Long Savoir faire Poems
Long Savoir faire Poems. Below are the most popular long Savoir faire by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Savoir faire poems by poem length and keyword.
easy access and proliferation of firearms,
now begs a serious hard question
presenting daunting task,
quite aware that passionate
stalwart supporters of the NRA,
embrace weaponry likened
to garnering an Aboriginal trophy mask
(particularly in light of violent mass killings)
immediately forces people
of all stripes comprising this nation ask
quite aware of diametrically,
jarringly, and politically
doggedly entrenched fierce position
each polarized stance challenges,
especially when pitted
against die hard proponents
of the Second Amendment,
who would sooner burn to ash,
and/or adopt a siege mentality
glowering akin to red hot metal
regaling opportunity asper Liberal heads to bash,
than relinquish (lock, stock and barrel)
prized, coveted, and cherished cache
amassed collection of firearms
permissible in accordance
with (literal interpretation
of Second Amendment
of the United States Constitution)
to mean no deterrent preclude
(birth right to equip bare arms),
deprivation against amassing a stockpile,
would trigger an immediate saber flash
and instantaneously, another Civil War, would
(with gnash of clenched jaws violently
opposing manumission
to release obedient snap, crackle
pop in je nais sais quois booty), the provocation
rendering revision, sans sacred covenant
would sting whip lash
snuffing out any first and last hope to reconcile
divisive national issue
with cool collected talking heads,
cuz shoot at the hip diplomacy
be loved American style,
that indomitable fighting
esprit de corps tis fire in belly trial
though this skeptical and devout atheist,
would welcome being proved wrong
generating the better angels to render obsolete strong
arm of the law as plucked harps evoke swan song
witnessing unbelievable savoir faire
(forcing me to retract pessimism
and willingly swallow my pride), minus long
time overdue, and negotiation
celebrated with tolling from a gong.
Volition, orientation familiarization aahing
and oohing within restrictive paradigm molding
inviolable honorable gentility -
flagrantly, desirously, clearly boyz abandoning
willfully skirting, panting (heavily)
forfeiting abominably, (no Joe King) abiding
chomping at bit, damning delineated, or obscure
parameters, between one acceding
Earthlinked selfish living
psychosexual pining human bing,
and another ardently avowedly ambitious
altruistic agent provocateur (lol)
at first blush hinting Moulin Rouge adulation
under dim (witted) lighting accenting
individual randy salient
traits savoring tête-à-tête
tasty hors d'oeuvres accentuating
nuances highlighting flirtatious countenance
initially unconditionally stubbornly accepting
dire hormonal straits
as prickly fledgling acquaintanceship
quivers, negotiates, kickstarts abolishing
inchoate biochemical protracted coupling
conveniently interpreting accessing
breeching, catapulting Dickensian estuary,
non verbal communication nsync abridging
painstakingly erecting complex edifice
suavely, urbanely, wittily accessorising
tried and truevalue tricks acclaiming
debonair heroic manliness princely
qualities dutifully dominate directing
demure damsel in distress absconding
convincing, foreplaying, jimmying,
rollicking readily acclimatizing
challenges thrust up gracefully parlaying
most savvy serious similarly sophisticated
totally tubular testosterone tactics
versatile repartee accomplishing
dynamics cultivating atavistic romantic ballet
on duh poe whit tick abutting
metaphorical foot accoutering
trappings adorned since mythological
Adam and Eve accrediting
latter, sans virile unavoidable temptation
savoir faire verboten fruit, accelerating
action whereby unsuspecting, slithering,
lurking serpent teen accounting
rattle unheard by apse cent church fathers
subsequently excoriating, condemning, accusing,
nonetheless indomitable transcendence achieving
pinnacle of prostrate poignancy
inexpressible ecstasy acquiescing
nonpareil acquisition adulation activating
ascendence assaying administering
amorousness activating. aching.
Yours truly never heard, seen, no lies
particularly when alone
facing my (pushing up daisies) demise,
without pretense nor guise,
he honestly decries
smelled, tasted, nor touched, any size,
and essentially knew nothing besides
ancient fruit grown in Japan
for past 1,000 years as Earth flies
thru space, now more about loquats,
plethora of details to exercise
memory bank, though
this poetaster still tries
to appear learned, no matter
me no expert, I reckon eyes
aforementioned small yellow size
egg-shaped acidic fruit
great breakfast, lunch,
or dinner sup prize
for dessert never knew the evergreen
eastern Asian tree of rose family,
in Thorndale residents
at somber occasions,
or holidays edibly feast
as modus operandi to eulogize.
If ever opportunity
finds agriculturally cocksure
and propensity doth arise to venture
to savor succulent juice of Loquat,
savoir faire mine mean
mien to one epicure
this wordsmith, whatever
his wordsworth as whitman,
he will need to remove lower denture
minor inconvenient truth (er tooth),
where jaws comprise juncture
and/or chop delectable treats
into byte size morsels.
Perhaps before I lay
me down to sleep
forever and a day
launched into death
be not proud, aye
will strive to appease
culinary yen oy vey
searching high and
low unexpectedly axed
about diddly squat (a spot,
pimple, or sty) seated
please and lemme
introduce myself, cuz
thar thou looking
for specific monsignor okay
thy my quest, I wilt thus assay
to indulge me secrete,
and rejoice hip... hip... hooray
if thee will allow any which way,
yours truly to supplicate,
perhaps magic discovery
after I pay obeisance and pray
to Mother Nature
my hunger, she will allay.
If ambition to satiate loquat all naught
please scatter cremated ashes,
upon bed of loquat sought
but ne'er found,
cuz earnestness to secure
coveted desire fraught,
not necessarily in vain if I got
repurposed to commingle,
viz this pauper devoid of haute
cuz thrift stores find me
where clothes get bought.
Heir on Fire
by Michael R. Burch
I wanted to be Shelley’s heir,
Just fourteen years old, and consumed by desire.
Why wouldn’t my Muse play fair?
I went to work—pale, laden with care:
why wouldn’t the words do as I aspired,
when I wanted to Keats’s heir?
My verse seemed neither here nor there.
How the hell did Sappho tune her lyre?
And why wouldn’t my Muse play fair?
The journals laughed at my childish fare.
Had I bitten off more than eagles dare
when I wanted to be Byron’s heir?
My words lacked Rimbaud’s savoir faire.
My prospects were looking quite dire!
Why wouldn’t my Muse play fair?
At fifteen I committed my poems to the fire,
calling each goddess a liar.
I just wanted to be Shakespeare’s heir.
Why wouldn’t my Muse play fair?
Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch, age 25
Frail bit of elfin magic
with eyes of brightest blue,
sleep now lines your lashes,
the sandman beckons you …
please don't fight—
it's all right.
My newborn son, cease sighing,
softly, slowly close your eyes,
purse your tiny lips
and kiss the crisp, cool night
a warm goodbye.
Fierce yet gentle fragment,
the better part of me,
why don't you dream a dream
deep as eternity,
until sunrise?
Frail bit of elfin magic
with eyes of brightest blue,
sleep now lines your lashes,
the sandman beckons you …
please don't fight —
it's all right.
My Doctir’s Excus
by Michael R. Burch, age 8
I can eggsplain why Im sick.
Sick as a brick
and my stule is thick.
I came to school
and I caught it from Rick.
Now I’m sick as a brick
and my stule is thick.
I cant do my homework
becus Im sick.
I cant take tests
becus Im a mess.
Blame Rick, the prick!
—signed, my doctir Ann Onimus
PS, Thurd grade is hard enuff on kids nervs and bad graids make my simptoms worse! Liten up, doctir’s orders!
Keywords/Tags: Heir, fire, Muse, Shelley, Keats, Sappho, Byron, Rimbaud, Shakespeare, student, sick, school, homework, desire, work, words, verse, poems
I experience inappetence, yet nevertheless hunger for victuals
Mine corporeal complex edifice
unleashes convulsions of anxiety.
Lack of appetite
to savor even smallest bite
unlike Pavlov's dog,
I neither salivate nor excite
at prospect (parking) body
against table not low but fahrenheit
unfair punishment fates did indict,
whereby yours truly decreed
to suffer wraith inflicted
akin to ghastly revengeful Jacobite
asitia struck with vengeance
sucker punched pit of stomach
with furious dog forsaken might
unsavory predicament figuratively
eating away me passion
to relish comestibles day and night,
hence feeble effort to craft poem quite
lame rhyming for no reason right?
Yours truly cannot remember,
how many days, weeks, months... ago
elapsed, whereby with voraciousness I ate
(above mentioned statement veracious -
food for thought) I plainly communicate
hoop fully buzzfeeding, dishing out quandary
in fortified effort to elucidate
thee dear anonymous reader great
if newfound (albeit tenuous) intrigue
awoke courtesy mine artful ruse to initiate
reciprocity, cuz regret iz the stealer of joy
thus verbally athletic, cryptic, enigmatic,
generic, idiotic, kinetic, magnetic, opportunistic
quixotic, solipsistic (ha) troubadour
who heartily hales within
southeastern keystone-state
dares himself to reach out across cyberspace
in an cautiously optimistic effort to mitigate
and extend his metaphorical (albeit empty) plate
maintaining netiquette, an amorphous,
yeah flirtatious nebulous groovy savoir faire,
which mine body, mind, spirit triage
suddenly seems restoration of natural craving
toward sustenance doth oscillate.
What relief long starved taste buds to appease
cuz methought (courtesy obsessive compulsive
worst case scenario catastrophizing)
one garden variety guy
acquired some generic disease
A deep sigh of relief he dryly heaves!
Giggled with glee running down a cobblestone street,
full of youths joy and always upbeat,
there was football in the park with all the neighborhood kids,
and daredevil bike jumps and attempting long skids.
Asking parents for our friends to come out and play,
or knocking on doors and running away,
and we would kick tin cans all around our homes,
innocent childish pleasures and prepubescent hormones.
I remember mothers pushing prams and wailing babies,
and saw girls in the park making chains of daisies,
I heard the screeching of brakes and slamming doors,
and being bored on Sunday's during summer downpours.
Our clothes were hand me downs or from the local flea market,
we were lower working class bereft of savoir faire and etiquette,
moths would always be fluttering around a dim streetlight,
and mums and dads would tell scary stories on Halloween night.
Any old wood would make castles, tree forts and bonfires,
and in the local woods, we searched for lions and tigers,
on hot summer days we pop the bubbles on road tarmac,
if we were cheeky to the wrinkly old folk, they would say I'll tell your mum to give you a whack.
Mum would keep us from school if we were a little sick,
and granpa would play his old time jazz music,
we loved to stick our tongue out when it began to rain,
and finding a long stick was used as a walking cane.
We always ran home from school for our tea and watch the telly,
on Sundays we had roast beef and custard and jelly,
we laughed out loud at our favorite cartoons,
and we looked forward to birthday parties and popping balloons.
We screamed in the park on the roundabouts and swings,
and ran down hills pretending to be a fighter plane, using our arms as wings,
if we got a kiss from a girl, it made us feel heroic and special,
especially if they were pretty and a face full of freckles.
Ameliorate the sensation sans being caught
between the devil and the dark blue sea,
This tethered to the oblate spheroid earthling
doth strive toward savoir-faire re:
As the fickle finger of fate flicks this mortal being
hither and yon inducing a que
zee ripcord backlash inducing thine
angst riddled psyche to create a non prithee
picture thy sense of doom and gloom,
Where deer antelope ply Wildwood furies of Agamemnon playing olly
Olly oxen…. whence teamsters unleash
whip-sawed, and zigzagged nor’easter nee
and smite thy corporeal essence The Idler Wheel
Is Wiser than the Driver of arch ca me
d’s Screw and Whipping Cords Will Serve You
More than Ropes Will Ever Do – re: lee
bind the optimism of incipient internal
involuntary crushing any budding hope until…key
Purr of salvation in the guise of Paul Dice
unexpectedly intervened by a fluke of high lee
totally tubularly random events impossible
to linkedin, where plenti of helping hands – jais
ne sais quois – conjoined at just the optimal moments
to nudge – each twerk, though itsy
bitsy spidery like thread (the main impetus
squarely rests on the above named Millville – he
ving over the top tenacious effort exerted
on behalf of Good Samaritan with gumption, glee
suffusing with the milk of human kindness
doggedly sought to extricate self and spouse free
of charge, and whose markedly muscling actions
earn him more than words can spell a dee
mon strew bull epitomy of virtue relieving
the gordian knotted pang – this atheist Che
fully thanks, him (anoint said fellow Paul Dice)
as the Grand Poobah to be
more valuable than fine-spun gold –
and thus this spur of the moment tribute – Ayee!
As darkness approaches, I grow anxious for our meeting
when your first touch will make me shiver in greeting.
An invitation to a private feast, darling, for you to dine.
After centuries together, I've no fear you will not decline.
We've quipped about it being called Valentine's 'Day'
when only in the night is it safe to come out and play.
Since the first time you made love to me in your lair,
I cannot get enough of your animalistic savoir faire.
My proposal will be waiting when you rise from bed.
You'll find me in the garden. It's nearly time to be fed.
My hunger is growing for what my body requires from you.
My thirst will be quenched when moonlight shines through.
Ebony the night, and in its silence, I'm desperately needing
to feel your lips on mine and nibbles to start the bleeding.
All of me will surrender when you wake and become mine...
my lover in shadowed places; my beloved bloody valentine.
Around my shoulders you'll wrap me in your heavy cloak.
Passion will arouse between us with every tender stroke.
Moving through the fog, we will tryst inside your crypt...
my buttons unfastened and your pants slowly unzipped.
There's a sudden feeling that I get from you each night,
eagerness for what's to come when I feel your first bite.
I'll tilt my head back and desire will hit me with a rush.
Your crimson lips silence me as my blood begins to gush.
You drink just enough to keep our love a burning ember.
Being in your arms is the only place I will ever remember.
Drink from me, darling, as if the libation is a fine wine,
and then I will drink from you, my beloved bloody valentine.
Come unto her not with pious words from a pulpit’s herd of unsure-footed sheep. Rather, come unto her with deeds that her lamb needs, your bloody knee spurs speak to hers.
Come unto her not with raw, self-inflicted wounds that you claim, in bitter blame, are the fault of another. Rather, come unto her healed from your past tangled trauma.
Come unto her when your bleeding has stopped…not dripping a drop. She will only suture her own; done nurturing the needy.
Come unto her not with an ego of eggshells, nor a simmering swankpot’s cherry-flavored charm. Rather, come unto her with the simple pride of a stable hand whose steed is always a ribbon winner.
Come unto her not as a sinner in fancy finery, bearing bestowals from far shores roamed. Rather, come unto her with threads of a thrasher boy who has traveled from home to crop, and chanced to stop to pick her a pretty pansy.
Come unto her not like a dreary dullard, nor burdened by the pseudoscience of stately scholars. Rather, come unto her with savoir faire; humble hat-tipping to those of both high flair and famine.
Come unto her not with sunny, invasive color of a dandelion’s deception; a weed that poses as a posy. Rather, come unto her with word spoken truths as ferocious as a lion’s tooth.
Come unto her not like a weak-kneed weed that sways and spreads seeds like dried nettle. Rather, come unto her with admired mettle; the fortitude of an oak whose rings can no longer be counted.
Come unto her stronger than the man that you think you could be. She will soon see that you are much more than your best possibility.
What do you say that we take a break
From all of our old routines,
What would it look like, how would it feel,
Do we even know what that means?
Of course, it wouldn’t mean I love you less
Or my old love is any less real.
Like say that I throw in a line in a poem
That never repeats ending rhyme
And let it just hang there, is it an error,
A flaw in the fabric of time?
What do you think folks?
What if rhyme pattern never repeats
Would that really bother our pleasure?
Or might it enhance it and give us more time
As we surf the waves of our leisure.
Perhaps we could bottle it, sell it to those
Who used to snort Coke for their breakfast
Or just add some oil, a new kind of sunscreen
That also kills bugs in a forest!
Although some thoughts are flawed,
Their logic doubtful, even carry an odor,
They still give us reason for laughter,
A savoir faire and still have some class
To carry them into hereafter.
For God must love trash
(But maybe bright colors beguile Him)
For it explains so much
About what has evolved on our planet,
Like Republicans, Democrats,
Strange (*****) Tea party Folk,
And lest we forget “Damn It Janet:”
Dinosaurs supremely courting disaster!
Though all of them are dead now,
New life forms record their footprints
In comical molds made of plaster,
But the mystery remains to this day
Of why some of these strange creatures
Have flat feet and some feet have ridges.
Brian Johnston
August 19, 2015
Poet's Note:
(1) A famous line from the cult classic movie "The Rocky Horror Show." Not to be missed!