Long Quavers Poems
Long Quavers Poems. Below are the most popular long Quavers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Quavers poems by poem length and keyword.
indescribable,
untranscribable ~
imbibable, your exotic, quixotic perfume
spiraled me into a quandary
of dirty laundry, penance,
no superintendents in attendance
I come from ragged boys, no poise,
just noise ~ a quiver of quavers,
no saviors of silence,
but if some sap sullies our sister
we'll flatten him
you come from platinum
a blessed nest of nuance,
a quay of kindness,
finesse, fineness ~
savvy sophistication, subtlety
a quaint saint I ain't
then poise met noise
you became my bible;
undeniable, heavy sighable,
unclassifiable ~
indescribable
Written 12 Feb 2021
While looking far beyond misty gale
until convulsion of night quavers--
just remember, in spite drizzles
new morning salves torment:
I watch those gentle eyes roam
against a skeletal frame--
yet, lightness around you glows
more precious than dawn.
Cherishing you this way
soothes the vicious gush of hours;
and that raindrop upon a sallow face
trickles down onto a furrowed neck,
defying the tumor of pain its mortal ovation…
Although brave those eyes are, white cells
invade an exhausted gait like thinning hail.
I watch you smile heroicly at night’s downpour, Mama--
You are beautiful fragile as the raindrop.
11/20/2018
For Craig Cornish’s The Raindrop Contest
Her eyes, though once bright, are cloudy,
shrunken and fragile the form
that long was brimful of vigor
and a will to outlast life's storms.
She stares past a blank horizon
through a door that I do not know;
the colors she sees are memories,
scents and sounds of the long ago.
A kaleidoscope of faces
turns merry-go-round in her mind;
while trees out her window whisper
soft lullabies long left behind.
The sound of my cheery greeting
draws her back to this metal room,
away from a creaking rocker
and her mama's sweet, gentle croon.
It is not my name she whispers
as I bend down to kiss her cheek,
but a name more dear than ever
mine was is the name that she speaks.
"Papa," the feeble voice quavers.
I am no more a part of her world;
the grandma that soothed my sorrows
is once again Papa's wee girl.
© 1987, Faye Lanham Gibson
Her spouse wise or unwise, who can tell. Does he dream in midnight hues? Oh why doesn’t he wake up, or at least spit out that last sleeping pill. He might choke on it. The still of the night rattled by the movement of the boundary, like a lion’s hungry stomach. The moon roars creating goosebumps, pricks upon tender white skin. She barely breathes. Did anyone leave snacks inside this circus tent… Please...please...please. Helplessly she lies as the khaki quavers, heart frantic. She’s never thought herself mad, but like in a Poe story, the tell-tale… She imagines the lion with reflective eyes, baring full gums, toying with her...this is no cuddly kitten. Would her full-sandman spouse wake up, wonder where she’d gone, as the kindly sunlight blinded him to the truth. The truth is she would kill him, if only he’d open his eyes. Could she forgive him… At long last, darts race toward the roaming moon...she imagines that ghastly animal tumbling underneath the skirt, landing at her feet, swirling dust, an incomplete thought as the ferocious tongue lolligags onto her bag. Her husband smiles and turns over satisfied as he kisses his dream wife, moaning with pleasure; danger the last thing on his mind, as the hunters drag away the predator whose smell lingers in the morning coffee, the cigarette’s ash, the wife’s nostrils. And all the community can do the next morning is make fun of the snoring gun, the gray-haired spoon, and midnight adventure.
the pile of gumdrops
sparkle like dew for kitty
here kitty...kitty
11/2/2020
Butterflies of quavers and trebles and clefs,
Flutter all over her breast,
Creating a gentle, melodious hum,
Whenever she’s completely undressed,
Filling the room with a shade of her soul,
Becoming a beautiful dance,
A dance that sways and floats and wafts,
Seducing me in a love trance,
As her finger nails shine, painted in black,
Wash her lips in dark red,
And the words to her music talk to my heart,
Pulling me onto her bed,
Where we continue to tango in a Latin of lust,
Dancing every single desire,
Throughout the dark night, in a passion of love,
Our passionate love burning fire.
This is midnight, all slept indeed,
The factory bells do chime,
Ding-dong dong, thrice the sounds arise
From yonder darkling clime.
No one is there, two faint lamps glare,
Who rang the rusty bell?
It must be three, a shade does flee
In earshot of the knell.
Upon my eave the pigeons live,
One flutters tender wings,
It heard a whiz as soft as grease,
And to the wall it clings.
There is a grange, a mansion old,
Deserted since the yore,
Such creatures as with deep black fur,
Hold sway around its floor.
No iron melts on fire these days,
The blacksmiths all have left,
And all day long a thrush her song
Attunes to good effect.
She quavers in her leafy nest,
The pale shades pass again,
The rumbling sky does well deny
A sound sleep while she's lain.
Mine eyes are closed yet well awake,
The pattering distant rain
Revives the tendrils grown unsought,
An omen of the bane.
My windows smeared with mizzle mist,
That dreamy opaque layer,
Obtrudes my view with chilly dew,
A fancied world lays bare.
"Don't be afraid", a voice just said,
A whisper grim and grave,
As from a king or ancient sage,
Conquerer of the knave.
That moment my door shook its hinge,
Something had wrenched its knobs,
The bats beseech with a sudden screech,
And fill my home with sobs.
A pain of olden times deludes,
My grandsire died this day,
A tremor stirs after these years,
Benumbed and dozed I lay.
The dawn has worn her purple gown,
It's four, the chimes sojourn,
Her mellow light dissolves my night
Into a canny morn.
28th September, 2021
Ludwig Leichart
This perplexing country,
(such an under statement),
where rivers run upside down,
marbles are strewn by the Devil
and Songlines
etched in memory are
sung by those few who know.
Seeking Victoria,
the blazed trees could not help,
the Prussian collapsed, looking at the blue.
Initialled stunted trees showed the way,
signposts to oblivion,
while the heat,
always the heat,
in a furnace of shadeless infinity
dessicates his body.
What use the blaze?
He cannot walk or crawl,
only a palanquin borne by flies,
Oh the flies,
will carry him there
until their wings melt.
He came from the south
humming tunes from a Baroque choir
to reach the Arafura sea,
where Cornish stone -masons build chimneys
to ward of the chill (sarcastic laugh).
and a Tamarind tree guards the entrance.
The red coated soldiers have left
And he, Ludwig had vanished.
A fanfare blasts, .
Is that an angel holding Brown’s hand
up there on top of a nunatak of the desert,
the quavers and semi-quavers merging
in an anthem of despair?
In field of emotions, a fire-storm has grown,
Seeds of rebellion aflame and wind-borne are sown.
Creating chaotic scenes, burned by spirit's flame,
Fomented fervor, a revolutionary game.
Fomented hearts, with courage compromised are made lame,
Unyielding on purpose, foments have staked their claim.
Anger simmers, rancor seethes, and heart beat wavers
In the cauldron of discord, it quivers quavers.
Fomented minds, with thoughts so tainted, twisted unkind,
Make claims to sublime reason, unravel unwind
They inflame the embers of long stagnant belief,
Awakening the masses asleep, pedaling grief.
The frothy foment foam spewed up into the crowd,
Ignites ferment and loathing in threatening cloud.
/I\
~a branch
snuggles it tight,
messing ivory ringlets
while beneath the orchard,
grayish cones on iced moonlight rips.
Winter now bears her dry skin, as children
romp around a frozen trunk with boughs gleaming
like crystal tassels. Nippy a fir which quavers through
whiffs of glacial air : the assemblage of leaves
falling through hardened snowflakes...
Quietly, new moon brightens this view
Crowning its frothy head on an evening
where owls
trembling
dizzily on
its twigs,
hoot low
eyes wide;
until the tangy scent pervades
long after evergreen slumbers on.
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12/6/2018-- Revised
Shape Contest for Eve Roper
Upon the stillness of Big Sur clouds
High atop the silent summits
My solitude lies with sages
In this place of heaven
Endeared
To come to peace
In the ruins of the moon
Laying my body to rest
My eyes have turned to stone
Surrendering to freefall
Where there lies no restraint
Nor command of my being
Searching for the graces of timelessness
The flurry of breeze quavers
To take my soul
Plunging towards
An uncertain destination
My silent voice utters
"I have come to pick the lyrical flower
For my heart has yet to find its home."
In between the nettles and phantom orchid,
The coastal grasses and spineflowers
Sunlit and ethereal in the mist
A single rose of an unknown color
Speaks my name
With insatiable seduction
Capturing my unabated love
It fills my senses and enraptures me
Then slowly...
Ever so slowly, each petal of my
incarnated being
Breaks away from my heart
As the rose aspires
And dies
Left naked adorned with thorns
In the ruins of the moon
It calls my name
In the fragility of dreams
May 18, 2020
In the Fragility of Dreams Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Silent One