Long Proportioned Poems
Long Proportioned Poems. Below are the most popular long Proportioned by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Proportioned poems by poem length and keyword.
I drained life of its fullness...
not pricing its worthiness,
leaving nicks in the prime of youth:
deceitful tricks to ignore every truth.
I imitated parody to conceal identity,
thus making it forgery my priority;
and the masked nobleman acted out his
infamous burlesque play, ridiculing Fay...
knowing that her unrhymed lines
were intently borrowed from clowns,
not from gifted writers with clever minds;
did they bray when they were blamed for the delay?
My intent was not a merited Godsent or lofty thought
perceived by a gladiator who held the wilt
of his sword proportioned to his solid built,
but rather ridden by a guilt which had a powerful force to jilt
me when I was reduced to tears by my peers for my peculiar tilt.
Written on 12/12/2016
It is thy wanton gestures that contrive inside long auburn
curls -
Wherefore to diminish the pleas of a warm, lustful
breeze!
For though gilded rays shall grace all thy sunlit days
Tis Moonstrucks cast beams, your mischiefs,
That did so deceive.
Happily ye wander through Midnights velvet vales...
Thus to bathe in the still of deep glades shimmering pools;
Gently smile as the White Hart confuses at the Nightjar,
Laugh joyfully as he gleefully barks within a Huntresses
muse.
Whence, entwining abouts your lithe-liken limbs,
Enchanting currents that confound upon like curvaceous
streams:-
Flawlessly proportioned, highbred, temperate form
Of palest earthborn Athenian figurine.
And ere those coy sighs should but just once countenance
Mortal compromise
Through your countless ages of fair queens and fabled kings -
Then, at some singular point in trickling sands spatial time,
If my heart beat against thine...wouldst thy charge me astride
Great Pegasusus wings?
So recline thou, betwixt sharp earth and Heavens eternal
skies,
Thoust art serenaded by forlorn winds that forsakenly
Beseech upon your divine name -
For the raging fires of burning stars were lit to blaze
In thine eyes
By thee fearful architect who moulded immortal clay
To thy perfectly sculptured frame!
"All a man really wants, is a girl who looks good in a bikini."
- Jack Freestone
Grounded in gender
A slave to testosterone
Driven by primal feral instinct
Dormant remains our soul
Heart not yet love inked
Now, a girl in a bikini
Who is well proportioned
Is no doubt pleasing to the eye
Yet what’s seen is outer form
Perishable and hence a lie
Let us correct parallax
Looking at spirit, not body
God’s light shines within us all
Mere dust is organic form
Who we are, let’s recall
The question, ‘who am I’
Compels us to look deeper
If we be silent by day and night
We be and so in time become
God’s essence: living light
A hand of sand in spectrum of flow of time,
ministering thoughts by simple pantomime.
So many sand-curies it has been,
and dessert hills moved gently keen.
Caravans slow vicissitude by blow of wind,
seasick on a camel ride pinned.
Motion rise and sink in endless obscure,
sensuous dunes proportioned contour.
Wandering aimless not by imagination,
creating landscapes of ancient preparation.
Illumed wilderness same same horizon,
only more sand for pilgrimage compromising.
The oasis coming in confident of fate,
to resolute the heart before it is to late.
Have we passed that shimmering crystal tower?
coming closer to the counting passing hour.
Gazing up and escaping these narrow walls,
the shifting sand and its sustaining falls.
This little golden thread dilate into column plain,
pursuing my thoughts regardless the time in vain.
A world too small for times in loving ponder,
timeless appreciation and all its precious wonder.
Ooh...this... just an amazing grace note
recalling how I felt like an ass
and wanna toot 'bout me getting steered
(as a heavy metal kid Rocker)
toward befriending a brass
see gutsy, horny,
and MainLine snooty upper class
action button down
(grace fully slick as vaseline), airily glinting
forcibly hawked, laundered, and pawned
by the instrumental
Mister Deangelo O'Donnell, High School
(mud flapping, ornery hearing,
and quid juicing Ska Welch ching)
music teacher oompah crass
tone deaf when aye trumpeted desire
to master the Coronet
analogous to pursing lips
blowing tightly held grass
blade between two abetted,
cinched fastened opposable thumbs,
which tooting a supposed aural aphrodisiac
to attract a zaftig well proportioned lass
(ideally shaped like a miniature Tuba)
with one steel funnel like mouthy mass
that probably explains, how such a gal
could easily emulate
facial pucker earning pass
to illustrious honorable first chair
and blasts gratitude akin
as Gabriel would declare
heavenly expressions conducting
angels thru atmospheric ether
alighting on mortal ushering melody
with rites of harkening
springtime Renaissance Faire
solar rays golden raiment
splays rainbow fragments off
beveled, bellowed, and
bedecked polished flare
audiological sound waves trick
saw toothed reflected
silhouetted orchestral shadows
to dance as conductor's baton gear
musicians horns ensemble
epochal feast to hear.
The Tangled Flower Garden
The garden, so meticulously planted,
Enriched with mulch, and carefully proportioned,
Pleases the eye with colour and assortment
But resorts to chaos when left unattended.
Nature abhors the hand’s uniformity,
Demanding a mess of the plurality.
Each species struggles for dominance to survive
(Between plant and weed or whatever else one finds)
For nutrients and sunlight to bloom and attract bees
For pollination and propagation of its kind.
The apple tree’s branches shade the jungle below
(Which is littered with various flowers and growths)
From the elements, essential for their survival
In the tangled flower garden environment.
Does Nox hold sway where you sit or lay,
or stand blanketed in deep fog's clime?
Where perfectly proportioned physical deformity holds
in substantive and coddled awe' sublime.
Shrouded in shot from fusil's beautiful dark pall,
far from heredity's nameless and shameless hall.
We walked as friends, along a stoney ledge
talking of women and lofty soul's reprisal'd pledge.
Wore separate clothes, to separate mothers
we cling'd,
free of our father's shadow at last.
Yet in time..
if your beliefs differ from mine
will you still call me brother?
We are so few since wreck and ruin,
should hate ever.,
take us away one another.
I'd never turn against, you have my word,
no matter the seizur'd absence of mind.
For it held strong our promised bond,
and for it,
prefer neck to the sword.
No crowning achievement in sorrows my truth,
faithful friendship strong as any belief,
more than life it's a simple us I hold to.,
for w'out us there'd be no more we.
The Last Consummation
Hello. Good evening. Nice to see you.
It is always good to have someone to talk to,
especially now in my waning years,
as Death is softly playing the piano in the next room.
The piece he is playing is nearly over.
I know this because I have lived a long time in the shadows.
I have talked to dying faces many times,
with the same quiet melodies playing in the background;
they are like old friends who never change.
They stay loyal and refuse to believe the lies being said about you.
They speak up for you on your behalf,
watching your back even when you’re wrong.
Such apparitions do exist I am told,
as there are many who profess to have seen and known them.
But I have not known any such person, or melody.
They are mythical creatures that have thrived in a former age,
lassoed in by the Sun God for an afternoon’s pleasure with tiny animals.
These eminent beings who will stand by you when all have departed;
these are the rare honest ones, the decidedly wise ones,
all proportioned with a gutsy backbone that is unbreakable,
durable as the dubious winter grass at solstice time,
and as honorable as one’s bloodline amongst the masses,
Can you hear the million shouting voices?
They find deaf ears, and a million frozen stares,
in the last consummation.
Hey, I'm in no position, to pre-judge or undermine
What beggars my thoughts, just what do others find
Hey, look out today's windows, pray tell me what you see
Is it the World of forty years ago, I don't think so for me
Hey, where has it all gone wrong, whether your Islam or another
Just maybe Islamist countries, needed the West to discover
Hey, tolerance has probably bitten, just where's our resources
Or even the proportioned profits, is it horses for courses
Hey, with predominant factions growing, having their say
It looks like the West has festered, their modernists display
Hey, especially to this day, have the fundamentalists sight
Have we gone beyond before, and we find nobody is right!
Hey, look where this has lead us, incredible as it sounds
Simply hatred unknown forty years ago, by who's Devils Hand.
You invited me to bring
some object of great regard,
And so I present My Body.
A marvelous sensory object
perfect in so many feeling ways
I dare not count
or shout
or flout it through my days.
Unlike my home
where some rooms I like
just as and where they are
and others could be larger
or a wee bit smaller,
and further back or front,
less up and more down
to better accommodate this perfectly aging body,
All my inside parts are perfectly placed,
even my mealtime's exhaustive plumbing space,
I've grown systemically proportioned,
and synergetic'ly refunctioned,
integrally ecologized with marvelous winning grace
and apparent co-relational ease of pace,
although dis-ease does threaten inside grief
as outside gratitude
to leave room for younger climate minds
with more positive attitude;
Who healthy best remember
this cherished
chiseled
rich robust EarthBody.
My garden would be magnificent
if as organically functioned
as my organs
and my digits
and my senses of magical sight
and sound
and tasty touch and feeling
good wealth object-ives for lunch this day.
I mention house and garden
because these objects, too,
I cherish
and yet they feel less sacred,
worthy of awe and wonder from you
than this body
which I usually cover up,
especially when going out for lunch,
unless you would rather that I not?
Perhaps you would prefer
I had brought what's left of my right mind,
to more objectively share,
critically compare;
Rather than leave this gloriously embodied self
wide open
for your most remarkably startled stare,
Which was my original nutritional intent, you see
before you asked me,
To bring a specific icon,
my most noble ancient object
worthy of our admiring subjective glare.
And now in closing
I must confess
this body's shy performance
finds life easier to bear
by imagining your well-seated bodies
in nothing less or more than underwear.