide with lunch.
The counter which we use,
or are used by,
the Workers' Pound,
bears the Queen's head.
It's a token.
You get these if you work.
Hard work, hard cash.
Someone gives you tokens,
which you trade in for Things.
The Queen approves.
Sovereigns can do anything.
Wake up when it's dark,
do things no sane adult
would ever want to do,
and you can have tokens, too.
One day, we'll see beyond Things.
Work work out of our system.
Pools will be stocked with carp,
not typists,
and the Rush Hour will mean
a lazy while
spent on a river bank -
not that anything will be spent,
and banks will have been abolished.
The only office will be evensong,
nothing will be known as "hours",
or even "ours",
and pounds will be locked up
... in pounds.
Alarm clocks will be wound up.
Treadmills will be recycled,
much to the relief of guinea-pigs
(which will be renamed,
along with money spiders).
There'll be a Queen's Award
for Indolence.
I've seen the future,
and it doesn't work.
She is just a little five pound grey kitty,
But within her soul there is so much happiness;
And of course, there are quiet moments we enjoy.
But oh my, can she play,
She runs and leaps and spins;
Carries around a white play mouse,
I find it in her water bowl.
Loves her scratching post,
Hangs upside down meowing;
Likes to bat her balls all around,
Then she flings herself onto the sofa,
And with a contented sigh she snuggles and purrs.
We can stay this way for hours and then she starts again.
______________________________
June 14, 2015
Poetry/Verse/Happy Kitty
Copyright Protected, ID 15-682-071-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym
Written for the contest,
Beloved Pets
Honorable Mention
Chemo, Puberty & the Fourth Watch
by Patrick Cornwall
Wake up—rush for the toilet, say my prayers.
Stomach races, chasing bowels,
anxious like horses shot from a gate.
Chemo, the man said. Takes time to get used to. And I’ll ring you.
I take a shower. Just trying to rinse the sick away.
Ready for the day.
The sun leads me out—
then gas explodes.
Liquid in my underwear.
Provocative, isn’t it?
Warmth down my leg,
staggering back up the stairs.
Another shower.
Like it’s raining.
Tears mix in—
but no one sees them but You, Lord.
Toilet bowl—heaving, vomit.
Wishing I wasn’t alone.
Wishing I wanted to live.
But I must be strong—
three months in,
and I’m still breathing.
Nose forward,
purpose steady.
Old faithful—couch again—
Boom Boom Boom
We love you
Toon Toon Toon
We care
Tears of sweat, sweat of tears
Boon a Toom—
I’ll be back as soon as I can.
I can handle it.
If it’s dark, I’ll candle it.
Lost my wallet? I’ll panhandle it.
Chemo’s my companion now—
anaphylaxis too.
Friends from the deep.
I greet them with my game face.
Pretend it’s a new hockey stick—
I’m young again.
We’re playing the Russians,
and I’m a Flyer.
We’re gonna pound them.
But I’m sixty now.
My lungs don’t want to play.
My legs betrayed me.
What happened to me?
Boom a Toon—
legends call me down.
Boon a Toom—
I go back to the ward.
I see old friends,
but they’re younger now.
My vision’s slipping.
Boom Boom Boom
We love you
Toon Toon Toon
We care
I’ll be back
Just as soon as I can.
I didn’t want to end up in the belly of the whale.
I’ve already been there—
addicted, lost, refusing the call.
So I started writing.
So don’t worry.
I’m not at the end.
I’m just creative-bugging along
with my puberty chemo oats—
awkward, uncomfortable, and oddly alive.
Observe and see how words spring out,
Watch feel sets free in a prompt shout.
Sit still and wait for thoughts to bring,
Pause at the gate to fashion fling.
Look well for sounds that float around,
For on these grounds new verse do pound.
In just a while ooze random flow,
A glimpse now styles a certain show.
No need to move or gather wit,
Works know fond grooves that simply fit.
Now bit by bit of charming squeeze,
New patterns sit with easy breeze.
Greet each thought then with a fond face,
Cause floods just when to disrupt space.
Write as words come to fashion well,
Seek thus to sum word gems that tell.
Know thus the way as feelings urge,
Spend time each day in poignant merge.
Leon Enriquez
19 February 2017
Singapore
Yesterday I unscrewed the top of the
homemade huckleberry jam you gave
me before you left for Lisbon.
I took deep purple breaths to fill
my light pink lungs.
It was such a necessary experience;
the vision of you in my mind’s eye
atrophies each day, the Atlantic
between us casts foggy shades on
my eyes and the crystal clear memory
muddles like a lake after heavy rain
The anxiety of asking you a question
when I have no idea what the answer
will be, but have every notion of what
I wish it to be. It’s a 60 pound backpack
4 hours into an uphill hike, so I resign
my curiosity and just tap the Portuguese
postcard nailed to the wall beneath
the light switch every time I leave the house.
and hope that you would do the same.
Funny thing this idea sport
In a way it acts like a fort
Something there
Making some stop and care
Away from being a winner
Being a topical conversation over dinner
Debating information
Discussion which team your team is facing
It’s a friendly fight
With a peaceful might
Quite comical when in sight
Taking a word like ‘fan’ short for “fanatic”
In Fort Sport one needs to control emotion not panic
Such an interesting fort
This sport
There is a score
Where the champion has more
Fort Sport has a way to make a buck
Merchandising images to show support while wishing good luck
A pound or pence
Could be dropped in one’s defense
Put a dollar on to get fifty cents back
That is if things go as planned and no one gets sacked
Fort Sport is a place that is prepared
To handle any nasty affair
A facility
That has the ability
To tend
And mend
Those who bleed
And are in need
Even better Fort Sport
Holds a court
To find something out
Through the screams and shouts
Releases a warning
Catching the evil storm under its protective awning
Fort Sport is a chip
A prop written as an athletic script
Addressing a problem
Before the enemy reports ‘I got them’
Fort Sport has a part
That solves conflict before they start
Monitoring this process
Outing a mess
Wrestling it to the ground until it confess
Allowing tomorrow to be another time to show fortune and fame
Filling Fort Sport again the house for the civil war game
I have a good charade
I can make a step from a stumble
No need to be afraid
Here in the human jungle
When you’ve a good charade
If you’ve a good charade
The tigers will not pounce on you
If you’re camouflaged
The gorillas will not pound on you
If they think you’re a god
You know, a good charade
I have a good charade
I can make a scream sound musical
Learning to make the grade
Here in the giant cubicle
It’s all a good charade
A really good charade
The paperweight is a pacemaker
The conference call, traffic for drugs
The copier is life-support
Lord, let me never be unplugged
And never let them debug
My sweet charade
It’d be a pity to debug
Such a good charade.
Ladies and Gentlemen, good folks gather round!
What I have here to show you is worth every pound.
It will soothe your dry bunions, seal your canoe,
Moisten your leather, and stretch your shampoo.
At my own huge expense, from India to thee,
The famous, spectacular, Big Jumbo’s Ghee!
I’ve used it as wheel lube from here to Mumbai.
It can quiet your babies at night when they cry.
It can mollify itching from poisonous plants.
It will ease the infirm of their ravings and rants.
No sir, not a swindle, this is no evil boast.
You can even put Ghee on your pancakes and toast!
Just so, Sambo travelled from hamlet to town,
Selling his Ghee; a half-cup for a pound.
Word spread like wildfire, for this was no hoax.
Just a golden-brown product that’s good for all folks.
He lived very simply, for Sambo was blessed.
And sent home his millions so Mumbo could rest!
5/30/17
For the contest “Little Black Sambo by Helen Bannerman”.
Sponsored by Debbie Guzzi