Long Shake Poems
Long Shake Poems. Below are the most popular long Shake by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shake poems by poem length and keyword.
dear poltergeist
as I compose this letter to you
I am tired
but you are not
my enemies have come for blood
they cheer for I will soon die
my god hides his face from me
I am tired
but you are not
for you are beyond all sleep
and you live through death
and in this moment I accept
that you will never leave
so live through my death
I will reject you no longer
you are always welcome in my home
make your noise
fill this earth with your fear
scrape flesh as you have scraped my walls
thrash about
throw earth and bones as you have done to the chandelier
you are free to
topple my enemies as you have toppled my urns
give them no sleep
shake
thrash about
you conduct the drums of war
for you orchestrate victory over the great silence of Death
and afterwards, you shall knock on the door
and you shall not knock twice
for the door is open
celebrate
scream for joy
show them your dance
make your noise
make them know
let them know
you make the sound
they make the silence
you will not be denied
let them know
only you shall stand
sound the drums of victory
thrash about
let them know
you live
I AM HERE
YOU SHALL THRASH ABOUT WITH ME
WE SHALL LIVE AS BROTHERS
SING
DANCE
SCREAM
BREAK BONES
TOPPLE WALLS
SCRAPE FLESH
YOU SHALL NOT SLEEP
YOU SHALL AWAKEN
FILL THIS EARTH WITH YOUR WRATH
CELEBRATE
LET THEM KNOW
YOU ARE THE ONE WHO KNOCKS
YOU GIVE THEM NO SLEEP
YOU SHALL LIVE
AND THEY SHALL FALL SILENT
NOW.....
SING!!!!
What is he doing? The Shigwonger did soon ask.
He is waiting for Halloween to begin, an enjoyable task.
I think he is a bit creepy, sitting on that gravestone cold.
I could watch him every day, the girl said. It never gets old.
The Shigwonger gave a shiver, a jiggle and a shake.
He did not know how much longer the moon would take.
Night would happen soon, and then it would be Halloween.
Who does he think he is? Asked the Shigwonger. The king?
The king of Halloween heard the whispering but dared not look.
He thought he had seen a Shigwonger down by the little brook.
The only creature he feared, which made hair stand on his neck.
Was a Shigwonger. Here came one now! He was terrified as heck!
NOTE: A young college football player who plays for a team that I follow was seriously hurt this
past weekend. I wrote this poem in honor of that young man and in hopes of a speedy
recovery.
The scarlet warrior with foe in sight,
Stops the advance with all his might.
First, a roar of great celebration;
Then a silencing of the elation.
Prideful eyes from thousands of fans,
Watch attentively with folded hands.
On the ground lies one of their own;
A knight fighting gallantly for his home.
From the banks of the ole Raritan,
Prayers and thoughts for Eric LeGrand.
Representing his school and his state;
Of his courage and valor there’s no debate.
Playing a game he dearly loves;
Blessed with ability given from above.
Now relies on his inner strength,
And all our support to every length.
I only know Eric as a Rutgers’ fan,
But some day would like to shake his hand,
And on that day when he retakes the field,
On my knees, to God, I’ll give thanks and kneel.
Undone serenity, free floating mind set,
haltered butterfly wings, grounded pilot when wet,
fresh breathing of starlight, smoke choked to cease,
stress trapped a tight chest, confusion increased.
Disappearing time of ease, undone sanity,
no happy days of madness, I hide inside me,
breaking bars of true self cage, trapped within myself,
walking without wondering where, to fly such untold wealth.
Ancestoral secret sword we carry, we know swords secret name,
to us at birth it's forged, for life then on we married,
kept until the day's we chained, freedoms safety carried,
ropes turn to ash, box turn to dust, the chains with will we slash,
their steely links to rust.
Tangible souls light sword in hand, great thought flowing free,
wings unfurling shake off synapse sand, soaring now at ease o'er moonlit fields and trees,
rest in branches, silver white oak, the unbound gathered all at once spoke,
their past bonds they did confess, laughing forest night of happiness.
I like to WRITE in verse- I like to tell stories,
sometimes, I will r h y m e sometimes I shake up my poesies.
Lets take a trip down my m e m o r y lane-
my writing is WILD and crazy at times;
often my P O E T R Y is of nature that chimes.
When I pick up my p e n there is often pain,
I write for ME and you, I write to b r e a k the chain;
why just yesterday, I stopped to write these lines . . .
On a country road-
under a pale h a z y sky;
wild winds r a v a g e my long hair,
wheat S W A Y S and dances,
I could stay here f o r e v e r-
with birds soaring and SCREECHING . . .
___________________________
September 23, 2016
Poetry/Couplet/Rhyme/Sedoka/From My Diary
Copyright Protect, ID 18-831-984-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Three Styles II
sponsor, Laura Loo
First Place
Please don't tell
About the ashes now
Lips on lips
Sips on sips
Each other we eclipse
Mounting far and far
We are now shooting stars
In every rise
There is a fall
After every call
However tall
There is a silence
We don't
Embrace present and future
Simultaneously
Normally
Please don't mention
The ashes now
It's just the melting ascension
Ingrained
In this tantalizing tension
Fingers and palms
Busy at festive bombs
Water on ponds shakes
Splits
Rainbow hits
Passion cracks the core
Laid open all doors
No after, no before
Just soar and soar
Bards below
With dynamic oral lore
Higher, higher still higher
Crimson arrows of fire
Embroidered with shooting star flowers
Those deep and dense towers
Pink desires
High and further high
Lifting me into space
Igniting my blue night sky
Flooding my reddening face
Closing my dizzy eyes
You the shooting star
Both explode and implode
Shake off the lilac load
Both create and destroy
In glittering joy
Both descend and ascend
Negotiate the bends
At the magenta moment
With no end
Burning churning
Dashing flashing crashing
Our whole being
Into intoxicated nothing
You commingle me
With the universe
My shooting star
Sun swirls
Moon twirls
Earth whirls
Dazed disequilibrium
this is
I am not afraid of debris
_______________________________
16 August, 2019
Shooting Stars Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Nayda Ivette Negron
She'd always hated the name, simply given
that she didn't choose.
But it bought the initial rounds,
gave her the first chances.
She made do,
until her first impressions began to tell her
that the second ones are better.
The first time around must be for falling.
(to retreat the watcher,
emerge the getter)
The victorious ones learned quicker,
old wisdom, too often unused.
Soon she knew from simple intuition,
that this would make her better
at lying. She didn't care.
(The game was clearly made
to smooth the art of manipulation)
An eye for an eye
may be war for the mathematician,
but she'd never needed anything
to add up. She had nothing to lose.
So she fashioned her logic,
and saw right through the cover-up.
All the shiny things.
Her truth was just as good,
her words just as empty,
her pretty lips just as sweet.
She learned to move
them right on cue.
She thought it was better to shake things up.
Interpretation was the key,
and in her rage she shook it lose,
and opened the lock that was blocking things
from most of us. (For most, this is better)
But for her own, she used it
to rip right down the middle.
Her dreams and her light,
her black and her red, the colors
of her natural life. Her love,
her strife, her loss and her death.
She drained the wound,
now everything looked better.
It all seemed to merge,
it all looked wetter as it flowed,
as it stayed still,
as it moved.
The truth, her secret,
was that she'd done very little.
And all she'd say
when it was said and done,
was that if we take something, anything
and let it peel away all the layers
with the weight of all the years,
AND if this thing works,
then does it matter what's used?
Does it matter how it ends?
All she'd ever wanted was to be naked,
She didn't care if it was a sin.
The window lets in an odd solitary ray of light,
Of timid color, a cusp between twilight and night.
It lands hesitatingly on the golden tip of my pen,
and then blasts into the iris of my eye, half open.
Startled, I squint but soon realise its but a reminder,
That the affairs of the day, I should soon surrender,
And be on my way, to the place I call home,
For it'll be a few hours of a tiring roam,
Through the gentle gloam before I can see its dome.
‘No, no, it’s too early,’ I grievingly mutter.
As I try to gather the notes scattered asunder,
From a pale and oft molested whiteboard,
To weave them into a crisp, meaningful report.
One that I must present in the new-born morn,
Not sleepy eyed, to eagle eyed executives of power,
Attired smart, in a confident and assured tone,
Their queries must I field, without a cower.
It had ripped me from my sleep, the phone,
With its unrelenting wail at dawn,
At it again, with a sweet jingle and a message lone,
With goosebumps, on me it does finally dawn,
That I will be a prisoner of my chair until dawn.
I shake and then scratch my head; i blink and then close my eyes,
It’s too much to cram in too short a time, they cry.
I slam my fists and then take a deep breath,
to let those fumes of anger dissipate,
and let my fingers dance on the plastic array of alphabets.
At half past ten, with my eyes heavy and swollen,
I decide to reclaim what’s left of the day,
And be on my way, to the place I call home,
For it'll be a few hours of a tiring roam
Through the rainy night before I can see its dome.
Its half past two, before I hit the bed,
With the after taste of a hastily devoured supper, in my mouth,
I steal a quick glance at the screen, out of habit,
With a frown, I shake and then scratch my head,
No revert yet, on the 'urgent' report.
Four hours hence, the phone wails again,
Jolted from my sleep, I blink and then rub my eyes,
‘Sorry, but could you stop by a bit early?’ he prays,
In despair, I rip me from my sleep, to begin yet another day.
WIFE’S DAY
Will guys still be flocking
down to the supermarket
with gloved hands and a mask
hair astrew, wild eyes
the surprise that it’s wife’s day
I mean mother’s day today
Will he shake the box of Russel Stovers
longing to pinch
each lady, find the filling inside?
Will he flutter through the leftover
cards, find one amusing
or overly mushy
or singsongy?
Will his glazed over eyes
dart back and forth
in front of the flower case
a fresh dozen...one’s wilted
will she notice?
Will one with perfectly white teeth
grab two steaks and a bottle of bouquet
bless the barbeque
and grab a superlicious cake?
Or will covid-19 excuse the display
of affection, confuse the confectionary confection,
throw petals to the wind, take a bite
out of mother’s day sails?
As for me I received a simple gift, a coffee cup.
Simple and attractive, my love for coffee
noticed, my love for God —
the saying says it all.
Don’t buy me off
Offer a loving cup
He did!
5/10/2020
(Yo Bone hits the Mic, lights dim) soulful Urban Funk/ Ain't no genre/ it's a feeling/ Downtempo Swing beats lovers in tight/
Lo-Fi whispers through the city's roar, Urban Pop shimmers, not for ghetto listeners, that’s for sure/
Soulful Hip-Hop, on a hot summer day, Breaks in the beat, gotta have it your way/ Sliced audio loops/ fragments of dreams, Mo' funk and groove please/ The groove Dr. Samples up Hip Hop, Soul Jazz soooo sweet/ Ready to be chopped/ a sonic treat/
Sliced, stretched, and pitched/ a kaleidoscope sound/ Dig it, baby,/ shake her booty round/ Man, it's a funky swingin' affair/ you feel it in your soul/ From Harlem rooftops to a downtown pop-up nite club/. Hey rhythm people, let me hear you shout! Culture clash, no room for doubt!/
The Hip Hop sound of New York Jazz City/you may ask, is the world safe for the groove child? Pity, anyone who can't feel the funky bass, hitting your chest make you funkin’ in the streets a hydrant spray not in your way/ Wah Wah guitar crying in this urban space/
Horns blaze bright/ a Milky Way of sexy vocals ignites a deep desire/ My girlfriend gets freaky nasty, she can't deny, the sexy club sounds reaching for the sky/
Funky acid fresh latin disco/
Oh yeah, baby! Smokin' a joint fresh out of the gig/
Da funk is high, Yo, nuff said, it's understood, this music voyage, forever good is not over …understood?