Long Roguish Poems
Long Roguish Poems. Below are the most popular long Roguish by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Roguish poems by poem length and keyword.
My latest local farce, oh, what a schmooze!
oily words from his thick lips fairly ooze.
Behind my back, he must think I’m a hick,
ducking and dodging him doesn’t quite stick.
He’ll pop out of nowhere, but I don’t drool,
not when he treats me like somebody’s fool.
I want to purge my mem'ry of his muck.
He’s not really rude, just a roguish puck
or maybe simply an ill-behaved imp.
He’s like a certain, curious chimp.
He chatters away; I skip past his teeth
to hear what is the bewitching beneath -
affections which are a weak, vain attempt
to air his supercilious contempt.
written May 10, 2017
Sunlight Whispering
Early Sunday morning;
nature rattling at the front door!
I accept the invitation to bond,
stepping out with nothing more in tow
than an upturned collar
and a theatrical imagination.
The morning’s ground is well-baked pastry,
crusted with a shiver of winter;
sunlight whispering across the ground
all sharp colour and playfulness.
So I stride out, church bells skipping alongside
with light skating off in front of me.
Soon I am within reach of the beach;
my sandy sanctuary,
but nature is in a roguish mood,
its light fluctuating;
its moods shifting;
gloss turning to flat matt.
The sea offers up a cold, blue arm
encouraging me into watery depths
while the sky, heavy in thought, reclines
on a grey leather-weathered armchair.
Behind, peeking through clouded curtains
a new season waits to spring into action.
Ian Souter
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: September 10, 2023
______________________________________________________________
Sumptuous whispers are carried by the breeze.
A sonorous tune that calms moods and puts me at ease.
Pristine opines were uttered in a lilting voice.
An idyllic source of felicity; gentle as a dove to rejoice.
As the full moon rises in the night sky's frame,
The amatory blaze roguish hearts aflame.
And wispy scrutiny, a perduring gaze,
Bathing all in an elixir of romantic haze.
With a brooding grace and a regal snare.
She captures hearts with her wistful stare.
In her propinquity, the stars, bow in hurrah
As she crafts the night with a sanguine awe
The sky, her canvas, a tapestry of dreams,
Her reign, a symphony of moonlit themes.
In the embrace of her nocturnal reign,
Lovers find solace in her melancholic refrain.
Her demure touch, a salve for the soul,
As she yarns magic, shaping souls whole.
And as the night gently swirls today,
The moon flings egress, fading away.
But the serendipity of her alluring fable glow
The river of eternity leads sturdy and flows.
If only to bask in the gentle glow of moonlight.
Abides a love that fugacious years cannot quite.
BULINGDON BOYS
Bogus ! Bullingdon boys !
Engaged in chaotic noise,
raising cheerful voice
but not pretty sight.
All are out at night.
Bold Bullingdon lads !
Made basically mad,
Yet frolic and glad
but never to enjoy
with so called good boy.
Brave Bullingdon guys !
All male , not in guise.
No way to compromise .
Fanciful jolly roguish,
quirky, waggish, impish.
Bullingdon boys run wild,
belonging to stormy guild
Unruly and non disciplined .
Dizzy, whimsy, crazy.
In worthless job , busy.
Bullingdon boys do no harm,
Athough always raise alarm
and can’t bring any charm
to polished sophistication.
Absorbed in self satisfaction.
04/ 07/ 23
Bullingdon Boys
Contest by Joe Maverick
As I walk down the narrow tunnel
In the solitude of Purgatory,
I see paper hearts lining the wall,
Like childrens' cut-outs, 'quite ordinary'.
Each heart has a penned name on its face.
I'm jolted seeing these memories----
Names of suitors I've known in the past,
Fascinating romance and reveries.
Their admiration fell on deaf ears,
And I left each one with a broken heart.
Promises given, in truth, I lied.
These loves forgotten, I sought a new start.
The last pink heart, I grabbed from the wall.
I recall his face and his roguish winks,
And the bike he rode to Adventure's call.
By Gosh, this last card has the name of Jinks.
Eight years ago, in February,
You jumped on your Harley and sped away.
Now I shout the words I'd failed to say,
"Have fun Jinks. Happy Valentine Day."
When that mind of yours a vicious censor screams
“you can’t,“
every time you even vaguely contemplate some new adventure or perhaps that dream encounter,
you’ve been promising yourself and those you cherish,
to the point where even staunch social contacts start to wonder what’s going on deep down inside,
as golden junctures make their presence felt.
Be sure to reprimand this roguish ban on self-esteem,
say you are no longer having any of their nonsense, that the days for being obsequious are gone,
forever and beyond an infinitely lavish dispensation.
From this point on you are the captain of that ship which is your mind,
the crew which of course will be comprised entirely of a carefully selected band of pro-goal thoughts,
careful vet and check for just one purpose,
sole allegiance to your script,
those wishes leading to that wonderland enchantment you must always strive for,
the nirvana you deserve.
Things magical outside the normal human zone await one brave enough to spurn that loathsome inner bully known as doubt.
Date posted : 24th September 2021
How often I would savor and reminisce
Dad’s voice calling me down through the years,
As bonfire traced our shadow-dance
My childhood whims glowing in his heart:
And somewhere, gentle moments beam...
When violin tunes lulled rituals of nights
My Grandpa’s hands trailing along winds;
For on his lap, my ribbons wove rhapsodies.
Through more snippets of lively scenes
Pillow fights whammed like a torrent--
Two roguish brothers, tugging me
As we mapped stars with our small arms
Stretching palms to reach the clouds:
~
Till I remember all of them, when
Growing older as an adult ...
These men I love so, are now gone
In quickening of dusk, they pour sweet- salt ~
Right through my bosom...where we all entwine.
It's The End Of The Forms Series
For Broken Wings' Contest 10/07/2017
. for public domain
Where talking descends into mere decoration,
like ornate glass reflecting pretty wallpaper,
I yearn to walk through an arid desert a mute
and savor the pure and honest silence ringing.
Where gestures are bound by the polite customs
taught in finishing schools of refined behavior,
I stand there statuesque to avoid offending
practitioners of the craft of fine movement.
I lurk off in a corner beyond all the chatter,
not knowing my words, or in what ways words matter.
I become the mark of amused titter-tatter,
not knowing my hands, or in what ways hands matter.
I offer the best excuses I can gather,
slink off onto the patio and into the wood,
draw a deep breath of the fresh mossy, musty air,
a roguish and languid unchained solitaire.
Here I am my familiar self, rough as oak bark,
a soul soiled with our most original sin,
with no desire for baptism or the Lord's blessing,
with no desire to know myself more than I am.
"Come back to the party. We all want you there."
My mother gently chides me, combs back my hair.
"Your cousins, your uncles, your aunties are there."
I shrug and I smile at her, "I just needed some air."
Moving like moonlight
I am the OG silver surfer
Fleshwalkers, Dry Guys, Land Livers,
Have been around for,
What, 300,000 years?
Try 20 million years.
We eat stingrays.
Literally. For breakfast.
I have a 360 degree field of vision.
What's directly in front of me?
Don't ask.
Listen, Humanoids,
I'm delivering this plea
To your nearest post office.
Luckily I found a stamp
With my photo on it.
The plea is:
We are different from the other sharks
(Uhh: other sharks don't use post offices)
And are undeserved of their
Ruthless, roguish, reputation.
Yes, we are younger
Than our arrow-headed brethren
(Just 400 million years younger.)
But our brains are bigger.
Evidenced by our lack of interest
In Walky-Talky interaction.
Check your stats.
Us Real Heads are considered
"Shy" among you. Right.
You wouldn't believe
The number of karaoke
Joints down here.
The moon now
Has dipped down
From the world of air
While the sun has made it's rise.
I'm starting to tan in the shallows
A tad too much for my taste.
Stay safe, sentient skin slickers!
I must be one my way now
At 20-25 miles per hour.