Long Raptly Poems
Long Raptly Poems. Below are the most popular long Raptly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Raptly poems by poem length and keyword.
On the banks of your life
Doubt fixing you offshore
A gripping beast never quits feeding
On dreams hungry for more
To ask yourself questions
Are they answers you know
Always precipitously trying to learn
You justify with the flow
Will you see your opening
Pushing your given chance
Do the beasts raptly glower into you
Or escape a second glance
Whenever you travel alone
How will you pull through
Who has mind to deftly prognosticate
Just what a beast will do
Seeing beyond your corner
Most importantly learning
You discover the ideas of everything
What above life may bring
Grandpa was a very jolly fellow, so talented and so wise.
He could plant a row of corn as straight as the arrow flies!
He was a capable carpenter, never once hitting his thumb!
He built barns "'squar' with the world", never out of plumb!
He was very adept with fiddle and bow to everyone's delight,
Except for Grandma who thought the consarned thing a fright!
He'd sit for hours 'neath the ancient sycamore sawing away.
She'd heard the same tunes for sixty years, much to her dismay!
He was a good old-time fiddler, of that there was no doubt!
Why, he could've topped Roy Acuff should they have had a bout!
His nimble fingers flew as he played "Turkey in the Straw!"
Neighbors tapped their toes and listened to him in awe!
Summer nights we'd sit on the porch 'neath a Hoosier moon,
Listening raptly as he played a mellow and haunting tune.
He'd play a rousing "Orange Blossom Special" for the house,
Then switch to a beautiful rendition of a waltz by Strauss!
Grandpa's old fiddle is stilled now, it hangs upon the wall.
I suspect though that he's fiddling for the angels, saints and all,
As good old foot-stomping music from his golden fiddle flows,
And a bemused Saint Peter surreptitiously taps his toes!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Amid Arcady's sylvan groves(where once I gazed
Upon such luminous and alabaster grace
By her immortal beauty raptly drawn and dazed
As she turned and gently upraised her elfin face.
Like Aphrodite from the foam she rose and shone
With eager rivulets caressing ev'ry curve
Boldly her willing body yielded to the sun
While capricious Eros' dart smote me deep with love.
In that balmy dawn, birds all hushed in reverence,
Her glistening charms held so deeply me in thrall
Through the glade wafted her fluid fresh fragrance
So that I could barely stifle my lovesick call.
My satyr spirit begged me to Priapus play
But Aidos bade me remain withdrawn and hidden
If only I had known that this moment's delay
Would my great good fortune diminish , unbidden.
Then still she stayed,a startled fawn just before flight
As her skittish glance strayed towards where I was stood
'Twas then Actaeon's fate rose before me with fright
So I shrank e'er deeper into the shadowed wood
Lest vengeful Artemis let loose her hounds of hate.
But then coyly slipped away my shy shepherdess
As I stayed in fear transfixed and saw much too late
Her glide through the trees in her fluttering dress)
I wander alone aye haunted by this vision
While there fiercely burns in my heart a crippling ache
From which there can be no respite nor remission
That even Bethesda's waters would never slake.
Even now that image I cannot forget
Of her rising from the cool water
In my heart there lingers deep regret
For not addressing Aphrodite's daughter
As she swept back her dewy golden hair
Sparking within me an electric surge
The cascading streams caressing her everywhere
To animate me with a powerful Priapic urge
#Her_unique_story
From a distance, my thoughts provoked, gazed in with deep mesmerization, saw only the fine linens God had embroiled her silky soft texture with, forgot that she too was human before all, so many stories her archive posses, I chose only to hear the tales which would make my heart twinkle,
but she had a story in particular, the uniqueness I have heard of, now honoring my presence, a unique story she carried, in all the soft edges of her voluptuousness, got lost in her voice, it was a question she asked but my ears consumed only melodies, a melting pot of my attention, liquidized before my eyes, after a while realized I was been spoken to, oh! Heaven have mercy,
a beautiful rose, her name recites, I heard rockets blowing out of my eardrums, after effects of her voice, so ***** I fell upon my knees, attacked by her attraction, felt and filled her presence with my magical touch, automated smiles running flawlessly on her facial, knew my codes, were granted access, indeed met a female dinosaur and she gave me a fire conversation,
her story broke, its a yesterday she had, chaining her to step any further from it, a smile turning sour, with one eye as a passing hose from her bleeding soul, filling her lenses, the mood dims, reaches some climax so up raptly, forced to provide tissue words,
a bond germinates, her story stirs hidden emotions, wondering why though, answers at no avail, some wind blows wisdom and understanding to my sense, and I say "if not you, who then?
Her story woke my silent demons, intrigue fills my heart, how so beautiful being goes through such, realised the beauty in her trauma, my art eye spots, all the drawing her yesterday contributed in making her the ornament I just can't get enough of,
pain indeed beautified her unique story, the freckles on her face, so perfectly placed, making her all uniqueness dazzling for the public to admire, a plain evidence that her story is unique, her unique story
#Poetic_Ink
Apostle Matthew encountered...
artist, dragon and gangster extraordinaire
Here at 2 Highland Manor Drive
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania.
Actually all three people
linkedin to each other courtesy
Dissociative Identity Disorder
(Multiple Personality Disorder).
Wiccan up to mystical alien way
I raptly listened as she didst soothsay
scanned -- din heavy yen reference
about paganistic folkloric history
regarding Sweden and Oslo (also) Norway.
The missus dubbed
aforementioned young gal "curvy girl,"
a zaftig smart young woman
super talented self taught herself
to draw, sketch, and paint.
Only unmarried millennial men need apply,
perhaps someone who hails from buckeye
state - ideally above average
humorous gallivanting fellow
plus somewhat meshuggeneh cockeye
Louie garden variety
wealthy eccentric recluse
who doth blatantly defy
establishmentarian paradigm
you rarely espy,
cause he stays sequestered
about dozen doors down
from (femme fatale) ha
said alluded to chick named
three faces of Jen Fry
easy on the eyes
courtesy me, a generic guy,
who experienced amicable chat
referencing aforementioned lass
the first encounter with her
found yours truly saying "hi"
devoid of ulterior motives
only casual acquaintanceship did I imply
cuz even if this former bachelor
(got married twenty fifth of July
nineteen hundred and ninety six)
hypothetically decoupled,
cuz the age difference between us
quite substantial qua aging baby boomer
born two years after Bridge
over the River Kwai
filmed - then rocked to sleep
courtesy Brahms lullaby
if fain to sire offspring with lass
(young enough to be my daughter)
kiddos would witness their papa to mummify
Our friendly communication
peppered with structures of silence
coasted along with zest
and dialed up quite lathered dialogue
betwixt us I do attest
mutual comfort level quickly established
between yours truly
and said attractive beefy babe,
who possessed killer thunder thighs
shaking the entire firmament.
Rapturousness wrought Unitarian
transformational spiritual rapport
traversing thru space/time
continuum appending increasing
chronological orbitz as an Earthling,
frivolously did cavort,
who (with ever more energy)
required exhaustively to sport
fretfully clinging to each moment
after downing a quart of port
poured by Norwegian bachelor
farmers of Lake Woebegone amort
admirable administrators in
conjunction with last rites opport,
who knit tee necessitates
intercession of a Holy Vintner import
tint so ill fated mortal, (who met
their demise) gets special escort
delivered with utmost diligence as
if destined to Mar-Lago resort
accompanied with trumpeting
"NON FAKE" grim reaper cohort,
the grateful dead black hooded
bone a fied scythe swinging bro
cracking gallows humor comport
to perk spirits of deceased, a
generic, nondescript, uber fort
tuff hide will never need a passport
after coursing into the afterlife
way beyond the outer limits of fort
hit who'd, yup even light years from
twilight zone, this dimension in short
to require an eternity to reach,
hence body stiffened by rigor mortis
securely strapped into davenport
essentially a coffin tricked out by Norte
American latest technological gizmos,
an eclectic assortment recycled, reimagined,
repurposed, paraphernalia to Voldemort,
thus one cold body helping contribute to MAGA!
Apostle Matthew encountered...
artist, dragon and gangster extraordinaire
Written September ninth,
two thousand and twenty one.
Reposted exactly three years later.
Here at 2 Highland Manor Drive
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania.
Actually all three people
linkedin to each other courtesy
Dissociative Identity Disorder
(Multiple Personality Disorder).
Wiccan up to mystical alien way
I raptly listened as she didst soothsay
scanned -- din heavy yen reference
about paganistic folkloric history
regarding Sweden and Oslo (also) Norway.
The missus dubbed
aforementioned young gal "curvy girl,"
a zaftig smart young woman
super talented self taught herself
to draw, sketch, and paint.
Only unmarried millennial men need apply,
perhaps someone who hails from buckeye
state - ideally above average
humorous gallivanting fellow
plus somewhat meshuggeneh cockeye
Louie garden variety
wealthy eccentric recluse
who doth blatantly defy
establishmentarian paradigm
you rarely espy,
cause he stays sequestered
about dozen doors down
from (femme fatale) ha
said alluded to chick named
three faces of
eve vent jewel one named Jen Fry
easy on the eyes
courtesy me, a generic guy,
who experienced amicable chat
referencing aforementioned lass
the first encounter with her
found yours truly saying "hi"
devoid of ulterior motives
only casual acquaintanceship did I imply
cuz even if this former bachelor
(got married twenty fifth of July
nineteen hundred and ninety six)
hypothetically decoupled,
cuz the age difference between us
quite substantial qua aging baby boomer
born two years after Bridge
over the River Kwai
filmed - then rocked to sleep
courtesy Brahms lullaby
if fain to sire offspring with lass
(young enough to be my daughter)
kiddos would witness their papa to mummify.
Our friendly communication
peppered with structures of silence
coasted along with zest
and dialed up quite lathered dialogue
betwixt us I do attest
mutual comfort level quickly established
between yours truly
and said attractive beefy babe,
who possessed killer thunder thighs
shaking the entire firmament.
She played her mysterious saxophone
as if we could be together alone
in concert halls
and Republican
and Green Democratic balls,
behind
and in front of
magisterial boundary walls.
She brought in a few million dollars
from quiet
more sedate
enraptured listening fans
Before her critics
complained She takes no risks,
no dissonance dare pass her wet vibrating reed.
Hopelessly romantic,
Without a hint of unpredictability.
Too many sustained wooden notes!
She is to saxophone performance
as communion
and compassionate communication
are to tiresomely pedantic religious orthodoxy,
behind
and in front of
multiculturing experiential walls.
About half a billion well-voiced dollars later,
She thought it time to respond
from a patriarchal position of musing strength.
"I invite those who don't like my ecofeminist natural music
to not listen with such obviously desperate disappointment.
Instead
make your own muse
on your own performing saxophone
or flute,
Your own drum of choice.
Become wildly successful
with your own well-tooled, but unweaponed, message.
Make tons of fan co-invested money."
"And, when you do,
I am sure I will have a chance to listen mindfully with you.
And, I hope I will become greatly amazed
with spatial wonder
and timeless awe."
"I will be so happy
to raptly listen
and write your superlative review,
to become your greatest co-empathic fan."
"Sadly,
until that great gettin-up morning,
I will continue playing my best music alone,
and hope you will now know
my muse and I best hope
to become your John the Baptist,
in faith waiting for your richer Messiah tunes
of even greater
wealthier
healthier rapture."
Is life predestined? I ponder
Gazing up at the blue sky yonder
The alignment of stars in a certain way
Does favour and fortune our way sway?
Does Fate spin the thread of destiny?
Leo, Virgo, Scorpio or Gemini?
The constellation, the galaxy, the celestial sphere
Star gazing raptly with hope, awe and fear.
Heaven benignly smiles on the blessed few
Yet frowns on the rest. Unfair!! You argue
For Fate rages against this unfortunate lot
In a web of inevitability they are caught.
They toil and toil away in vain
Only to despair in sorrow and pain
Fighting their battles over and over again
Woe is life! Just to remain sane.
But oh for the favored lot, on luck they ride
Fate gently carries them across the tide.
What then befalls a person's lot
If against Fate he valiantly fought?
Fate, kismet, karma and kind
Astral influences on soul and mind?
Does Fate then our life destine?
To each an inevitable part assign?
Grandpa was a jolly fellow so talented and so wise.
He could plant a row of corn as straight as the arrow flies!
He was a very handy carpenter never once hitting his thumb,
And he built barns "'squar' with the world", never out of plumb!
He was very adept with fiddle and bow to everyone's delight,
Except for Grandma who thought the consarned thing a fright!
He'd sit for hours 'neath the old sycamore tree sawing away.
She'd heard the same tunes for sixty years, much to her dismay!
He was a great old-time fiddler, of that there was no doubt.
Why, he could've topped Roy Acuff should they have had a bout!
His elbows and fingers flew as he played "Turkey in the Straw"!
Friends and neighbors tapped their toes, listening to him in awe!
Summer nights we'd sit on the front porch 'neath a Hoosier moon,
Listening raptly as he played a mellow or a haunting tune.
He'd play a rousing "Orange Blossom Special" for the house,
Then switch to a lilting rendition of "The Blue Danube Waltz" by Strauss.
Grandpa's old fiddle is stilled now, it hangs upon the wall,
Though I suspect he's fiddling for the angels, saints and all,
As good old blue grass music from his golden fiddle flows,
And a bemused Saint Peter surreptitiously taps his toes!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved