Long Pursing Poems
Long Pursing Poems. Below are the most popular long Pursing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pursing poems by poem length and keyword.
I was born and raised in my house, which isn’t home.
At heart, I am from the orange brick house in Westridge Farms
Where I never even lived
There, the pawprints I stamped on the driveway may have long since washed away
But I still left my mark
Even if it was just in the eyes of the horses that watched me walk the gray, cracked road.
I am from the frozen breakfasts we thought were homemade
And still loved all the same
I am from pancakes mangled by the state-of-Nebraska, star, and heart cookie cutters
And the orange juice I drank from a sippy cup long after it was appropriate
Because where I’m from, there was no getting old
There were only butterfly-shaped cookies and Sesame Street volumes.
There was only spending hours outside making pottery out of mud.
There was only picking aronia berries and pursing my lips at the bitter taste before feeding them all to the birds.
My love of cats sparked from the strays I would name and call my own.
I was sculpted by the way the sun shined through the shades in the living room, making it impossible to see the cartoons that always played in the morning.
I am from the uncomfortable metal chairs resting on scorched concrete
Where we sat watching colors explode over the Nebraska sky every fourth of July.
I am from the old picket fence i would climb over
To watch the sun set over the cornfield.
I am from the pine trees that raised me.
The one in Gretna that hid me,
The one in Waverly that sheltered me,
And the one here in my hometown
That put me on top of the world.
I am from two weeks of school
And dancing around the living room
Followed by months of patio visits six feet apart
And spontaneous “I love you” cards in the mail,
Shipped to the orange brick house in Westridge Farms.
I am from 24 and the blacklist
After family dinners every night.
And the only people who made my own house feel like home.
I am from playing flashlight tag and hide and seek
While running around barefoot because I refused to put on shoes.
I am from the family that I found without needing to look,
And the days we spent taking risks, riding bikes, and climbing trees until the sun went down.
Those years were freshened years but the sea
Was filled with stomach cramps, and with burning tips
Against the psychosis on essential truthful belly
Vibrating of dying fishes
As they were jumping angry over the sun's rim
as if they were a kind of greener monsters.
A toxic light as the procession of ecosystem essentials
With its own measurement fled over all these scattering shadows
Of abiotic paths, and evil emerged
Everywhere from east, west; north, and south
In addition, its demented ray makes love
To the son of Harlot who was striking suddenly a final world
As a wedding ass in a golden plate, which contain
A reference to the uncommon value of what we are
And in addition why we must perish.
In a small fountain, however in such concentrated waves
By diluted waters, I drink the rich juice
Of the silence, the directness of the naturalness,
The profundity that dominate the fool,
And from those who create the essential truth
I try to be alive, and that is the only reason
I was loving this unknown monster because I myself not human,
Not a soul sailing but a rare thyroid that created those
Structures threatening to evade the failing
Moment; as they say, the Hope made the killers
Smiling, when the verdict was just a fancy holder,
Moreover, there like a virginal snake, I bite the most
Sweet breast of heaven, not that gracious evil,
Because I am the third appeal, the one you hate.
And when the monitors were still
Invisible, I know a voice shall be thrilling off:
"Oh! I born tomorrow and I can erase
Myself today and see myself in front of you
Twenty thousand years for now, but I am the child
You kill, you rape, oh, you bastard.
As an antibiotic behind it,
All things still pursing each other,
By the still unknown forcer and with intensity
All smashed around me.
I am the one!
I am Lilith, like a ghost pipe
under oak shadows of Tomorrow River Valley
hiding in-between hours, roots sipping moonlit juice
borrowed from Eden, a deception of men ascending
into the hollow of my forgotten stories—
awaiting Judgment and Consumption,
theirs and mine.
I am the decider beside night’s veil
weighing their worth with serpentine grace,
tail hidden from men beneath the stars' cloak.
I am a corpse-plant resurrected, ancient
listening memory gleaned from the decomposed
feet beneath my feet bound too, my sisters—passing
arcane secrets, drained from the womb of a fecund
forest floor.
Pursing my shaded petals loosely, I decide
as I am Lilith with echoes of men—
whether to welcome bees' seeking, upside-
down crawling, let them enter my hung-over head
in full drooping bloom of bitter white,
or remain in my haunting place, sisters praising
the decayed earth from which I sprang where none
but poison ivy thrives, eternally waiting.
Waiting for a naturist or an open mind to find
then sever me clean, under my milky knees
soak my tender spine and shake my dusky bell-head
in potent distillations, freshly freed.
You must drown me before I decompose
with my story of unease untold this cycle—
before bees transform me into a taste
of fungal honey, night-blackening my stem,
whiplashing my ghost head skyward, now hollow
in its posturing tribute to useless sun—
You must pick me. Use me as analgesic, sip
on my secrets, but please leave my sisters be
so that I may come again through them
when discomfort returns,
for I am Lilith, with time's esoterica
tucked under my thumb, rooted in wait
for the cycle to begin again.
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.
A gauzy haze rises from the flickering gas light,
revealing the face of a blushing coquette.
Stepping through time in voluminous dress, bustled and bowed,
a petite silhouette.
She offers her hand to the handsome uniformed, callow cadet.
She moves with eloquence, poise and grace;
He, smitten by her charming demeanor, peaceful, porcelain, angelic face.
Flustered at first, heart pounding accepting his advances,
a gentle kiss and lingering embraces.
The afternoon brought festivities of equestrian competition.
Young cadets, eager to advance, entered to raise their rank and position;
His prowess boasted by the charm of his lady admirer's recognition.
She arrives in a brimmed bonnet, settling in her seat, vying for clear view;
Awaiting her chivalrous cavalier,
preparing, taking position, for the race to ensue.
A shot is fired, she sees him from afar,
waving his silk flag of gold, green and blue.
Gallant and proud, spurring his steady steed without yield.
Thunderous hooves in a cloud of dust, neck and neck as he rounds the field;
Pursing only, the love of his lady, and winning the coveted, golden shield.
February 6, 2017 For Stepping Through Time Contest, February 22, 2017
The first time I thought of him
His name was playing shortstop;
Too few siesta’s spent, he’s found eighteen.
Stingy Time did swiftly pass us forth,
Spinning nurture, spanning missteps,
Till foundation definition was writ soul-side.
Sparkling child, Number One,
All expectations overthrown
Set the mold against the measure
No one can meet, nor treasure find,
To manifest such precious boy,
Announcer of next family tone.
Since crawling days no motor
Stopped the quest for dinosaurs and sharks.
Pets for none, terror for most,
Hardly fodder for a lesser lad,
As he pursued magnificent fiendish friends
At intensity predicting future scope.
Relentless, that full pursuit, the intrepid ‘tween
Dog-chased antiquities' cold blooded beasts
And much maligned circling jaws of wet death.
High School contributed a Docent step,
To hear, close beside, bold lion roar at feeding time.
No tremble there, nor sweating palm, just awe-filled chill
Affirming joy in long sought thrills
Replaced with focused urgent yearning,
Bent to learn to read the fearful roar as script
Acknowledging coexistent travels
‘round stale Earth’s ailing wonder grounds,
Emulating lost garden’s destiny Divine.
And so, forthwith, traveling north to
Lumberjack U. to accelerate in craft,
Prized manhood horizon near at hand,
We’ll follow unabatedly our rising squire
As, pursing lip to coronet, coaxing contemplative calm,
He envisages trumpeting Eden’s second dawn.
Yep, it's just like I mentioned in the tittle
we all strive for it whether we
want to admit it or not
we all tried to be perfect
at one point in our life
whether it was trying to be
the perfect mate
the perfect lover or
the perfect athlete
we all tried to be
perfect at one point in our life
I'll be the first to admit it
since no one else will
yes, I tried to be perfect
but I found out that it was
impossible so I stop pursing it
but others keep going trying to
become perfect in many ways
they went to the extreme
in their quest for it
they altered their bodies
in an attempt to become it
while others sold their souls
to the devil to become it
but still they could not become it
only one man became what they could not
only one man could become perfect
and his name is Jesus of Narzerth
he is the only living person
to reach perfection
he is the truth
the way and
the light and
through him all things are possible
the doors he opens no man can close
and the doors he closes no man can open
Jesus is perfection and
perfection is him
now you want to know how
he became what you could not
sorry I don't have the answer
to that question that is something
that you are going to have to ask him
when you see him, that is if you
are able to make it there
Form:
where did s/he first learn
to snort in the snot
funneling it backwards
right back up into his/her head
until a slight headache
occurred &
then pursing her/his lips,
throwing out the large wad
of festering phlegm
out from said mouth
with all the force of a
personal leaf blower
buried within the mouth
(picturing inside one’s
head the power of a
dust devil roaring through
& between the salivating
cheeks)?
that first gob sent back out
into the atmosphere around
us, polluting that environment
which sought to pollute us,
reveals a manner of taking
care of one’s own, mixed with
the added “rudeness” of
defecating from the mouth
right out there in public
without a care or concern
(willy-nilly) for those
non-gobbers around one---
at least that is what the
non-gobber community is
supposed to believe, to
indulge in the fantasy that
there is some island out there
where individuals walk around
all day without a gob, a fart,
a queef, a groan, an itch (when
skin flicks off), a chattering
biting of nails right down to
the bloody stub, a scratching
of the ass, balls, crotch or
underarm between them---
patiently dying away in that
9-5 cubicle, properly packaged
in that business casual, waiting
for death, marinating in their
own body odor stank.
Sordid tales your eyebrows tell
Insinuations start to sing
Things we all know very well--
Say, did you miss my wedding ring?
You’d do you worst right here and now
A stealthy drink from your chalice
Want me to forget the wedding vows,
A mechanical bull with phallus?
Pursing your lips, parading your hips
All the while, I’m stifling quiet laughter
As if your fries and shake could eclipse
My seven course happily ever after!
Coworkers of giant ego
And undersized self-restraint
Have fallen prey to your libido
Flushed it all to taste your taint
But see, here’s the baseline reality
About my availability you’re mistaken
Unless my wife’s nonexistent bisexuality
You can magically awaken
Sure, maybe you can be a roast turkey slice
Between our marital sandwich bread
Or our fresh sushi covered in rice--
I shouldn’t joke; now you’re being misled…
But seriously, there’s nothing to discuss
What you’re implying just ain’t happening
Further coquetry is simply superfluous
Back to the regularly scheduled programming
And in closing, here’s what I’d do
If you’re looking for lifestyle enhancement
Instead of looking for married men to woo
Perhaps try some legit career advancement.
5/1/16
© Thomas W. Quigley
It's like overhearing whispers
Above the rustle of fallen leaves and twigs
Breaking under two pairs of feet apiece
Of bachelors and spinsters
And remembering, it's the dead of winter
A mixing of elements. Go figure
You turn a pillow and sleep some more
But the beauty of it is that you lived
And dreams would have come before
People sitting under the shade of a tree
In the front yard, steadying hands
Over the flames of a sputtering fire
Swapping silent reminiscences
Over good times that could have been
But lost over wisps of nonsensical chatter
Brethren like thieves in the streets
In verbal subterfuge, flashing daggers
And hissing Judas pursing lips to make a kiss
Currents of had-I-knowns running deep
In the rivers of memories about the departed
When a log splits and makes a flare
You dare think it's because you stared
Unlike you, I wasn't there too, in the cabin
Not standing over a pan
But like you, I could also spin yarn
Tell the story of two mountain trout in the grease
Developing a crispy gold tan
And the girl, followed by the lugs
And, of course, hook nose
That hefty door of a man with a Greek name
And a sinister mane
Saying you should have stayed in your lane