Long Rue Poems
Long Rue Poems. Below are the most popular long Rue by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rue poems by poem length and keyword.
Murk Rammer froze as he felt the nuzzle
of a snub-nosed thirty-eight’s deadly muzzle.
Louis The Retch poked it into his back.
“The jig’s up, Rammer. I ain’t cuttin’ no slack.”
Murk had been tricked by a double-crossing dame,
alias “Frigitte,” he didn’t know her real name.
She’d been his undoing, that cute little louse,
undoing the buttons on her bulging blouse,
then slipping out of her slip and her hose,
and her holster too; yeah, she had one of those.
He’d fallen for Frigitte, completely deluded.
She’d come on strong, delightfully denuded.
She’d kissed him hard and let him get a good grab,
but when he dozed off she skipped out and blabbed.
The shamed shamus woke up and found a clue
and went to a warehouse -- a decision he’d rue.
He’d fallen for the ruse, he’d taken the bait,
and walked right in to a date with fate.
That darn dame had put him on the spot.
He was one peeved peeper who’d loved for naught.
The warehouse was full of contraband goods.
They belonged to The Retch, a sleazeball hood --
lead falcons from “Malta” and vases from “Ming,”
dubious diamonds and other blarney-ish bling,
a lading of lies from a smug little smuggler,
who played for keeps and went for the jugular.
And now The Retch had gotten the drop.
No chance for Murk to call for the cops.
“It’s curtains for you,” the Retched one said,
“The only way out is to go down dead.”
“You win,” Murk said, with a little shrug.
He knew he was beat and waited for the slug.
A bullet in the back was the final payoff.
Fat chance The Retch would decide to lay off.
Murk heard the click of a cocked-back hammer
and waited for death in his taciturn manner.
Bang! went a gun – but not the thirty-eight.
The shot came from someone hiding behind a crate.
The Retch went down with blood on his chest,
then high heels approached; you know the rest.
Bad girl Frigitte leapt into Murk’s arms.
She just couldn’t stand to see him harmed.
And that had been Murk’s ace in the hole,
playing so well the Romeo role.
He wrapped his arms around Frigitte’s waist
and their mouths joined together, such a spicy taste!
Then he took her hand and led her out
into rain washed streets where wet shadows slouched.
Did Murk turn Frigitte in to the cops?
Or let love fill his head with mushy slop?
The ending of this tale I’ll leave up to you,
but as for me, I haven’t a clue.
this middle aged rue stirring bummer
haint no stranger to cold,
when dark hen stormy wintry days
eggs hit from Arctic portal en fold
ding Atlantic Seaboard
in a blizzard of bitterly, blindingly, and
brutally sub zero temperatures
from an occasional nor'easter
fiercely gripping hold
the majority years, sans this prolific
recalcitrant scrivener lived
in various and sundry abode
housed within Southeastern
Montgomery County, Pennsylvania
with 19*** zip code,
and during my boyhood recall,
how massive ice sheets did erode
the (then) opened expansive farmland,
in preparation for planting time,
where runnels of frigid water flowed
with childish cheeks exposed to glowed
after hours upon
many a green acre got tilled and hoed
despite feeling energized and refreshed
with arms and legs n'er fro zen
aye didst eagerly await with exuberant yen
kickstarting thy body electric
experiencing hearthstone nook
designed and built by Christopher Wren
after heading indoors counting fingers
and toes to make sure, i still got ten
soon hearing the chorus of fauna,
and floral kaleidoscope of color
aground or taking wing
thus, upon thawing out thoughts
drifted toward approaching spring,
the season revitalizing
dormant natural inhabitants,
whose excite (like mine) didst ping
announcing the debut of fecundity
nsync with screeching from the lizard king.
This Spring Equinox (i.e. man date:
12:15 PM Tuesday,
March twentieth two thousand eighteen)
doth rejuvenate
inviolable hibernating animals
and plants, and me equate
to experience sensation,
whereby entire being does inflate
and (despite marital status),
nonetheless envisions another gal asthma mate
no...no...no...please do not think this chap
mean spirited and under rate
the woman (at present taking a siesta,
and i breathe easy),
who oft times doth henpeck, a trait
inherited many a chic hen
(with tantalizing tail feathers)
now (until she awakens)
proscribing yours truly to wait
for my repast most likely ad hoc
moist ideal for any nerdy kid to knock
senseless, the worst facet of self important jock
consisting of pop slop mock
Hungarian Goulash, a melange
of relics from age old meals
transformed into a petrified sawed little rock.
Though I'll remember nature's wonders,
sunsets and the breath of spring,
feel the wind blow through my hair
and know the thrill of sunrise cresting.
We see the universe as dancing,
two such different creatures trancing,
we two will never understand
the private notions of the other,
even if we take each other's hand.
Coming close to your destruction
you will see the other side,
who says who has satisfied
requirements for a better life?
Friendship, if we could but find it,
yields the seeds of greater profit,
greater than the seeds of strife.
I now remain just as I ever was.
I shall take my morning walk,
communing with the birds and talking
to myself while reading Kafka,
glancing at the latest headlines.
Dear Stravinsky's 'Rite' is slighted,
(he'll return when ears are righted.)
When I smell a rose I'm prompted
to recall a certain lady, gifted with
a new perception, I must sadly
take exception, for the moment anyway.
The chill of morning, people yawning,
I am tired, the blush of dawning has me
feeling ill at ease, my spirit sags,
I barely reach the second floor.
'When will you return? Is Paris so much more
than you have here?' is my unanswered question.
I drag my heels to breakfast,
listless as a lazy dog, and nibble toast,
my countenance as pallid as a ghost.
A letter would be welcomed.
I shall miss you; there, I've said it.
I am your friend, are you not mine?
Tenuous and strained, two casual
acquaintances who share so little time,
we brush elbows, like strangers passing
on a platform, sharing sidelong glances,
afraid to say hello. I watch you as you go.
Others swore we would be close,
peas in a pod, familiar.
Instead there is no warmth, not yet.
Were you to try we might combine
and nibble toast together, and take
a walk, your hand in mine, and
stammer conversation 'til we knew
there was no reason e'er to rue.
I shall sit with pleasant thoughts of you.
Desperate, I ponder on your death,
scant breath expended twixt the two of us,
and loneliness an ache too harsh to mention,
pen in hand and no one to subscribe.
I'll scarce recall the softness of your skin,
or search your heart to find what lies within.
Should I be bold, or take a gentler path?
encourage you... would I incur your wrath?
If you were to die I'd never know your truth,
and I should lose the vigour of my youth.
A Visit to Graceland
By Elton Camp
Although Memphis is nearby
To visit Graceland I didn’t try.
Elvis wasn’t much older than me.
So his home I really should go see.
I followed the young tour guide.
“Stay together as we move inside.”
Critics call the house tacky as can be,
But it seemed quite luxurious to me.
No rightful criticism could I make.
In Elvis’ décor I saw no mistake.
I had no decorating advice to give.
It looks better than where I live.
“Now up these stairs is his private space.
The tour to go there would be a disgrace.”
The guide pointed on down the hall.
“On Jungle room, please make a call.”
I stared at the steps with eyes so wide.
“Up there’s where he lived and died.”
I stood alone at the foot of the stair.
Without any guard in charge to care.
Seeing a chance open to few,
I decided just what I would do.
While nobody was around,
Up the stairs with a bound.
In a large bedroom on the right,
Something gave me quite a fright.
“How do you dare to come up here?”
He asked in a voice shaky but clear.
He had a shock of dyed black hair,
But in places it was growing spare.
Then his great size next me astounds.
He must weigh three hundred pounds.
“Just who do you think you are?
Nobody’s allowed to come this far.”
I felt like I was about to faint.
Surely, Elvis the King that ain’t.
“Everybody thinks I died years ago
They must continue to think it’s so.
I can never be fat and old.
So that big lie I have told.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” I cry.
“Before I would tell it, I’d sooner die.”
He looked at me with a trace of a grin.
“No way can you betray this has been.”
“Nobody would believe a story like that.
A claim you saw Elvis alive, old and fat.”
I realized it was all too true.
If I told it, the day I would rue.
Liar would become my name
For harming Elvis’ great fame.
“We know Elvis long ago died.
What type drugs have you tried?”
And right then I began to shake
Until it brought me wide awake.
My own bedroom I did then see.
In Memphis town I couldn’t be.
No matter how real it did seem,
It had been nothing but a dream.
But I didn’t really so much care
That it had only been a nightmare.
For if Graceland I ever visit for real
And find Elvis alive, I’ll never squeal.
Trim and handsome all want him to be.
No unfavorable image should they see.
The crone can hear the children's laughter, cold as ice
And they exclaim out "witch", not thinking she can hear
Their parents then admonish, "Try to be quite nice."
Upon her thin, emaciated form they leer
Of love forbidden she has paid the awful price
Malicious magic powers all the children fear
She only wears black, mourning each and ev'ry day
Her world is full of dismal, somber shades of grey
She loved a wealthy cultured handsome gentleman
But she had not the clothes nor proper pedigree
And never would be issued any wedding bann
For poverty did not amuse his family
When finding herself great with child of his, she ran
She felt displaced, just like a dead uprooted tree
In bleak back alley child unwanted disappeared
No chance immoral tainted peccant child be reared
Although she lost her core, her heart, her soul, her mind,
She wandered dazed and crazy back to town she knew
Her fam'ly said, "We never have produced your kind."
There was no place to go and nothing left to do
But after mournful agony she came to find
Satanic powers very evil she would rue
She met the incubi in wooded forest glen
Although she knew it was an awful, grievous sin
Her soul and body raped by evil forces bold
Instilled in her the seeds of their foul awful pow'r
That grew more potent as she grew extremely old
Demolished, shattered self continued still to sour
Her sterile body, now quite barren, grew ice cold
A vile vexatious tongue lashed out at all each hour
Thus she became a bitter venomous old hag
While dressed in filthy clothes; on head, a dirty rag
She met a fine genteel young man, so good and kind
A person reaching out to all in charity
Attempted making better lives where he could find
He wanted human folk achieving parity
However, he had never met an evil mind
The succubus seduced his soul with clarity
She crippled psyche; took his cash, his bonds and stocks
Her languid lips convinced him caged; no keys for locks
Then when the moon was full one night, she murdered him
Around his vile demise all sorts of tales arose
She had dismembered rigid corpse each limb by limb
Disposed so very well of ugly bloody clothes
The whole ordeal had been a gratifying whim
Upon his naked body set a blood red rose
His corpse was never found; base tales do not abate
Today she suffers vile result of cruel fate
CATULLUS TRANSLATIONS
Catullus LXXXV: 'Odi et Amo'
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
I hate. I love.
You ask, 'Why not refrain?'
I wish I could explain.
I can't, but feel the pain.
2.
I hate. I love.
Why? Heavens above!
I wish I could explain.
I can't, but feel the pain.
3.
I hate. I love.
How can that be, turtledove?
I wish I could explain.
I can't, but feel the pain.
Catullus CVI: 'That Boy'
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
See that young boy, by the auctioneer?
He's so pretty he sells himself, I fear!
Catullus LI: 'That Man'
This is Catullus's translation of a poem by Sappho of Lesbos
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I'd call that man the equal of the gods,
or,
could it be forgiven
in heaven,
their superior,
because to him space is given
to bask in your divine presence,
to gaze upon you, smile, and listen
to your ambrosial laughter
which leaves men senseless
here and hereafter.
Meanwhile, in my misery,
I'm left speechless.
Lesbia, there's nothing left of me
but a voiceless tongue grown thick in my mouth
and a thin flame running south...
My limbs tingle, my ears ring, my eyes water
till they swim in darkness.
Call it leisure, Catullus, or call it idleness,
whatever it is that incapacitates you.
By any other name it's the nemesis
fallen kings, empires and cities rue.
Catullus 1 ('cui dono lepidum novum libellum')
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
To whom do I dedicate this novel book
polished drily with a pumice stone?
To you, Cornelius, for you would look
content, as if my scribblings took
the cake, when in truth you alone
unfolded Italian history in three scrolls,
as learned as Jupiter in your labors.
Therefore, this little book is yours,
whatever it is, which, O patron Maiden,
I pray will last more than my lifetime!
Catullus XLIX: 'A Toast to Cicero'
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Cicero, please confess:
You're drunk on your success!
All men of good taste attest
That you're the very best—
At making speeches, first class!
While I'm the dregs of the glass.
Keywords/Tags: Catullus, Latin, English Translation, Rome, Roman, hate, love, pain, man, boy, Cicero, novel, book, books, god, gods, heaven
Friend, before life moves us to the parting ways
Let wisdom tell from rend of heart its lessons old
That you may take your journey springing praise
And mend with gladness dream and mirrored fold
One road invites the universe of man to dawn
The place we left in awe of sword and flash of fire
Stumbling from purpose and lapping dew for ire
Making the circle of return to the cradle of the fawn
It's two things the oracle challenges us to know
Where the road diverges into many different paths
What vision shapes the skill that need will show
To meet the tests that sever self from it thoughts
And lift the eagle to the pinnacle of brimming star
And say to soul you are worth more than you seem
In any dissection of the flesh or weighing of dream
The mantle is mask that pretends not who we are.
What if one branching path a wide lake must cross
What if another a snow-capped cliff must clamber o'er
And still the next has serpents slithering in the grass
And one stretch endless like miles of a sandy shore
Shall the swimmer charm the serpents, swim
The sands, and climb the mirror face of ice
Against a different purpose will his dream suffice
Or all mismatched paths not a meet a fate still grim?
O too many on the wrong path are embarked, too few
Their purpose know before the journey begins
The shipwreck on deserts straddle the sense as clue
Ignored ... self-blinded race, drowning in our sins
He who foreknew us predestined purpose too
Each tree is seeded after its kind, each man can
Achieve only what is set in the primordial plan
The broad way is littered with much too much to rue.
What use is choice unless some context tell the aim
For once and only once we choose the path to good
And joy, the river does not return, the sea is the same
Only at the rapids end. Not what I would, but what I should
Is all I need to know. It's not the prize but the race
We run is what we are destined for. Go now, friend
And wing the light and for mist of truth contend
The swift may run, but the wise the victory taste.
I have no friends left,
In this town,
Will you be my friend?
You, the little Prince
Living On the planet B 612?
Will you be my friend?
The robin
Gracefully singing
When I Walk?
I have no friend,
Will you be my friend?
You, the engineer
In your lighted office
Located In Duchess Anne Street?
I have no friend
In this town,
You, will you be my friend,
You, the creeping ivy
The higher you climb.
Will you be my friend?
You, the schoolboy
That carries in your binder,
Books of poetry
More learned than me?
I have no friend,
You, do you want my friendship,
You Jessica Pegula, you, Coco Goff,
You, Karolina Muchova, players
Who Win tennis tournaments
Playing All over the world?
I have no more friends,
In this town, you
Will you be my friend?
You, the rum baba,
Tasting more delicious than angel liquor?
Will you be my friend?
You, the humble cowboy,
Gary Cooper, who does justice,
When the train, yes the train,
Whistle it three times?
I have no friend,
In this town,
But elsewhere may be,
I’ve had so many; I’ve had so many, maybe
They’ll miss me tomorrow
What happened to my friends?
Je n’ai plus d’amis,
Dans cette ville,
Toi, veux-tu être mon ami ?
Toi, le petit Prince
Sur ta planète B 612 ?
Toi, veux-tu être mon ami ?
Le rouge-gorge
Qui chante gracieusement
Sur mon passage ?
Je n’ai pas d’ami,
Toi, veux-tu être mon ami ?
Toi, l’ingénieur
Dans ton bureau éclairé
De la rue Duchesse Anne ?
Je n’ai pas d’ami
Dans cette ville,
Toi, veux-tu être mon ami,
Toi, le lierre rampant
Plus haut tu grimperas.
Veux-tu être mon ami,
Toi, le collégien
Qui porte dans ton cartable,
Des livres de poésie
Plus savant que moi ?
Je n’ai pas d’ami,
Toi, veux-tu mon amitié,
Toi Jessica Pegula, toi, Coco Goff,
Toi, Karolina Muchova, joueuses
Qui Gagnez des tournois de tennis
Aux quatre coins du monde ?
Je n’ai plus d’ami,
Dans cette ville, toi,
Veux-tu être mon ami,
Toi, le baba au rhum,
Plus délicieux que la liqueur des anges ?
Veux-tu être mon ami,
Toi, l’humble cowboy,
Gary Cooper, qui rend justice,
Quand le train, oui le train,
Siffle trois fois ?
Je n’ai pas d’ami,
Dans cette ville,
Mais ailleurs peut être,
J’en ai eu tant, j’en ai tant, peut être
Que je leur manquerai demain.
Que sont mes amis devenus ?
Pound to the rhythm of my heart…my heart… (oooh…oooh…x3)
You pushed me to drink the love potion (for many years)
You let me go and I was rolling away in the death cart
Now, I’m hearing the echoes of commotion (in my ears)
Pound to the rhythm of my heart…my heart… (oooh…oooh…x3)
Pound to the rhythm of my heart…my heart… (oooh…oooh…x3)
Take a breath, look at me…don’t you see my misery?
The scent of death – I smell the odor seeping out of your mouth…
I cover my nose…I’m feeling down, sucking up my emotional debris
I am not a coward and I am not scared of you – you made me love you
I’m through with you…I gave up on you – you made me weep tears of rue
Pound to the rhythm of my heart…my heart… (oooh…oooh…x3)
I’d like to know why you do the things you do
I understand addiction – I’ve been through it too
I’d like to say before I depart from your arms
I will not…I will not…fall victim to your charms
Pound to the rhythm of my heart…my heart… (oooh…oooh…x3)
Pound to the rhythm of my heart…my heart…
Take a breath, look at me…don’t you see my misery?
You broke my young heart apart…take heart…
The scent of death – I smell the odor seeping out of your mouth…
I cover my nose…I’m feeling down, sucking up my emotional debris
Do you even see the tears rolling out of my eyes?
Pound to the rhythm of my heart…my heart… (oooh…oooh…x3)
You really think that I’m a weakling? Didn’t you see my triumphantly soar?
(I don’t feel sorry for you…you attention whore – why were you the one I
adore?)
I am not a coward and I am not scared of you – you made me love you
I know my heart is breaking bit by bit, but I’m stronger that I was before
(I’m not sore anymore – I don’t love you anymore…you hurt me to the core,
but I opened a new door)
I’m through with you…I gave up on you – you made me weep tears of rue
Pound to the rhythm of my heart…my heart… (oooh…oooh…x3)
Why am I so indecisive? I should’ve dropped you in the nearest trash bin
long ago
But I’ll forget and forgive the past and heal my brokenhearted soul – I’ll pull
out the bad tooth
WHY AM SO FOOLISHLY IN LOVE WITH YOU? I don’t even know where the
wicked wind do blow
But, I know for a fact that you’ll never meet me eye to eye and tell me the
truth
Pound to the rhythm of my heart…my heart… (oooh…oooh…x3)
You pop my heart so heavily to the rhythm of
“like a prayer”from Madonna.
You flare the stars at night
gleaming towards darkside.
You flame the solar sphere; before you,
I became ichor.
You wade your way into heaven;
you're a goddess.
Night with your scarlet lips,
is untamed.
A fluid from your cup is juicy
for it sends me
to cloud nine
dreaming of us in a canvass of artwork
made by rosy poetry
in a setting of dramatic show:
I, Suleiman
You, Ada
playing in Atlantics.
I come with a song,
make from it a dulcet medley
reciting how I found mathematics
at the doorstep to your heart;
my discovery of indices
sorting pleasures beneath your apartment
In a dark red light,
flaky as a clinker.
Woman, you must have thought the instruments
to twang at night
into something that crawls to the paw of the gale
knifing my ears.
call it an act of love
because at your feet
music ends and kick off.
My discovery of you is a quicklime
melding sacred love with holy kisses
over burnt and baked lies
without a draft of smoke
forming cloudburst of rue.
Allow me from your city stare
at roses crashing beneath your waist
affection that goest before your thighs
hallowed by thy bosom
into the gates of confession.
Allow me to snog thee gently
feeding on thy hipped blonde
to your gratification
lounging my spearhead along your riverside
to stir, montarily, moaning
like the touch of flowers.
Tonight woman,
I bring you a song.
Like the sun, crawling to buzz the horizon
I reveal to you the lips of a man
wearing the colour of red for the
eyes.
Do not go up
swinging between the stars
for I without you is tradegies of baked pictures.
Excel Chinagorom Michael