Long Reddens Poems
Long Reddens Poems. Below are the most popular long Reddens by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Reddens poems by poem length and keyword.
"Fragments and crumbs of life, all the little pieces"
John Ruskin, 1853
A scrap of sleep, a lopsided sky
A slip of verse that wandered by
The universe of a minute, an hour's lag
A poem scribbled on the back of a paper bag
Fragmented lyrics of lost words
Coaxed into song by hummingbirds
Where sapphire moons rise at noon
And ivory dawn reddens too soon
But for lonely love of poetry
Cast aside by conformity
Cloistered, salted tears consumed the sea
Drenched in magnanimous misery
Masking shy scars to look the same
Calling pain by prettier names
Peeled pages from the diary
Of the once and future me.
8/29/20
For 'All the Little Pieces' contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
T C
O O
E L
S D
as are the satiny sheets; gossamer
bright veil overcomes the four-post
bed, where your openness envelops
the goose down pillows. i avoid their
feathery touch to lie my ringlets upon
your handsome chest. the steady beat
grows stronger...peaks. we both, like
passionate-wine…. like the twilight or
sunrise sky, transformed from vanilla
to plum. the warmth reddens our hair
to Viking-strength, thrusts like waves,
the rapturous ebb and flow sea - down,
down to our feet. This duo - a waterbed,
two currents of a tantalizing hot tsunami.
hibiscus lips, likewise slide and light
disappears as eyelids shut tight in moan.
afterward serpentine struggle remains in
the volcanic ember of wrinkled sheets and
W T
A O
R E
M S
Dirty,
greasy,
I smell like fried chicken.
Sweat is trickling,
Stinking.
It got me thinking!!!!
I need to wash
my birthday suit,
Body wash by Hollister*
Newport Beach,
Smells of a musky fruit.
awesome scent, kinda sweet,
I start at my feet.
Scrub away the repulsive smell
relax away the painful swell..
Scrub thy legs, all of them
cleanliness is key.
the soap suds wash away,
there is a bruise on my knee!
I continue on to my abdomen
rippled, tough,
strong, rough.
the scrubbing reddens my ivory skin.
To my hairy chest,
the matted mess,
upward, I scrub my neck.
Wash my hair,
conditioning with care,
time to shave my face.
Pick up my razor blade,
my daily strokes of grace.
I rinse the sudsy residue,
watch it spiral down the drain.
I look in the mirror at my birthday suit,
confidence in vein.....
Jared Pickett
9/11/09
Asavvy1
EVIDENCE
See here, this object that I found
Surely belongs to you
You may shake your head and look away
Yet I can tell that you recognise it
Now your face reddens
And I am ever more certain it is yours
Something of great significance
To you especially, I think
Take it, hold out your hand
Let me please return it to you
Merely a small blue glass phial
Containing the residue of some liquid
With which you are familiar, no doubt
A lethal weapon in your armoury
Poison makes no sound, except an escaping sigh
That you must have heard so many times
Go now, I shall hold this a secret between us
For one day I may have use of your skill
Listen to the wind:
it roars, it murmurs,
righteously chants --
In gusty breaths, exhales, rants,
tempestuously pants.
In tyrants it wails --
tearing sleeves
and billowing sails.
It reddens, it pales
the ruddy faces of non compliant seamen
and blithering, pompous beached whales.
Perhaps this poem, too hastily sown
Should have read the rules
before breeze and blown
and not so far from the guidelines would
this pen have wont to roam. But in hindsight,
wind stirs in many out of main focus ways
blossoms beyond bordered-grid of a well centered garden
in orphaned airs, for some, yet, may glisten their sways --
As lamplight flicks on the side table
Grandma tends a pan of lukewarm water,
And moves into the room toward the bed
Wishing my fever would cool down sooner .
Her hand clutches old tin cans, quite dented
And pours out ginger oil, raspberry in a bowl
With vaporous mix of weed as fire reddens...
The brew, the potion simmers on a tray
While she chants chants this ailment out the door.
How the frames open wide to drink the evening
Of mystic Moon.... Grandma's power dressed in light:
Fingers that once were silky and young
Brush my forehead, as though to soothe the quiver.
Until sips of this ancient elixir clear the air
While she murmurs thanks...embers ablaze.
Gradually, I find deep relief from such alchemy;
Wise woman's gift, healing cans from her secret bin.
Contest of john lawless : Dented Cans
1/9/2018
Burning within me the passion lies.
Not passion of pleasure,
but passion of pain;
the bestial anger boils in my veins,
sears my flesh, reddens my eyes.
I yearn to revel in its fury,
let fall the soothing hand
that guards against its rise;
I welcome its enveloping heat,
born in the forges of circumstance
and tempered in the fires of self-loathing.
I cannot taste its sweet embrace for long, however;
civility counsels caution and control.
With disappointment I push it all
back down to its pit;
the beast cries out in protest,
desperate for the agony,
the torment, the tears -
anything but to be repressed;
better the lash of the whip
than the cold of ages spent alone.
In appeasement, I whisper;
"You shall not be forgotten.
I feel your hunger always,
for retribution, for vengeance, for respect -
but rarely can I sate it.
You give me fierce satisfaction,
a primal fury released -
alas, you cause damage I cannot fix.
Worry not;
you're never far from the surface these days."
- in those moments, it shines.
The nostalgia of an upside down
world glinting up through hourglasses of years,
a mark impressed upon flesh; a scar harbouring
simple childhood games inside a jagged
line now faded. Occasionally it flares,
reddens from a twist of skin uncomfortable,
or in the tightness of early morning dressing;
the twinge acts as an echo, a ripple, a call from
back then, years ago, an era lost like sand
through fingers sweaty from summer heat,
lemonade with ice cubes clinking. The scar,
the mark, that narrow margin of error, a
Faultline physical memory running like a border
along my skin. And you were there, holding my hand
- in those moments, it shines.
Sappho fragment #2
translation by Michael R. Burch
How can I compete with that damned man
who fancies himself one of the gods,
impressing you with his "eloquence" ...
when just the thought of sitting in your radiant presence,
of hearing your lovely voice and lively laughter,
sets my heart hammering at my breast?
Hell, when I catch just a quick glimpse of you,
I'm left speechless, tongue-tied,
and immediately a blush like a delicate flame reddens my skin.
Then my vision dims with tears,
my ears ring,
I sweat profusely,
and every muscle in my body trembles.
When the blood finally settles,
I grow paler than summer grass,
till in my exhausted madness,
I'm as limp as the dead.
And yet I must risk all, being bereft without you ...
Sappho of Lesbos was so highly regarded by her peers that she was called The Tenth Muse. That was high praise indeed, because the other nine Muses were goddesses! Sappho has given us our terms "sapphic" and "lesbian." And she wrote the first "make love, not war" poem more than 2,500 years ago! She was ahead of her time, and probably ours as well. Keywords/Tags: Sappho of Lesbos, Sapphic, Greece, Greek, translation, woman, women, girl, girls, girlfriends, love, lovers, lesbian, homosexual, passion, desire, longing, lust, sex, sexy, sensual, sensuous, relationship
SAPPHO'S POEMS FOR ATTIS AND ANACTORIA
Most of Sappho's poems are fragments but the first poem below, variously titled "The Anactoria Poem, " "Helen's Eidolon" and "Some People Say" is largely intact. Was Sappho the author of the world's first 'make love, not war' poem?
Some People Say
Sappho, fragment 16 (Lobel-Page 16 / Voigt 16)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Warriors on rearing chargers,
columns of infantry,
fleets of warships:
some call these the dark earth's redeeming visions.
But I say—
the one I desire.
Nor am I unique,
since she who so vastly surpassed all mortals in beauty
—Helen—
seduced by Aphrodite, led astray by desire,
departed for distant Troy,
abandoned her celebrated husband,
turned her back on her parents and child!
Her story reminds me of Anactoria,
who has also departed,
and whose lively dancing and lovely face
I would rather see than all the horsemen and war-chariots of the Lydians,
or their columns of infantry parading in flashing armor.
Here it is again, the nightfall,
To stay for its allotted years
The entrails heeded the call
Attuned to their primal fears
In the alleys, in the pavements
A dark lie is a shining honesty
Old axioms the devil laments
Tears to prepare his destiny.
Where to after the nightfall,
This darkness has a contract?
The bells of hell now loudly toll
The funeral song of your fact
Monstrosity to take back the spoils
A face reddens not in shame
Rape in new ways the gut that boils
Coming back in rebranded fame
Offering hope by perfumed name
Sins disowned, loots to reclaim.
Here it is again, the nightfall,
The hearts that refused must endure
To wait till the morning call,
It will be long, tiring, but it is sure.
Bestrevolver, May 18,2022