Long Puce Poems
Long Puce Poems. Below are the most popular long Puce by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Puce poems by poem length and keyword.
October sunbeams, inking Autumn trees,
edge their leaves with ribbons of molten gold.
And raining confetti with every breeze,
rivulets of scarlet and cerise flow,
letting streams of color flood the landscape.
And as gilded leaves weave a golden fleece,
yellow gets added to Fall's ticker tape,
as Autumn's pageant begins to take shape.
Crimson embers flare into orange flames,
incinerating all traces of green.
And living up to the hype Autumn claims,
chartreuse and puce pigments dapple the scene,
and the air smells earthy, yet crisp and clean.
As Nature heralds Winter's arrival;
the jack-o'-lanterns end up in the trash.
The barren fields await spring's revival,
Songbirds fly south, while squirrels hide their stash.
And bears hibernate for their survival
amongst sugar maples and mountain ash,
where vermilion and amber motifs clash.
NB: This is a repost, originally deleted.
The vermillion sunset has long dissipated
Over the marine persimmon horizon afar.
In the deep subterranean silence of the charcoal night.
Obfuscation confuses the illogical mind,
And conjures titanium dreams or harlequin volitions.
I feel your power descend upon me,
Subjugated surrender becomes inevitable
As I become malleable like puce plasticine.
I discern my wife approach, shimmering in thin air,
Dressed in a dark turquoise threadbare gown, in the pale rays
Of the chartreuse moonlight, resembling an enigmatic ivory ghost
Drawing near in a flimsy wisp of a nocturnal mist.
Come closer, come, I want you near me,
Sing an echoing mesmerizing mermaid melody for me,
Or slide into an enticing dance macabre.
I thrive upon such inexplicable endeavors,
Where nocturnal indigo sprites whisper dreamy antics
So pleasing to the provocation of the mind,
Combine to please the sybaritic nerves
Of this old and senile useless mind of mine.
My
eyes are
sorely touched
with the harsh flash
of puce and pink-red
exhaust fumes leak lazy
from the line of matchbox cars
clogging humanities sewers
lungs gasp at green tires lay rubber
like the wail of infants taken from tit
dangling arms wave the air seeking entrance
to the already well come fill’d shunt
sighing rubbing my lids lights strobe
just past the seared surfaces
of my bruised retinas
my feet throb swollen
now depressing
releasing
pedal
push.
One may be "Touched" in physically, mentally or spiritually.
Poet: Debbie Guzzi
Nature's divided into four seasons
each eye-catching in a similar way
and yet, different for many reasons.
Winter's crystalline beauty carries sway
but She is both barren and deathly cold
with a hollowed-out heart of papier-mache.
Spring’s spectacle slowly breaks Winter’s hold
accompanied by a moist April breeze
She showers snowdrops as petals unfold.
Summer is known for Her emerald trees
dandelions, coleslaw, a picnic spread
grasshoppers, hummingbirds, and honeybees.
Autumn colors the leaves in shades of red
scarlet, crimson, puce, orange, and yellow
weaving a fitting shroud for Summer’s dead.
Together they keep the planet mellow
each a fine-tuned string on Nature's cello.
10/12/2019
Continued from Part 2
Some kid is spraying Clearasil,
He wants to make his pimples nil;
He paints his breath with chlorophyll;
I’m in the dream of someone ill
I’m fleeing but I feel a goose,
Behind me grins a guy named Bruce,
His velvet miniskirt is puce
Why can’t I even call a truce?
There’s Billy Graham on a binge
His holy words do make me cringe;
If nonsense were a door with fringe
Then Billy Graham would be the hinge
I hear some Wallace words unkind
How has our race so soon declined?
His thoughts should be in sheit enshrined;
Thank god my eyes are color blind
The Beverly Hillbillys pace the street
The crowds are lying at their feet
While Petticoat Junction joins the fleet
And Green Acres makes it complete
I guess I know that something’s wrong
I haven’t yet met old King Kong,
They say ‘he went back to Hong Kong
For that is where he do belong’
Now I’m pausing in the gloom
And watch the reruns they exhume
They still do stink, I smell the fume;
To run away I must resume
Here comes Mitch, he’s singing songs
While Lawrence Welk, he beats the gongs;
I need to buy some racing thongs,
Instead they sell me three Ding Dongs
Behind me now there grows a tree
While Howdy Doody bends his knee;
I haven’t lost my sanity,
I’m merely tuned to Channel Three
End
I’m in Berlin. It’s nineteen eighty-four,
The Army on the Rhine, and I’m a nurse.
I’ve got an ego like an exocet,
(it’s safe enough, if regularly flattered),
and I have had enough of NAAFI-lore.
Four Powers – us, Froggie, Yank and Soviet –
have brought down on ourselves an endless curse:
we dance a careful monthly minuet
whose point is to uphold a badly-battered
self-image. Think of Tet – Lest We Forget!
A Captain of the Royal Medical Corps
(as sexy as a Wootton Bassett hearse)
Says, “Kathy, we’ve a mission for you, pet,”
(I got the feeling I was being Sepp Blattered).
She says, “We’ve carved you out a special chore.”
“We’ve got one inmate who’s a tad upset,
And you, we think, can put him in reverse ...”
The drill went on outside. Each pirouette
was polished like a boot. As if it mattered!
“Democracy will long be in your debt.”
As Häftling Hess held back the spring-hinged door,
his manner was teutonically terse.
I was the only woman that he’d met
in forty years. His chessmen were all scattered.
A single sock lay supine on the floor.
“So masculine, this space, I must regret,”
(all Germans, speaking English, think it’s verse),
“If I would say ‘bekom’, may I use ‘get’?”
He kept his overcoat on as we nattered.
I wore my civvies – Pringle puce twin-set.
He told me that my chess was very poor
(if anything, the practice made me worse:
but I won the NAAFI Cup that year, no sweat!)
His sense of self was ruinously shattered –
meticulous, but crap at keeping score!
I owe that man some sort of spiritual debt
(the kind of due you never reimburse),
that coelacanth in Spandau’s gloomy net,
his only greatcoat permanently spattered
with garden filth (and permanently wet!)
Whenever I think back on what he wore,
in my imagination I rehearse
short back and sides, the top still black as jet,
that turtle head, so wizened and so battered,
and I am not now what I was before.
A cock and a hen held a party
It caused chaos in the farm yard
Billy bull and a cow began mating
Of course it inspired this silly bard
A crafty spider wanted to join them
From her web spun with nylon not silk
But she wouldn’t drink at the party
And declared “I’m allergic to milk”
A piggy wig said, “I’ll lead the dancing”
But quite soon piggy began to wail
When a nasty old goat butted in
And spitefully pulled piggy’s tail
The noise from the barn was horrendous
Farmer Fred heard the cow loudly mooing
He dashed in with his pitchfork and rifle
Billy bull and the cow ceased their screwing!
Farmer Fred arrives, puce in the face
He asks, “Who arranged this soiree”?
The sneaky spider pointed all 8 fingers
Soon the fowl hosts lie dead in the hay!
The farmer starts to reload his rifle
All the party animals quickly disperse
The farmer’s wife cooks the fowl in the oven
And this is the end of this witty verse
Classical infusion, Beethoven’s “ode to joy”
playing on blaring audiophile speakers annoy
purposely looped to destroy vagrants with electronic music
blends of subversive elements and anxious acoustic
the solution to loitering the bodega doo dropping
spicy Shiitake broth smelling pissy store front,
jaded daily stunt, at midnight wino corks popping
abruptly segway into a film from one music scene
to a melting hallway, a lipstick alley with animate occupants
disconnected unmoored, appearing eerie and dormant
fluorescent lights unleashing a hum buzz in duress
hissing sizzling hornets’ nest of unsettling unrest
illogical levels of unease, an iniquitous den
such madcap absurdity is beyond my ken
not a shack, mall, nor a Holiday Inn,
a queasy Quasi-Moto mood which lies within
backrooms filled in with discarded filets
of fishy maceral that have no place,
frolicking pixella's in a glossy abyss of liminal space
plump puce brushed lips affixed
swollen browns and purple mixed
deep maroon and dusky rose,
make-up art is what they pose
I wish I may I wish away what is unreal with blinky eyes
I pray not to awaken one more inky surreal surprise
Crescent shaped moon portions mounted in pseudo walls
mounted upon the glare in unpleasing patterned halls
side by side quagmired half discs dawning a contorted face
in a half dazed-half-moon crest loon’s invisible phase
not unconscious but in some in-between state
bored while in transition and abandoned as they await
whimsical moldings who see me try not to take a peek
an exit to this madness is what I and they seek
maybe re-evaluate my sleep number, for gravity defying rest
What insight imports this encounter and what test?
what it means for a doomed generation Xer or baby boomer,
tacked in stucco, Silly Putty it seems, in a warped sense of humor
I wish I may I wish away what is unreal with blinky eyes
I pray not to awaken one more inky surreal surprise
‘Twas the night before Christmas with peace all around
Reindeers were sleeping there wasn’t a sound
When all of a sudden a shriek could be heard
Rudolph was cursing, with shocking swear words
Dear Rudolph was always the perfect gent
But using profanities; such anger did vent
Nothing would rile him; get under his skin
So calm and collected, they all said of him
So what had happened to cause this explosion
An inward collapse; an outward implosion
Slowly the reindeers began to awaken
to such profanities never heard before
In their boots they were waiting, all of them quaking
For the only occurrence to instill such behavior
if someone had changed Rudolph’s precious screensaver
Rudolph appeared his face was bright puce
They tried to console him but it was no use
For only one thing could now pacify him
Apart from a whisky or a tonic and gin
To give him ‘Dutch courage’ for his journey each year
Removing all panic, all nerves and all fear
Poor Rudolph was scared stiff of heights
As he flew round the world on Christmas nights
He could never look down, so sure he would fall
leaving all the world’s children with no presents at all
So to watch his screensaver whilst flying above
Was his only salvation for this labour of love
They turned all the knobs; unplugged from the wall
But nothing resolved, it was no help at all
The only solution was to make one last call
Or the kids of the world would all start to bawl
So on this magical Christmassy night
look skywards to see a celebratory sight
For sat astride Rudolph the cream of the crop
our beloved ET in his new Christmas top
With Rudolph now cured of his great fear of heights
Escorted by ET on all Christmas flights
24th November 2018
Competition: The night before
Sponsor: Joseph May
3rd placement
Contest Strand Choice R
Sponsor Brian Strand
N/A
the box of Crayola’s has fallen to the floor
like pick-up sticks they lay, crisscrossed
and I without a partner or a pair of jacks
rolled paper named & swirled in ink of black
periwinkle and puce displayed
side by side the candied rainbow huddles
like children whispering at play
lilac and orchid cuddle
see the rusty red and the crimson lay
grin and giggles surround the paper pages
as the parents are kept at bay
lemon yellow is the sun
and saffron the flower in the bay
pink the fingers which grasp and pile
the colors so arrayed, by the fallen box
of crayons in the golden light of day
4/12/14