Long Ribbed Poems
Long Ribbed Poems. Below are the most popular long Ribbed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ribbed poems by poem length and keyword.
Come dive the leaves in varnished shades
along a sway in rippling sets
from green and mauve to orange blades
come dive the leaves in varnished shades
in swirls of iridescent braids
while all soft twirls adorn wind’s nests
come dive the leaves in varnished shades
along a sway in rippling sets
As glassy sheen weaves through the trees
leaves bend in worship through hummed light
while turning cheeks flushed from the breeze
As glassy sheen weaves through the trees
and through ribbed stalks, stars dance in flight
that flicker through fine bower’s eaves
as glassy sheen weaves through the trees
they bend in worship to hummed light
©
ttriolet in iambic tetrameter
. …. ..
Each cycle brings its own spiritual energy
that makes my world dance with my own
sense of being...' to everything , there is
a season..'
Giorgio V.'s Beloved Poems Contest
by nette onclaud
Shipping mountains of expanse it gains the above,
a smooth sheen of aphotic immensity
gate-crashes the sky.
We watch as a vast inclination to be enormous
break free of the tenebrous deep.
It has now a ribbed and scalloped identity,
it is the depth made manifest.
I can no longer calibrate my mind, as the booming whale
surges past my physical insignificance.
That night
I could feel my fingernails growing in my sleep,
my thickening backbone stretching to crane upward
into an arching leviathan flight,
while my own shriveled and shed skin
sinks downwards to become mere morsels
for soft-mouthed bottom feeders.
More often than not, I chose the feel-good road.
The road of instant gratification.
Everybody smiling within the veneer of hardship.
The lazy man's road, lined in devil's blood and madness.
The other road was long and tedious.
Lined with breadcrumbs and thin-ribbed people.
Playing dominoes with beer-painted fingertips.
They were born within the cocoon of reality and truth-
It came naturally to them. They were the struggle itself.
BUT THEY WERE HAPPY-happy they were.
On the feel-good road, thin slippers slap the vomit of untruth.
Unattainable wants and unsustainable happiness.
I existed on the feel-good road and became spiritually broke.
A paper mâché skiff upon a reef made of metal.
Along the upper estuary,
boats laid beached on mud
like whales you see
on news clips stranded
helpless in the drained shallows
of a low tide. These boats
too were out of their natural world
of water and easy float,
their freedom was the distance
swung on the arc of a rope.
We would clamber up their listing
hulls and into the ribbed
bellies of the bigger boats,
huddle in the dank,
fish foul air of cabins
and turn wheels hard to port.
They were the holds loaded
with the cargoes of our childhood.
Later, there was a sad absence
occupying the helm, neglect
peeling the paint and seeding
rot into weathered timber.
They stunk of decay.
Most boats were abandoned,
fastened for years
to the monotony of tides,
sentenced for life
to lift and fall on the same spot
or sink and be broken up.
And yet they remain anchor points
to what is real, positioned
as it were in a world where things
can be felt, have substance
and assume a shape
mirrored in your mind.
They float secure
on a sea of nothingness whose
sterile depths beckon and beguile
and would claim poetry
to feed the ethereal swans
of Stephane Mallarme.
Here is where a poem
has a smell as well
as make you feel and think
without recourse to meaning,
becoming mere magic.
You have the hysterical look of mutes
that roar through narrow straws.
I see in your yellow eyes – a Jules Verne winking moon.
Soon that ribbed pink cave will release
another flock of demented coots
hacked from the craw of an ancient macaw.
Soon the whip of your vocal squawks
will pluck my eyes from their trembling stalks.
Maine Coon, part Persian, part whiskery herring,
grimalkin mouser,
I love you not when you sing.
Verne goes to the movies, a flickering French theater
of painted malarkey, where mice threaten to Can-Can.
Buck Rodgers shoots rays of hyperbolic sound
from the open nozzle of your mouth.
We set foot on dry grass at the cockcrow
of a nascent union.
Cheek to cheek as Cupid towers
over the rose inside my heart,
shooting arrows at a dyad draped in fire,
gliding through the tundras of charred weeds,
fin-like petals quake beneath our feet.
The sun unloads its savage heat in torrents,
thermal downpours drench the wedded seam,
blisters left on Sinai soul mate psyches,
rain shadow or bajada by the bye!
Aphrodite’s children from the pampas,
teether on phlogiston’s manic figment,
cauterized, rock-ribbed, raw emotion rivulets ablaze.
Firebrands of first flush in all but name.
Plumes of tropic passion wrap, us madagascan parrots,
trill and troll sidekicks one and all, showing off our feathers
high above the arid air. sweat soaked garments
reek of clammy cuddles, shredded, torn,
strung loosely round the limbs of new born flames.
Cindered patch exposed on lover’s skein without a balm.
Soaptree yucas proudly fence the rapids giddy gurgle.
Frothy sidemen serenade the cherry blossom sweethearts,
lilting love notes found in every strain.
Knotted woodlands understory,
nuptial suite propped up by swollen nodes.
Eternal palms outstretched,
love puppets on a compass point astride the boundless needle.
Viola viscera, songbird incarnate, bow to my enchanted fiddle.
Together forever, alone at last
Sworn to secrecy, she told me it had been a long time..
as we sat swinging in a hammock in the late day sun.
'What., are you sayin' you never did it?'
I thought what my mom would do if she caught me, and replied
'brought up different I guess'.
She leaned back into the netting, perhaps chewing on what I said..
half her face streaked in sunlight.
Suddenly aware of her leg touching mine. So warm...
My cotton red racing striped trunks from Sears, with a secret webbed key pocket..her faded OshKosh B'Gosh bibs she wore all summer except on Sundays.
(Sundays were saved for wearing that white & pink pleated Victorian get up she so detested; a gift from her Grandma bought from Macy's mail order catalog)
She ribbed me with her right elbow, as she jumped clear of our swing..
when her mom yelled 'time for supper Kat!' from the front porch.
But she turned back with that dangerous look I'd learned, leaned in close, and licked across all her teeth.
'Milk's colder and better ya know..
drunk straight from the carton.'
She ran inside letting the screen door go with a full slam..!
I thought about all the times we watched Jonny Quest at her house,
eatin' our Quisp or Kaboom with that milk..., and smiled.
I kept Kat's secret safe..,'til just now anyway.
dialogue
So is it just me or is toast weird
bare with me so
bakers train for years
To produce these
beautiful pillow bouncy castles of air caves
surrounded by mouth crumbling battlements
crusts that disintegrate at a tremble
they learn to knead and squeeze and shape
they have timings calculated
and portioned preparations
each grain of accounted salt well grain
Through clear logos
its ribbed edges
flex
So we take these baskets of art
Take them home
and sinisterly cut them in
coffin oblongs
and place them=wait for it in
machines that will burn them
until like slightly corroded
stone tablets
we have made them crunchy
wait too crunchy
lets slather them in gold drips sun bloomed fat drops
how many times have you had a toastie
which is only toasted on one side maybe
we should call it a Toa lets call it a tie
which toast came first
the bread or the raising of the wine
and why do we always cut it smaller
people you cant live with them
but you can hide within them
and wait for them all to die
now
they say that we clink glasses
because if your enemy has poisoned your drink
any foamy overspill
it will poison them
friends so easily turn to fiends
that softly hue of amber embers
dripping with oil slick sunbeam strokes of summer
bye
going to make some weird toast
My soul is encaged within ribbed walls
Bound by body as if shackled and tethered.
What would it wish if one could be granted?
To be freed from my mind, from my body depart?
No, that's not what I believe with all my heart.
Does it feel the intensity of my physical pain,
or wounds that left scars on my broken heart?
It is my belief that the soul, mind and body
are integrated as one, signifying a human life,
the coexistence of an individual's conscious being.
If it's my soul's only wish to save itself from death,
it must save my body as well.
It's a platonic relationship of relying on each other,
for as long as my body breathes, so will my soul.
It aspires for a cohesive convergence with my mind,
body, and heart, for one is dependent on the others.
When my body dies, so does the existence of my soul.
Staying alive is its desire and the hope it transpires.
December 25, 2022
Our Soul's wish list contest
Sponsor: Unseeking Seeker
The dead they are burned not by heat or cold.
Their spears did not grow heavy,
blooms do not sprout from their ribbed barrels.
They chew now on spent bullets;
they have captured themselves.
In dark allies a switchblade blindness enters hearts,
rage sprouts red flowers.
Everything is a memory even the future.
The living kill randomly, sometimes with a great kindness,
a sweetness that fattens the maggot. The earth rages on.
Rage buries you alive, yet you still survive.
Rumi said: ‘you must dance in your own blood.'
That kind of killer instinct leads you out of the fire
into an oblivion that polishes eyes, makes them shine
in the darkest dark.
Mad man are their own wolf pack.
Embrace the fang, bleed into their yawping maws.
If you have a ghost in your heart make love to it
In the tramp of the throng.
The dead have slaughtered themselves,
pity them not, they rage not,
they are mad with love now,
long manacled to greater lusts,
passions only those
beyond the horizon of themselves may see.
Those who have come through are set apart
as sacred scarecrows in a field of sleeping dogs.
Light candles, scorch the wax until the smoke
gutters into absence.
Do not pray for the gone,
they are all inside you now, quenching
your own rage that licks and flames.