Long Sashays Poems
Long Sashays Poems. Below are the most popular long Sashays by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sashays poems by poem length and keyword.
Our star.
Feel its sting?
The little dingy one
with jagged edges
in the basement of the universe.
The star that winks... sashays ...
Relentlessly teasing- then merrily slices away.
Our star
Hear it careen like molten dreams.
The lost one that mimics a 2 am ambulance.
The one that offers fruit
then sends you crashing to the reef...
Our star
Smell it?
The one that passes perfume.
Beneath the fragility of "self-worth". of your gravity.
Then jerks it all away.
Our star
Once a blooming evening flower.
Now nibbled ran. Down to the stump.
Face down in the cold black soil,
Our star has turned to mud!
Spring waltzes in with rosebud cheeks and swaying with a breeze.
She summons Sun and Rain to do her bidding; grace blossoms,
but she can’t compete with Summer’s sultriness; thus she takes her leave.
Summer spiritedly takes the stage as she tangos in with Sun.
As their passion scorches the ground on which they dance, storms may come,
cooling Summer off, but she leaves once Autumn sashays in.
Autumn is a playful sprite, brightening leaves for a while
and twirl-flirting with Wind as the days grow ever cooler.
Romantic at sundown, she slow-dances with shadows that lengthen.
Fall's sister, not as romantic, moves in a courtly way.
Winter enters Earth’s ballroom sometimes frigidly, yet can show grace
when she lets loose a white gown that glistens beneath Moon’s glow.
(Checked by Syllablecounter.net)
Wolf moon leads off each year in a ferocious howling way,
Preparing frozen Snow moon to come out, frolic and play
Serious Snow moon is replaced by Worm moon in March.
Pink moon comes prancing merrily, without any starch.
Flower moon replaces Pink in the gentlest possible way
Her blossoms awaken Strawberry moon who is merry and gay.
Buck moon is next, displaying his gorgeous horns in a flash.
Sturgeon moon frolics forward now, leading a well -run dash.
September’s Harvest moon comes along and bumps Sturgeon out.
October’s Forest moon glides in gently, without any big shout.
Blood moon sashays forward, leaving a warm friendly trail.
With optimism, Ghost moon ends the year with her usual hale.
We are now back to Wolf moon, and the cycle starts over again.
So wise and apparent, this force of nature a totally natural win.
We recognize our moons as they prance forward year after year.
Realizing the moons are forever, so there is nothing to fear.
My black cat accompanies me
Home from the mailbox
As if to make sure that
The peach-colored pink moon
Won’t choose tonight
To take me
It peeks, head tilted
From behind the old church
Justly fearful of my familiar
Who sashays among the shadows
I want to say to him
You may be made of darkness,
My pet, but you do not belong
To the night, as I do
There is a brief interlude
In which God creates
The lights of the heavens again
Lest I forget
And I am back on my porch
The moon is higher now
Its blush gone
No longer shy, it lies cradled
In bare branches
Cat inside, I linger alone
And wonder
If I could ever belong to the light.
As the
story
goes...
A
pesky
fly,
came buzzing by
to rest and munch
and eat his lunch
and have some fun
on the hound dog's
nose.
The old dog
snoozed
without a clue
in the noontime heat
of the August
sun.
He
napped
awhile
by piles of leaves
in dappled shade
of the apple tree,
where an apple fell
and the flies said "yum"
and the bees would hum
and the dog would yawn.
That lazy bone
won't fetch a stick,
or scratch his neck
or care a lick
about a neighbor's cat,...
That ornery
brat
will prance around,
will tease and taunt
the weary hound,
who naps so sound
on
this
dog- day
afternoon.
Hound has no pep
to take a step
to chase
or race
that snooty
cat,
who
smugly rubs
against his back,
and sticks her nose
up to his snout,
and
sticks up her tail
sashays about.
He hardly cares
that she is there.
She preens and cleans
her own black spots,
She stares at him
he stares right back,
with one eye open,
one eye shut
He'll stretch a bit
and scratch a lot
but it's too
hot
to
chase
that
cat...
Don't
bat
your
eyes..
it's
not a lie.
So
what
do
you
think
of
that?
_________________________________
*Image of Elon Musk & Brut by Wiki & Unilever.
The Musks
Homonyms, closeness or likeness,
name or smell, be all there,
creates vanishing impetus,
Twit byes and scents to air.
Brut (cologne) was by Faberge,
Joe Namath modeled them,
Brit's Unilever owns today,
autistic Musk use--'um.
Kicked-up raw earth lingers...consorts
just when a mug pivots,
trigger the hounds and all their sorts,
unfeeling and vicious.
Commercial Brut Musk spray wear's off,
sure and forward sashays.
Refine defines, sign-wavers scoff,
Blue Origin tweet praise.
Like Men in Black bruises those teased,
bypass pedos and smile,
a wound-up car humming was eased,
brute Musk in Space-X style.
2023 January 15
*7th Place*
MUSK
~~Anthony Biaanco: Judged 2023 February 04
*RZ & HMS.
The fab four...not Scouse superstar serenaders..
Stellar constellations of cricketing fascinations...
Connoisseur christened, humdinger harbingers..
Listen…whispers of willow wizardry whistle…glisten..
Skipper sorcery glow…celestial cerebral Martin Crowe..
Appetites whet..forget the quartet..for the fab four is no more..
Game's pantomime dame, Kohli...encores harangued..
Creeping crepuscular flaws…Virat’s ersatz career nadir scores..
Smith's sisyphean shuffles..flummoxed fossicking for form..
In mists of time..muffled murmurs of his prime...
Two remain....caressed nurdle nirvanas...nudges finessed...Kane..
Benjamin Button…old school whiffs…lyrical lever lullabies..
Rooted rhapsody riffs..gourmand & glutton..
Wallowing in echoes..aesthetic embers of the past...
Trained elbow craned....poetic flighty feet…
Silkily souffle sashays scream balletic....
Swishes so late, almost tardy...halcyon garlanded greats..
Third man tickles...soft hands court..behind cover cavort..
Wooing nooks...seducing crannies..scoreboard cooing..
Relished textbook looks..cherished record books..embellished..
Joe shuns Icarus...strums eclipsing Sachin's sun..
Kane’s hushed kudos..won’t boast..hums humility…..
Genius garnishing..legends..legacies..
So time “gentlemen” please..
Lachrymose Last Post toast.
Final round for Kane..Joe & Martin Crowe..
Late great host…ruminating perched proud..
Hankering..hollering with the crowd..
Illuminating a long white cloud..
Wind and sea and waves and sun
sand in toes as day is done
Seagulls glide, sandpipers run
young dad splashes with his son
Breakers rise, translucent teal
lifeguards poised as youngsters squeal
Seniors search for shells - they feel
twelve again as sun rays heal
Sky on fire towards the west
clouds in lustrous fashion dressed
Cosmic artistry - I'm blessed
songs of peace swirl through my chest
Violins waft quietly
over swelling timpani
Saxophone soars soulfully
bidding hearts to be set free
Blushing scarlet, clouds advance
smell of salty foam enchants
Palm trees sway as in a trance
recalls young love's first slow dance
Couples stroll, fingers entwined
share a kiss if so inclined
Rising moon smiles as designed:
gives the anxious peace of mind
Waves still warm from midday blaze
surfers dance in sea-mist haze
Sailboats flee from stress-filled days
springtime struts; summer sashays
written 23 June 2023
Devil sits in burning battlefield pits.
In the foyer of war, ripped eyes.
Scratches on the nightlight.
Beneath the crib of an unborn child.
Devil flashes teaspoons of loneliness.
Travels the backwoods of mind.
A sinister baker in the cupboard.
Honey baked with a pinch of lye.
Devil was in the mouth of Genesis.
And will surely join the ends.
Devil wears the skin of your defeat.
But claims to be your friend.
Devil sashays in the eye of the hurricane.
Wallows deep in the barrel of a gun.
Yellow smile fills his rancid masks.
While shooting the rapids of your blood.
Devil lies deep within the mustard seed.
The suns, moons, and drifting clouds.
A wicked pitchfork tipped with sin.
Turning heavenly upside down.
Late mid-life street woman she is...
I grew up with her under
mango trees now softly drooping
their shoulders much like hers.. but she,
still shaped like a Boticelli urn, wrapped
in arms diaphanous in flesh and heat,
fanned banana leaves swaying to
latin notes while cooking fried bamboo
shoots, her fragrance buzzing along
summer's exotic fly: how she pinched
my cheek with her tapered fingers still
wrinkled pink in grasses floating
on her quivering body.. .
somehow, she gave me this
epiphany of riding with my own instinct,
the slow wave of breaths gently drifting
through a young rosiness of my adolescent
stems... if i knew how to swirl in the wakening
glides of inner flow , it was her circling baked hips
winding and bellying in nights and morns
of her own natural sashays...
How i long to climb her mango tree,
her waxing then waning shape still
blazing among plucked banana leaves
of female revelry or finery… I tell myself,
there is no age when her contour sways
in places where her eyes dazzle
with her near floating, tanning limbs,
of how she made me feel unashamed
being just who I am without much caution
or youthful pride; humbled so by her inherent
moon-full grace…
©
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Skat's Contest---Any Old Poem #4