Long Shawled Poems
Long Shawled Poems. Below are the most popular long Shawled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shawled poems by poem length and keyword.
Moss Cowed Covenant I Keep Putin Off...
For preservation, salvation,
and veneration, though with hold
ding temptation two mike
pence sieve lee clear,
to immoral majority mold
toot hoods, (those bajillion
Americans unanimously polled)
did want me to broadcast, communicate,
and declare, sans mock cut up fold
drawl migrant accent,
(no matter I'm getting old),
nonetheless Ivana trumpet from Taj Mahal
straight to Mar-A-Lago) all told,
plus thank commensurate Republicans
(past or present), who extolled,
an invisible grandiose fire walled
barricade (donning, enclosing,
and fortifying) against Carl mauled
din lookalike hackers,
despite one sporting "FAKE"
hook nosed, hunchbacked
donned with torn (Turin) shawled,
shrouded, and disguised vagrant, indigent,
double chinned agent – bald
(except for being bewigged),
viz flowing locks of "FAKE" gold
in toe with Amazon heavily funded
unbridled trailing retinue
chanting appellation Matthew
Scott Harris alias Oswald),
no matter said faux
renegade twittering lobbyists
flock (like lemmings) within his fold,
and will happily, laughably parody
any vigilantes spot on cold,
what with his bugs
bunny eyed (What's up Doc)
intent reader rabbit stare,
that doth playfully scold
any Bare Ladies scantily
linkedin, NOT nsync
with netiquette politesse mold
dinned communication, (asper
my pork chopped message
higglety pigglety divulged)
obeying tacit gold
din rule to hoodwink public, nonetheless
lemme exemplify, how
Democrats plan to hold
world web hostage
by secret Ransomware sold,
thru dark web bitcoin blockchain trolled
to collude with "crooked Hillary"
under Ponzi scheme auspices doled
courtesy, sans spongebobsquarepants
omnipotent NON GMO
gluten CRISPR rolled
oat sized INTEL nanobots,
no bigger than mold
spores heavily scrutinizing,
policing, monitoring and
fortifying electronic Internet scaffold.
That Ancient Darkside of All Hallows’ Eve Past
As in the fabled medieval times of centuries in the deep past,
It’s time once again to celebrate the hidden ugly horror that
Seeks to infest and devour all human souls in this new century.
Be warned that false-faced beggars shall knock at each door,
And unbeknownst to the common people that they shall meet
On this All Hallows’ Eve—all shall not be well and normal!
With their bloodstained masks these real Ghosts, Ghouls and
Goblins shall shout out “Trick or Treat” as a fiend’s true cover
For something that’s sordid, unclean, ungodly, and macabre.
Looking for a clever sweet surprise for the unsuspecting souls,
These devilish minions begin gathering and dancing wildly to
“The Dark Spirit of the Pale Hallowed Moon” on this night!
Shawled with the darkness of souls and their living nightmares,
Ghastly silver phantoms now seek to scare the living-death out
Of every innocent person they encounter on this darkest eve.
Houses are marked by an eerie orange-pumpkin-light escaping
Into the dancing-dark shadows that hold all night-life precious,
As these phantoms move freely in the frigid breath of this night!
Creating a palpable angst they begin shaking the tree branches as
Horrid and terrifying spirits of true evil and witchcraft escape into
The cold-dark ether caught up in the vile magic of Lucifer himself.
Fortunately, they are tricked by the sound of an old tune playing a
Heavenly paean for knowing “What's Right From What’s Wrong,”
And warning them that the wrath of Almighty God awaits them!
In the end, the absolute power and holy majesty of Almighty God
Served as the saving grace to this foul situation which threatened
The innocent souls who were ensnared by these unholy phantoms.
And so, if thou doth question the probity of what hath been related to
You in this sacred narrative, then thou shall risk forfeit of your soul,
As these evil phantoms lurketh ever in the shadows and never forget!
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid, A Collaborated Poem
Copyright © All Rights Reserved – October 19, 2018
(Tercet)
Mama, did you know the precious amethyst shadow hours
I spent beside you, cuddled cosy-close, nestled in blankets of light,
shawled in your red-gold hair? I kissed each tear you cried;
each one a starlight pearl forged from the depths
of your fragile soul. I rocked seashell-shut to each lullaby note
and silently watched as you rocked my cold, empty cradle.
Sometimes you sensed me coiled at your breast -
a small, balled knot of grief. You felt my tiny fingers plucking at you
as tingling shivers. And sometimes I bounced sunshine-free
on your knee, a giggling orb of light.
Little one, once again I felt you here,
entombed in the womb of this eternal everywhere room,
your spirit sifting through my fingers like hourglass sand.
Pain has blanked my mind wraith-white, but I felt
your lips nip the warm rosebuds of my nipples
as I pressed a lullaby to the delicate shell of your ear
and brief blessed seconds spun out like years.
My sentient heart will always hold you, my grip will never slip
as my earthbound hands, human-warm, reach through time
and heather-shadowed ether to love and care for you.
Mosque cowed covenant I keep Putin off...
and withheld broadcasting
the following communication
tucked away these many years,
when president number forty five
donned, jump/kick started, and tweeted
thru his musky, albeit flabby mantle,
a rallying cry forewarning onset of Mag(m)a
bubbling, gurgling, lobbing, and spewing lava
against backdrop of his trumpeting vitriolic
political preservation, salvation,
and veneration, though with hold
ding temptation tomb mike -
(make) pence sieve lee clear,
the immoral majority mold
toot hoods, (those bajillion
Americans unanimously polled)
did want me to broadcast, communicate,
and declare, sans incendiary fold
drawl (folderol) feigning migrant accent,
(no matter I'm getting older than Methuselah),
nonetheless Ivana trumpet from Taj Mahal
straight to Mar-A-Lago) all told,
plus thank Republicans
(past or present), who extolled,
an invisible grandiose fire walled
barricade (donning, enclosing,
and fortifying) against Carl mauled
din lookalike hackers,
despite one sporting "FAKE"
hook nosed, hunchbacked
adorned, donned with (Turin) shawled,
shrouded, and disguised vagrant, indigent,
double chinned agent - bald
(except for being bewigged),
viz flowing locks of "FAKE" gold
in toe with Amazon heavily funded
unbridled trailing retinue
chanting appellation Matthew
Scott Harris alias Oswald),
no matter said faux
renegade twittering lobbyists
to flock (like lemmings) within his fold,
and will laughably petrify
any vigilantes dead cold,
what with his bugs
bunny eyed (What's up Doc)
intent reader rabbit stare,
that doth playfully scold
any Bare Ladies scantily
linkedin, NOT nsync
with netiquette politesse mold
gobbledygook communication, (asper
my pork chopped message
higglety pigglety divulged)
obeying tacit gold
din rule to hoodwink public, nonetheless
lemme exemplify, how I plan to hold
world web electronically hostage
by secret Ransomware sold,
thru dark wide whirled web
cryptocurrency bitcoin blockchain trolled
under auspices, sans
omnipotent NON GMO
gluten free CRISPR rolled
oat sized INTEL nanobots,
no bigger than mold
spores heavily monitoring
meant to fortify electronic threads
woven into a virtual tapestry
likened to Dickensian chain e-mail
intent to foment pandemonium
at expense to captcha totalitarianism,
whereby democracy imperiled.
softly touching (I feel a stir...)
upon keys
a piano speaks
in cello
fluttering chords
tugs strings
deep within
(a deep tingling sensation within...)
sadness flows (My eyes tracing...)
dancing with emotion
feelings flowing
a river
joining hearts
flowing an ocean
in salted emotions
(a focused soul with open arms...)
our world (I embrace with joy...)
so much suffering
powerless to help
on bated breath
shawled within crying
fluttering so gently
a floating breeze
each string cries
(as my heart flutters above oceans...)
as the piano speaks (I hear a soft whisper...)
softly telling
the story
a wounded sparrow
cries a songbird
fluttering broken wing
(as my fingers reach out to caress...)
Softly touching deep cords vibrate within,
The song within my heart with golden notes begin.
As sadness flows trickling In Cello magic,
Soul's storm It Is flowing In Violin tragic.
Like a river babbling wild free,
The heart has no bounds where Love has to be.
Sweet dancing upon ripples of air,
A waltz In the clouds with dream's lady so fair.
Flowing Into an open ocean's waves,
Upon your golden heart your dream Love engraves.
Singing echoes haunting our world,
Dream's memories before us unfurled.
Rising salted emotions suffering powerless,
Sadness grows and the heart loses Its prowess.
Bated breaths shawled deep held Inside tears,
Cold Ice cube memories brittle Icing fears.
Floating breeze fluttering gently,
Touching desires In Love's flame diligently.
Touching each string cries out,
What tunes shall these strings shout.
A songbirds lament,
In grief It Is sent.
A piano speaks so softly,
As Its keys play music loftily.
Telling one story In tune,
That shall ever be told before moon.
How sweet your beautiful words sung deeply,
How they did touch my tender heart completely.
A Collaboration by Liam Mcdaid & Michael Clarke.
Part 3: AT HEAVEN’S GATES
To set Her free from destiny was far from my design,
but, though unplanned, I touched Her hand to give Her peace of mind.
She told me then, and then again, that providence Divine
had cast a curse, and even worse: despised by all mankind,
She walked alone, unseen, unknown, Her soul incarnadine.
To break this spell of living hell, of loneliness enshrined,
and end Her days within the haze, a sole redeeming deed
would give reprieve and maybe leave our destinies entwined -
Her final quest be put to rest if only I agreed,
but no surcease nor perfect peace nor hope if I declined.
The shadows, shawled in silence, crawled, the night Her fate was sealed
as vespers tolled across the wold beneath the muted fog.
The heavens cracked and sorrow slacked as chimes of children pealed
while in the hills (where midnight chills) there wailed a daemon dog -
with no delay I lead the way, the path to Potter’s Field.
Her weathered face was lined with Grace, Her eyes shone emerald green.
With me as guide She stepped inside to grieve and mourn Her loss,
and thereupon, though pale and wan, the night took on a sheen.
With weary eyes as Her disguise, She placed a wooden cross
upon a mound (unhallowed ground) and whispered ‘Sibylline...’.
A falling star flared in the far and burst, a bolide flame -
beneath the light, the Final Rite no longer hid undone.
And kneeling there in silent prayer, we seemed to share the shame
but could atone if left alone, forevermore as one.
Before we both could breathe an oath, I asked Her once Her name.
Through lips, pale red, She simply said ‘Some called me Abigail’,
and neath a birch where white doves perch, I took Her for my bride,
beheld Her smile a little while, but all to no avail...
Her cloak and cape, and shrivelled shape lie empty at my side...
for now She waits at Heaven’s Gates, not far beyond the Pale.
As in the fabled medieval times of centuries in the deep past,
It’s time once again to celebrate the hidden ugly horror that
Seeks to infest and devour all human souls in this new century.
Be warned that false-faced beggars shall knock at each door,
And unbeknownst to the common people that they shall meet
On this All Hallows’ Eve—all shall not be well and normal!
With their bloodstained masks these real Ghosts, Ghouls and
Goblins shall shout out “Trick or Treat” as a fiend’s true cover
For something that’s sordid, unclean, ungodly, and macabre.
Looking for a clever sweet surprise for the unsuspecting souls,
These devilish minions begin gathering and dancing wildly to
“The Dark Spirit of the Pale Hallowed Moon” on this night!
Shawled with the darkness of souls and their living nightmares,
Ghastly silver phantoms now seek to scare the living-death out
Of every innocent person they encounter on this darkest eve.
Houses are marked by an eerie orange-pumpkin-light escaping
Into the dancing-dark shadows that hold all night-life precious,
As these phantoms move freely in the frigid breath of this night!
Creating a palpable angst they begin shaking the tree branches as
Horrid and terrifying spirits of true evil and witchcraft escape into
The cold-dark ether caught up in the vile magic of Lucifer himself.
Fortunately, they are tricked by the sound of an old tune playing a
Heavenly paean for knowing “What's Right From What’s Wrong,”
And warning them that the wrath of Almighty God awaits them!
In the end, the absolute power and holy majesty of Almighty God
Served as the saving grace to this foul situation which threatened
The innocent souls who were ensnared by these unholy phantoms.
And so, if thou doth question the probity of what hath been related to
You in this sacred narrative, then thou shall risk forfeit of your soul,
As these evil phantoms lurketh ever in the shadows and never forget!
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid, A Collaborated Poem
Copyright © All Rights Reserved – October 19, 2018
(Tercet)
The river courses, its currents speed
as it carves the land; pushes against the mud,
the long grasses bending over the dark deep
light blue-brown.
Her grandmother creaks the rungs
of her rocking chair,
her shawled shape is molded earth colors
like the river and its banks,
both passing time quietly, alone.
The rain changes the sky
outside her window; it becomes Dove-grey.
The clouds are wrapped together,
sunlight cushioned, they are bandages
with the light like blood seeping
until the empyrian is completely covered,
and clots- Venus, Mars and Jupitor, perhaps-
behind the outer layer of the celestial sphere
in a sea of wedding-white.
The full moon is veiled
within the cottony gauziness,
it shines in the violent heavens.
Spine-tingling,
down the chute,
gothic gutter trickle,
black and blue fusion,
stark signature tune,
wee faint hour phantasm,
mischievous melange,
surreptitious in its,
dimmed twinkle curfew,
for post meridian,
exodus egress,
minstrel me chorister,
shadow cape figurine,
humming nose sniffle,
spooky pale moon jingle,
on dank drizzled docklands,
looping street lamp,
whose eerie surveillance,
of claustrophobic canopy,
an intriguing ice pole static,
footsteps ricochet,
in bone chill metre,
following a stoic self,
upon intricate,
tangled torrent of,
rudderless echos,
sonic psyche figment,
in numinous nook,
star splatter sequence,
chasing motley mirror,
bilocation bold essence,
mutating fickle fragment,
stygian bard I,
smeared pocket-sized,
snapshots of,
my persimmon pursuits,
on grubby granite graffiti wall,
underneath ostracised,
a wringing wet shawled,
vagrant whose rusty tin,
I load with benign bolster coin,
golden hearts synergize,
in evanescent ebony,
furtive flying bat
squeak and scop,
placid pools