Long Roused Poems
Long Roused Poems. Below are the most popular long Roused by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Roused poems by poem length and keyword.
Lovely soul which is purely Silk
Owing to be my heart's genius loci
Valorously he seems to be Keen
Endeavouring me with cuddles aid
Mellowing my body with his finger
Yearns to listen my echoes ablaze
Perspiring thoroughly high heated
Aroused completely with his kisses
Rapid heart beat's thunders to recoup
Tensions awakened whole night & i
Never wrangle my lover's render
Evergreen is our reciprocation Foci
Reviving memories sews us intact
27-5-2020
~DEEPA~
Third place in the Contest.
Note1:Double Double Words To Bubble Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Joseph May
Note2:BRIAN'S SELECT 4,any form,any theme Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
.
her
animated she with
purr'fect pulse'd
robustly
latch'd
no
lock'd
with snug
hern to
the marshmallow fluffy
love seat's
arm rest
where'st mine head
many uh pipe dreamz
reposed
mine engram'z mantel
copious with
hern purty
roused
muse after muse
i shelve
each her long
each mine
respond
The year was sixteen-sixty-four
A comet crossed the sky,
And Londoners looked on in fear
Convinced the end was nigh.
The streets which once were paved with gold
Were now awash with waste.
A swarm of flies and scourge of rats
Foretold the death they faced.
And so it was that London town
Was struck down by the plague,
And corpse on corpse, wife, husband,child,
Were taken to their grave.
Deep in the dales of Derbyshire
A peaceful village lay,
Until a bale of cloth arrived
That inauspicious day.
A bale of flea-infested cloth
Hung by the hearth to dry,
Which stirred the soporific fleas
And roused the plague thereby.
The tailor's poor assistant died
A death of searing pain,
And pestilence intensified
Its unrelenting reign.
As many planned to leave their homes
The vicar intervened
Declaring that instead of flight
They should be quarantined.
'Dear flock of Eyam, sacrifice
Not self must be our plan,
For once enclosed we'll suffer but
Set free our fellow man.'
Within the space of just one month
So many perished there.
The smell of sadness and of death
Ingrained the putrid air.
The years have passed,the plague long gone
But graves still tell the tale
Of how their sacrifice and strength
Meant others could prevail.
13.02.20
Let The Pens Flow - Narrative Poetry Contest : sponsored by Jenish Somadas
N/A
A Historic Event Poetry Contest - William Kekaula
NOTE:
On 1 November 1666 farm worker Abraham Morten gasped his final breath - the last of 260 people to die from bubonic plague in the remote Derbyshire village of Eyam. Their fate had been sealed four months earlier when, after the onset of the plague from flea-infested cloth from London, the entire village made the remarkable decision to quarantine itself in an heroic attempt to halt the spread of the Great Plague.
A waking up, do I, Dark Poet, need
to shake my creature core from sheltered sleep.
A seed has taken root as bitter weed
that sprouts from disappointments buried deep
inside me, where a well-hid wild thing
with armored skin lifts groggy head to breathe.
No fire escapes its mouth, for it must cling
to courtesy although its blood should seethe.
If roused, the beast could overstep its bounds
and though I’ve tamed it well, I sometimes hear
in dusky dreams its melancholy sounds.
Before the dawn its murmurs disappear.
On bitter weed subsists my dragon child.
Oh, should I let it rest. . . or wake the wild?
For Irma's Dark Poet contest
My life isn't exactly what I'd have wished for,
had I roused myself to wish.
I might have lived a life filled full,
puffed with particularity, and limited:
boundaried by Plymouths, VA loans, and bills from Dr. Bill.
I might then have shaped my mind to fit a space,
quite small, where largest loomed my daily cares.
I should then have been content
to hear the patter of small feet
upon cement of terrace, porch,
basement or garage, and to emit,
upon request, a well-designed barrage
of timely chatter, to complement the patter,
to pace the ticking of the clock.
But no...I cannot to such rhythms and designs
become resigned... must play the nomad
(and the bard) till play and I be ended,
low or high, and must try to know,
and yet not know, the great vague
How, the What, the Why...
** A Very Memorable Christmas Present **
Someone made an err::
Boxing Day ‘ere’s
Been the day of — not after.
What started as the greatest
Christmas ever, turned
Us from better to worse
As our tempers grew, altered
After our fingers were slid into
Those gift-wrapped firm gloves of leather,
Punching through the room’s air
At each other
With words roused from harsh to meaner,
‘Till our referee pup barked
To end our Round 1, forcing a turnover
Into creating a round of rich laughter.
Re-freshed, happier, remembering our
Proper manners appropriate to honor
Our Savior’s birthday…We resolved
A return trip to the store to trade
That shared present of boxing gloves for
A healthier, sturdy set of parallel bars.
————————————————————————————————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 12/25/22
Happy Birthday, King Jesus
I rarely go to temple,
Though when New Year comes around,
I do not feel complete until
I hear the shofar’s sound.
Some synagogues stream services;
I listened for a while,
But the rabbi’s talk went on and on
And wasn’t quite my style.
I turned it off and went to sleep,
Yet while I calmly drowsed,
A noise disturbed my slumber
So I suddenly was roused.
It was a shofar from the street
And it was being blown
In the familiar rhythms
That, since, childhood, I have known.
My husband woke up also
To the blasts, both loud and clear,
Which, from right below our window,
Wished the world a sweet new year.
*This is my poem from October 3,
when PoetrySoup was down
While whispers shush on sheltered shores, as soon the cockcrow quakes,
the seas descry a skittish sky, sense summer zephyrs wake –
roused passions neath the sunrise pulse, the whitecaps throb and ache.
Along the crests crawl shallow shades the soaring sun effaces
and rains in streams enhance the dreams that fantasy embraces
while ocean sprays of yesterdays reveal forsaken faces.
The midday sun has slowed its run, a shrinking puddle steams,
between the knells of shattered shells drift soaring seagulls’ screams –
the beauty wends but never ends, or so it surely seems.
At dusk a ruddy disk descends, the skyline's furnace burns
and neath the swells where Neptune dwells, an undercurrent churns –
a seahorse hides and seaweed bides until the tempest turns.
While twilight hosts the winds with ghosts of barbed electric spangles,
a mermaid braves the crashing waves adorned with starfish bangles –
her spirit yearns in twists and turns entwined in rockweed tangles.
As seven stranded seamen scan the dimple-dappled moon,
a brace of surly Sirens serenade a lonely loon –
the breakers pound and sometimes sound a melancholy tune.
Soon gales ignite the briny night and rip the skies askew
with zigzag teeth flashed deep beneath a blazing bolt tattoo –
storms, spent, subside in ebbing tides, then all begins anew.
Though labeled vivaciously in rural cultural names,
The concept of ogre roused, in us little ones, fear flames;
Refuse to eat; cry at night or keep awake for long,
A threat, in the name of the ogre, around us did throng...!
He will enter uninvited, they said, for, he knew well,
Which child belonged to the angels, and who should go to hell;
Like a monster huge in form and shape and structure, and strength,
To tackle a wayward child, he can go to any length...!
God of the underworld, some said, cruel thieves, others said,
From forests and swamps and castles, they said and went ahead;
Paving us, the naughty ones, on tracks, they went unawares;
Fright in us increased; ogres dominated our nightmares...!
We, the Lilliputians, joined together, and decided,
We'll beat him on his head when he attacks many-sided;
Fortunately...? unfortunately...? He did not turn out,
This was why, finally, on our elders, we got a doubt...!
When we grew up and found the facts around, we realized,
Myths, like these, though scared us, we knew our lives got harmonized;
We do not use ogres to discipline our kids, today,
Haven't ogres of discipline found many a new way...???
25 March 2023
the night is barking among the dogs
moaning over the family shame
preaching to the deaf like a blind demagogue
so where’s the collector of common blame now?
something is soaring above the house
heart-shaped and half-baked
it’s slowly making us roused
there was a cadence of stars yesterday
despite the awe they’re sharp as a butcher’s knife
they flew in through walls and window panes
she tried to pick them up and she just cut her hands
and there was a strife about the afterlife
god, these boundless hours, so lurid!
moulded into this blushing bride of mine
locked in a spire by heavens so arid
stagnant in solace she’s mortal and quivering
her heart inside out and her soul on decline