Long Revelers Poems
Long Revelers Poems. Below are the most popular long Revelers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Revelers poems by poem length and keyword.
Dear Reader,
Greetings! I hope you are having a wonderful day, or evening if you are just reading this.
No, really, from the depths of my soul, my spirit waves a double-handed "Hi!" to yours.
Come, bring your philosophical coffee cup or tea cup or cup of whatever your favorite
beverage is and sit beside me, across the e-ther. May I ask why you are reading this? You
want to read poetry, I understand, and this is not really poetry. Or is it? Could this
count as free verse? I would not call it a sonnet or a haiku, except in the loosest
possible definition, in the way that drawing outside of the lines can be a drawing and a
de Kooning painting consisting of a chunky orange paintstroke can be considered to depict
a woman. But what makes poetry poetry, or art art for that matter? The medium? The
observer? The intent? Surely Warhol's footage of people sleeping would never be considered
art except for the presence of the camera and the eventual distribution. A man sleeping
miles from a camera or canvas would not likely be considered art, so does the camera
serially produce art? Most people would not consider home movies to be art. So is art
merely a stamp that we all carry around in our frontal lobes? Is life a form of art
regardless of what we call it? In this day and age, in which all rules seem to be broken,
rewritten, broken again, stretched like an old t-shirt, ripped, worn as a new fashion, and
then broken again, have we evolved to the point where we see rules as artificial labels,
something outside our own world that no more exist than the square root of negative one?
Is this letter a poem in spite of itself? What do you think? We may never know for sure,
and if this entry gets deleted from the site, I suppose the answer is a thunderclap "No."
In fact, after thinking it through, I am fairly confident that this is actually not a
poem. These labels are an earnest attempt to creates links in the world, without which
this entire treatise would make no sense. What would Petrarch have thought? What would
Warhol have thought? Or Andy Kaufman? Either way, I guess this is probably not a poem. But
thank you for having read these thoughts of mine, swirling like pagan revelers around my
head. Thank you for reading my non-poem which may actually be a poem but isn't. I bid you
a wondrous and blessed day. Or night.
Yours,
-Michael
Bundled in a horse-drawn sleigh
warm and snug on Thanksgiving Day
the children restless, we went on our way
as the shedding forest began to sway
and the gusts of wind set astray
the vestiges of autumn's display
that unveiled the cabins along the bay
Past weathered barns fraught with snow
and over covered bridges would we go
through the misty river's chill
turning toward the cider mill
its churning paddles frozen still
past the farmsteads and withered fields
the ghosts of bounty that harvest yields
caught in a breeze of burning leaves
and all the reveries the season weaves
We arrived on main street after sundown
gliding through the charming town
toward the chiming white church steeple
past the storefronts curbed with people
in the wake of the gingerbread float
at the stern of the Pilgrim's boat
behind fairy tales and candy lands
as the revelers sang with clapping hands
to the music of the marching bands
From the celebration would we emerge
from the flowery, spangled surge
to behold a wondrous sight
as geese took flight into the night
over the sea where moonlight sought
to quell the hues that twilight wrought
Frosted lamp posts lit our course
and into a trot sprang our horse
his hooves and harness jingling bells
as if to the tunes of sweet noels
while from the shops whose cozy glow
projected windows on the snow
there flashed the goods someone will leave
under a tree late Christmas Eve
the toys and clothes wrapped in bows
and all the gifts that a stocking stows
Now past chimney smoke and picket fences
nostalgic aspects that stir the senses
where old Victorian silhouettes are found
and gestures of goodwill abound
toward the sound of waves we wound
as our lanterns flickered on the ground
the atmosphere around us festive
while within full and restive
or nestled by the fireplace
or with their heads bowed in grace
folks enjoyed a simple pace
while outside others strolled about
amid the maize and wreaths throughout
absorbed in a twinkling universe
of colors snow-clad and diverse
To our delight there soon arose
a savory ambience for the nose
adrift from tables set with care
with a redolence that met the air
as we hailed the last of passersby
and climbed the road into a sky
whose stars adorned the snowy limbs
to a house on the coast, flowing with hymns
,
A black cloud descends…. , , ,
Each flower grows hopeful! ,,
In jubilation, katydids, laughingly, make noisy ovations! , , ,
Party-planner, Queen Rosie, STOPS to
unleash verses,with ’xcited Yiddish zeal !
……………………………………………………………. , ,
D Daisy Mae, and Lily Gay, bathe in refreshing rains ,,
A Anointed too, are tiny baby buds, with every little drop ,, ,,,
N Narcissus squeals with laughter, and sings a sweet refrain
C Crickets dance with plaid berets, and do a Celtic hop!
I In the mud we’ll find two pigs, they splash, but then rain STOPS!
N Nanny Goose, and Granny Goat, play banjos in the band
G Gardenias, stash away umbrellas, they scrub from end to end
R Rabbits hear the jubilee, and from a hole they pop
A A squirrel or two, comes down the tree, where all the fuss began
I In spite of fear, the little mouse, looks out to see what’s up
N Nearby, the cat, just waves his hat, allows the mice some fun!
N Dogs join in, STOP chasing cats, they splash, and play like kids
R Rainbows fill the evening sky, where now the sun peeks in
O Overhead, the colors smile, in greens, and blues and reds
P Pretty is the world tonight, refreshed, and clean, and good
S Softly STOPS the pitter-pat upon on the evening’s hood
…………………………………………………………………………
Thirsty trees, and tender tulip tongues, tasted today’s tantalizing tonic
Rain STOPS to retreat, to replenish, refresh, repair, and rest
Delighted dancers STOP, to discuss day’s divine delivery duties
Rainbows remind recovering revelers reasons to STOP and reflect, rejoice, recent rainy rewards
Slowly, in soft slippers, STOPping to shine, sun sets silently.
Satisfactorily satiated, the scenery seems serene, sparkling and sleepy…..
..............................................................................................................................
Inspired by Debbie's Contest "Aye, Aye, and a Mistress"
Beautiful summer day. You know you're gonna die
that's why you know no joy.
Obsessed with self, there is no answer
unless religion, tv, stories, sports matter.
So what if nothing rhymes and I don't
bring my life into an expressible state
or fight purposelessness, anomie. No one writes.
Running the gauntlet alone. A good day to die, the Apaches say.
For men like us dying's easy, it's living that's hard.
And since dying's much like living, that's hard too.
There's some contentment in letting community decide
your place in it. We're not talking to you.
Really, it's a perfect day. Every leaf is out
that's coming out. The grass is high
and unidentified yet another year. Being knowledgeable
is the best defense against your insignificance.
Can't stop the quince from blossoming
or my sons from smoking, speeding.
The best that can be done or said's a blessing.
Less tv, less guessing
about the effects of your anger unless
you want to be an angry man forever.
Coming from the funeral with friends,
talking on the telephone. OK about being alone.
Alive, almost sure of it. Whether I'm a visitor
to my life or the actual owner.
Mature poets steal, most are masturbators.
This house could use a good cleaning,
dusting for ghosts. I should subscribe
to the local newspaper, do my job well,
do less until one thing's done well.
What would that be? Old, and yet so young.
There are a million poets, I'm poet #500K.
Plenty of mysteries, infinite philosophies,
prayers, laws and unwritten rules.
That's why we go to school, life's complicated.
All I do not know: ATP, probabilities,
the glorious revolution, meiosis and mitosis
and all I'll never see, the bottom of the ocean,
the palm at the end of the mind, a wolverine.
There are certain indicators, undeniable,
inexorable. Forget-me-not, is that all I want?
To get lucky, you gotta be careful first.
To be great, you gotta be willing to sound BAD.
Although we cannot make the sun stand still
yet will we make him run. Brave revelers.
Signed engagement letter attached.
Attachment to self and to things to do.
A FINE LINE BETWEEN DEVIANCE & PASSION
There is a fine line between deviance and passion
The same line borders love and lechery
The barrier is not to be crossed, not even for a second
It is not etched in sand, as that can be dissolved with the tide
The line is bold, but the boldness dissipates in darkness
This line is horizontal and vertical at the same time
Not a cross
Although a cross is sometimes used to measure the thickness of the line
There is a fine line between dipsomania and moderation
The same line separates the happy revelers from the sad sots
The gate should be kept closed at all times
It is not locked, as combinations can be forgotten with time
The line is electrified, but insulation forms in acceptance
The line is angled and curved at the same time
Not a circle
Although a circle is the trap for the poor soul who strays across the line
There is a fine line between life and death
The same line forms the edge of sin’s cold knife
The blade unsheathed reflects the disappearing line
It is a sharp and distinct line one moment and then in the next it is blurred
The line bends when we want it to bend in our weakness
The line is not infinite
Not a universe
Although the universe is too small to hold the line
There is a fine line between forgiveness and grudge
The lines of our words cross over and then return
The damage is done and then the line is broken
It is too slippery to allow us to hold on for a lifetime
The line intertwines with other lines
The line is only as strong as its weakest fiber
Not invincible
Although destruction is often the only solution to crossing the line
There is a fine line between deviance and passion
The same line borders the moral and immoral
The barrier is not to be crossed, not even for a second
It is not given to us, but is self-created in our prayers
The line enters our head and divides the mind
The line is in a book, a song or a poem
Not fiction
Although the line between fiction and truth is often hard to discern
In the chill of night, when shadows dance and sway,
A tale of Halloween, I'm bound to convey.
A story woven from the threads of scare,
Beware the whispers in the haunted air.
In a quaint old town, where cobwebs hung,
Where eldritch secrets from the rafters clung,
The people gathered, dressed in fright,
To celebrate the Eve where day meets night.
The moon, a ghostly galleon, sailed the sky,
As children laughed and revelers did cry,
"Trick or treat!" they'd chant with glee,
Unaware of the true horror, soon to be.
Beneath the Hunter's Moon, a figure stood,
A specter draped in tattered hood,
With eyes like embers, glowing in the night,
It watched the townsfolk with an eerie delight.
"Boo!" it whispered, soft as velvet breeze,
And one by one, the laughter ceased.
For those who heard, their blood ran cold,
As ancient dread within their hearts took hold.
The figure moved, a silent, creeping blight,
Through the town it glided, out of sight,
Leaving in its wake a silent, deadly trace,
A chill that clung like a spectral embrace.
The revelers, they felt it, deep within,
A primal fear, a shivering skin,
For the figure in the shadows was no mortal being,
But a malevolent force, its true form unseeing.
It chose its prey with a malicious grin,
A young man, costumed, full of sin,
It followed him down the moonlit lane,
And in its gaze, he felt a deadly strain.
He turned to face the spectral foe,
His heart did race, his courage low,
But too late did he realize the plight,
That he was now the creature's chosen for the night.
With a final scream, the man was claimed,
By the horror that could not be named,
And the townspeople, they'd always remember,
The Halloween when fear was truly tender.
So heed this rhyme when autumn leaves do fall,
And the veil is thin, and spirits call,
For on All Hallow's Eve, when ghouls do roam,
You might just find you're not alone.
K through Twelve,
it's called.
Students and teachers
walk the halls.
From beginning to end
behaving like they should
Or else. . .
One knows that
the attic is filled with cobwebs,
of course,
and dusty musty old textbooks
discarded lessons and copies
of one's grade reports.
But the basement . . .
One knows
there's a cave below the boiler room
filled with old projects and paraphernalia.
A tomb lined with damaged models:
plastic skulls,
plastic brains,
and plastic hearts.
An abandoned asylum for the malformed and the maladjusted,
the deformed and the defective.
Stalactites drip growing steadily down,
glowing and sparkling
oblivious.
The floor is soft and powdery, damp cold
decades of ashes and dust
where one lands when one falls.
Strange crystalline music of dark nested spheres
repeats.
If one is able and
not wholly broken then
one may wander through,
past the poor wretches
who line one's way . . .
If one can wonder or wander at all
after one's fall
then one reaches the mouth of the tunnel and crawls
up
to a barn door in the wall.
A light shines through there
where
one may stare
and beyond others' noises echo busy
buzzy
cheer??
Once opened, it reveals the shopping mall
where graduates sell Their wares.
"Free dessert" is being given away.
Dutch apple pie of several varieties,
some sugar free and some without fat.
If one buys that.
A celebration seems
to be in the air
Halloween, it seems,
and behind scenes
the revelers come near.
From the cave and dark dungeon they parade
in masquerade.
Singing in unison.
Coming forth, as one,
to get their share.
By Michael Parker
…when art and love are of one stuff.
– “The Poem Unheard” by Amanda Hall
Love is like a Chagall—
the bride and groom floating
high above Paris
the blue of the sky holding them
aloft with unadulterated joy.
Men with faces of animals
play violins and flutes
and a vision of a young couple
a child standing upon the mother’s knee
acts as a revelation of their future.
And a crescent moon peers around
a cloud like the eye of God.
If Chagall painted the story of our love,
we, too, would be leaping through cerulean sky,
jubilantly flying above a city.
My left hand clasps your hand.
My right hand reaches up to hold
the crescent moon, because that is
how monumental this moment is.
Below us, on a wide city street,
there would be a march of revelers,
with faces of animals,
playing a marriage anthem with
trumpets, flutes, clarinets
and violins.
In the corner, there would be a vision
of our three children, yet to be born,
standing before our yellow house;
the curve of an eye
with a navy-colored pupil
illustrated upon its roof.
On the opposite side
a bourgeoning bouquet of flowers
in a white vase stands taller
than our sunshine-colored house,
a symbol of our flourishing love.
All the metaphors would best suit our love.
All the world participating in the celebration
of our beloved connection.
Copyright © 2021 by Michael Parker. Originally published in the poetry collection, Diving the Spirits in the House of the Hush and Hush, by Michael Parker, published by the Utah State Poetry Society, 2021.
clad in rags, he wanders on Wall Street
he is invisible to hustling stock brokers
he is a man with no money, no property
a hapless struggler of excessive loan burdens
bitter winter winds whip across Broadway
he is invisible to affluent theatre-goers wearing warm winter coats
he is a man who watches them scurry past the cardboard box that is his bed
like a rain-dog, huddling in the shadows of alleys and doorways
he hears deafening explosions of New Year fireworks
he is invisible to the revelers
he is a man who cowers, recalling gunfire of a war he fought
echoing through his mind in restless nights
the incessant thumping of traumatic stress
he is invisible...a victim of post-Vietnam, Afghanistan and Iraq
who once bore a uniform and served his country with pride
he is invisible suffering alone, paying the price
through severe disabilities and permanent scars
with sadness, he watches voters going to the polls
he is invisible, a veteran with no voice in elections
he is a man who cannot vote without an “address”
a placard on a pavement might catch the eye
unemployed, homeless, unseen
but most of all forgotten
he is a man who seems invisible
but he is still a man
*As we prepare to celebrate Veterans Day, I would like to thank Paul Callus
for co-writing with me. Our veterans deserve more than we can ever give them.
How can it be that autumn so soon again is stealthily approaching,
With its pleasing sounds, scents and varied hues steadily encroaching!
The bouquets of summer have faded and their petals they have shed,
Now, the maple and aspen assume their gorgeous robes of gold and red!
Anon, their bare limbs reaching for the heavens as if in supplication,
Will be adorned with garlands of snow to enhance their decoration.
The haunting honks of geese is heard as they flee the cold and snow,
Guided by The Master Compass from whence they come and whither they go!
Old Harvest Moon hanging from the ebony sky will emit its mellow glow,
Providing perfect ambiance for lovers strolling hand in hand below!
Happy revelers will enjoy hayrides, marshmallow and wiener roasts,
Lounging about glowing fires spinning tales of spooky goblins and ghosts!
Soon, hordes of pirates, witches and fairies will be prowling the streets,
And stopping by to make their annual plea for Halloween treats!
Thanksgiving Day is on the horizon, a day set aside for counting our blessings.
With tables laden with green bean casseroles and turkey and its dressings!
A special day to honor and thank our Valiant Veterans will also be observed,
And to remember and thank their supportive families for they also served.
I can say without hesitation that autumn is my favorite season of the year,
And since I am in the autumn of my years, I especially hold it dear!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired