Long Rakish Poems
Long Rakish Poems. Below are the most popular long Rakish by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rakish poems by poem length and keyword.
Johnny Rocko was born to be a salesman.
His words are breezy.
He has a devil-may-care attitude.
His ways are playful and jaunty.
He is the pied piper of Chicago.
Other young men rush to buy his wares.
They love his schemes, his ideals and his ideas.
He wines and dines them, and they have a great time.
Some of them have been cut off from their inheritance.
They stick around anyway; he is the sun. They bask next to him.
Johnny Rocko is debonair and delightfully dashing.
He is a rakish playboy-like salesman.
It does not matter what he is selling, people want to buy.
He always has beautiful women rubbing his back.
Most of them are like him, attractive and unrestrained.
Written: October 1st, 2025 for contest by Unseeking Seeker
Line of inquiry:
“a homogeneous mass of consciousness
God as the all there is, mind cannot name
being both immanent and transcendent
living light intimate in heart aflame”
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A boundless bundle of consciousness —
Not a corpus or clod, it reveals gloriousness.
A syph-like glimmer in the ethereal seam,
As the unnameable divine revels in a dream.
No nook, node, or ruthless throne,
But a delicate, shy, genuinely lurid alone.
And all—immanent in the languid leaf,
Transcendent amid the turmoil of belief.
He is the quiddity of every throe,
the halcyon ululation of the soul’s echo,
A seraphic groove for paradox and play,
frolicked in the motley of night and day.
Mind cannot name what he has become—
a roguish rakish ravel of light,
a gossamer jaunt across the squalor of flesh,
a virile vapor, both burden and blithe.
He is the calix and the caterwaul,
the aureate balm and immersion fall.
The palimpsest of epochs ratified.
where ephemeral truths are petrified.
He lurked in the labyrinthine offing,
a mystic machination, amort and maundering.
A seraphic slipshod in a cluster of stars,
stocked for the sapidity of avatars.
Still, flees from the facile frame,
from the fatuous fruitlessness of fame.
He is the panacea and the pyre,
the effusive ember, the crestfallen choir.
Aloft in the welkin, abstemious and omnipotent.
an immanency virtuous light not irritant.
Yet balmily brooding in the inglenook of the heart,
He whispers, “I am the quixotic art.”
Sojourn here, in this seraglio of soul,
where the aureate echoes of Calliope roll.
And the garrulous gossamer of grace,
twinkles through every vestigial place.
This is a quintessence, quiddity, gleam—
God as the all, as the dream within a dream.
a sumptuous oneness of light aflame,
living, loving, and forever unnamed.
Written: November 06, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Karen Jones
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December can be a seraphic break ... not a trek through squalor—
No wheezy winds, no stygian moods ... no suction of sodden days,
Let it simmer with the warmth ... of rapture and rosemary stew.
Let the nimbus sky festoon the trees ... with blithesome skeuomorph snow—
Each flake is a serendipity whisper ... a spark of pure grace,
Let the river rime ripple ... as a rakish scarf on the hills.
Let the roost resound with stories ... sages, and escorts alike—
While the air sizzles with ... mellifluous sigh and a hint of lard,
Let the rugged year resile ... ratified by insight and treacle.
Let the vault of stars above ... be a tailored zenith of light —
A quixotic quilt stitched by ... Siamese dreams and slack-jawed awe,
Let bleak hours resile into ... symbiosis with joy, not scorn.
Allow the standard hush of snow ... to soften the slur of time —
And a slender sickle of hope ... scythes the stench of the past,
Let December be the soul of ... what we almost dared to believe.
Bronwyn the Barbaric was a buxom lass
the envy of all her peers
She spoke with unrivaled swashbuckling sass
her pirate-ess fashion was fierce
She could charm off the arms of the most hardened men
how they'd swoon at the sight of her swagger
She ruled over cutthroats with a dangerous grin
her hand ever over her dagger
But her smile was so lovely, her style was so vogue
that she had little need for such violence
With a wave of her hand, she could tame ruthless rogues
with a look she could cause utter silence
So, peacefully she plundered (with minions to pillage
and devotedly obey her commands)
Until a shop window caught her eye in the village
and she made a bad purchase, unplanned
There she acquired the most dashing high-heel boots
custom made (according to her wishes)
But the pain that they caused was something acute
and it made the 'old girl' act quite vicious
She kidnapped the cobbler and tortured him so
she was in quite a terrible temper
She dealt him such cruel and merciless blows
the crew could hardly handle his whimpers
She became a tyrannical, treacherous wench
terrorizing from Tahiti to Tangier
Leaving in her wake only ruins and stench
with a reckless and wicked sneer
And 'though her crew were not a cowardly lot
they dared not get on her bad side
The last scalawag was both stabbed and shot
before she tossed him into the tide
But one rakish mate had an interesting offer
her vanity couldn't refuse-
If he could, just once, get those stylish boots off her
a better set he could produce
So eyeing him, slowly, she peeled the boots off
and immediately felt such relief
Gone was her bitterness, her angry scoff
gone was the source of her grief
Seeing their pirate queen herself again
the crew gathered 'round and they cheered
Those bloody boots were thrown overboard
and their mate was quite revered
Now a barefoot buccaneer, she still
struts across the deck
And if they don't bend to her will
she'll see they're put in check!
This may seem a vacuous subject upon which to muse,
But ain't it amazin' the myriad of hats from which to choose?
Browsin' through the haberdashery or millinery shop in town,
You're bound to find the perfect lid to place upon your crown!
There is everything from snoods to keep the ladies' hair in place,
To fanciful bonnets trimmed with flowers, ribbons and lace.
Even pert veiled chapeaus appropriate for crumpets and tea,
For society dames as they balance cup and saucer on the knee!
For the sportin' bloke there's a selection of deerstalker caps,
And a vast array of domed derbys for the more debonair chaps.
Available for the dapper gentleman is quite a plethora,
Of the ever-popular, colorful and rakish felt fedora!
A cowpoke can select a ten-gallon Stetson to match his boots,
Makin' a fashion statement among his feller galoots.
For summer, the discriminatin' gent can opt for a Panama,
Or choose a flat-topped skimmer or boater made of straw!
Berets are obtainable for guys wishin' a military mien,
And a jaunty Alpine hat is available called a tyrolean.
But classy hats aside, no matter whether lass or lad,
Seems that wearing a baseball cap (backwards) is the latest fad!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
A governess, a guardian of the young, so known and dear as to be called “Mother” and a noblewoman, just barely 12 by age, named Portia, sit talking as the sun sets the stage for a cool, cloudless night.
“Mother, who invented candlelight and the slow, delicate brush of lips?”
“Some rakish boy, pawning his experience for present pleasure, no doubt.”
“Say true, Mother. If you were a man, would you find this common body worthy of love?”
“You show no blemish child, and display a certain bony voluptuousness - I should think.”
The governess begins to comb and braid Portia’s hair for sleep.
“I saw Portincio this morning, in the courtyard.”
“The boy from Padua?”
“He’s a man Mother, and his cast portents a passion so sweet - it shakes my very frame.”
Mother chuckles, “Even hopeless birds sing in cages.”
“I am not hopeless!” Portia writhes angrily, like a snake about to strike but mother calms her.
“Shoo, shoo, now,” Mother purrs, brushing all the more gently, “I meant nothing of it.” After a moment, she continues, “Love is more than coquetry, little one, and it soon passes - like a parade, or a rash. For now, be happy, you are like the chaste stars - unreachable.”
Written: February 07, 2024
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It appears as if
the world has been
coated by a wave of
deceitful dictums,
where faked reality
appears to be popular,
an appeal of mimicry shines
even most brilliantly.
Anathema to blisters
induced by prickly nettle;
an artwork mustered
quivering feathers
that cascade over
the ivory cuticles
nestled in molten
mascarpone.
Pearlescent opal stone,
a glimpse of the
azure sky,
a shattered spirit,
hollering.
Deeper within her
skeletal corpulence
an artist grumbles
vehemently,
leaping into the air
while emitting a strained
sonorous tone,
primal image vanishes
and equestrian adulation
is insufficient,
an ersatz nest of swans
brimming with an
ethereal dawn.
Soprano with a
whimsical quality
slightly etched in
matte black tone
diploid remnants are
a flawless fleck of
fascinating fear,
Hollow echoes chant
hymns hail cherubs, and
croon carcass lullabies
Rakish Requiem for
an unreciprocated
magnificent opus
swiftly spanning
pinewood spots, on the
cusp of giving way.
As the impresario
sags on the ladder,
the opera curtains
are drawn closer,
a soothing melody
numbs her fingers
in the process.
Mozart pianissimo is
playing as Requiem strolls
across the stage,
yet, he pulls it off
and fulfills the
task precisely.
Etchings of sequence
on my flesh, conduct
an extraordinary
ballet of life,
raving smooth calm
with melodic verses
that breathe vitality.
In a world where dreams are rakish and quixotic,
Where quiddity seems extravagantly chaotic,
A chivalrous soul dares to be different.
With a heart that beats fervently, so magnificent.
Romantic notions dance in their minds.
A visionary quintessence they find,
Chimerical dreams they hold dear,
Preposterous, dreadful tracks they fear.
Age is just a number, they say.
Irrelevant in the pellucid pursuit of their way,
Happiness is the sense that one matters,
And their dreams are the ladder.
In a world where opia destruction prevails,
Where chaos and despair often trail,
Quixotic evidence emerges, bold and bright.
Roguish scope for rebuilding shines a light.
Dare to alter the world, they proclaim.
With sapidity gnawing such a flame,
It may seem quixotic, and some may sneer.
But their seraphic vision is so clear.
For in their hearts, they sojourn the key.
In a world where dreams roam free,
Where impossibilities become realities
And it's in this world, they find their vitality.
There is no scarcity of opportunity.
To earn a living doing what they love, with glee,
Chasing in kuebiko without compromise.
For in their dreams, their spirit lies.
It erratically seems as if curbing entropy,
Is our quixotic goal in the cosmos, you foresee,
But in the midst of chaos, they stand tall.
With a determination that never stalls.
In a world where dreams are quixotic,
They refuse to be virtuosically robotic.
They believe in the anecdoche dreams.
And nothing, awry reality, dims their gleams.
They agnize that each sonder is just a number.
And that happiness is a monachopsis to remember.
They embrace the chivalrous and the romantic.
With an onism spirit that's truly ecstatic.
Word Bank:
Rakish: Smart; jaunty; dashing
Quixotic: Idealistic
Quiddity: Core-Subconscience
Chivalrous: Sublime, virtuous
Pellucid: Translucently clear
Opia: Dope, Addiction
Sapidity: Zest, Sapor
Kuebiko: State of exhaustion
Entropy: A situation of panic or disorder
Anecdoche: Amusing Tale
Sonder: Empathy, Compassion
Monachopsis: Confused
Onism: Delineate the awareness of how little of the world we will experience
Written: November 20, 2025,
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We began as all combustions do—
a spark in the petiole of dusk,
Your voice is a mellifluous matchstick
against the grate of my solitude.
The air, thick with sky mist and serendipity,
tasted of carotene and sapidity,
and I, a rakish viceroy of yearning,
proclaimed our sanctity sacrosanct.
You wore your laughter as a radiant tiara,
and I, with slipshod hubris,
called it eternal.
We built a hearth from threadbare promises,
fed it with panegyrics and panacea,
raked the embers with doggedness
and called the smoke a symbiosis.
Even the nimbus above us
seemed to burn unabated.
But fire is a jinxed harbinger—
Its gospel is catharsis,
It's an altar, a hecatomb of touch.
Desire writhed into demand,
and the sanctity we once revered
became a palimpsest of blame.
You began to prowl the periphery,
a lynx in the cloudscape,
while I spasmodically clung
to the quixotic catchphrases
we once whispered sacred sacraments,
The luster dulled.
The wisteria wilted.
Our love, once amaranthine,
became a dismal quagmire
of somber glances and saccharine lies.
Even our silences had a sartorial weight—
tailored to wound.
Watch you disappear,
a nimbus ensnared within a beacon of light;
without your idolum, soul drifts in stillness
I endured it with profound dimness.
Humiliation woven into each witness.
Now, I sift through ash—
seeking a trace of what we once were:
a shard of sanctity,
the verve of vehemence.
But everything that hovers is the strange,
A haunting feeling of our split,
a deep, empty chasm carved out
in the codex carved in my rib cage.
And yet—
in this ruin,
this catharsis,
I find the quintessential truth:
that love, akin to fire,
is not meant to last—
only to metamorphose.
Written: August 02, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Crystol Woods
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In the slipshod cradle beneath the apple tree,
a bruised fruit folds ajar—
molten sweet sapidity pooling
through velvet skin.
Eviscerated grace, they say,
but I grasp the quiddity of life unmasked.
A burnt sienna kiss of aurora—
flesh undulating with fungal bloom,
wispy gossamer threads that stitch
the inevitable return to the earth.
It is not ruined.
It is a transformation:
a diaphanous ballet
between death and what dreams may grow.
We ogle brightness,
but rot is brighter still—iridescent with purpose,
alabaster spores pirouetting as sylphlike specters
on a sacred odyssey to placate
the starving soil.
It is seraphic.
It is a panacea.
It is quintessence made humble.
Rapture lies in this ineffable nexus—
decay whispers loud as a lullaby.
The rakish grubs maunder through
a velvet pyre of rind and memory,
and the loquacious beetle sermonizes
on endings as beginnings,
as though time had a gullet
And rot was its sweetest wine.
Call it grotesque.
Call it abhorrent.
But beauty—true, ineffable beauty—
wears many masks.
And in these nebulous throes of perishing,
I watch a face burnished by truth,
smiling with roots in its eyes.