Long Sheathed Poems
Long Sheathed Poems. Below are the most popular long Sheathed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sheathed poems by poem length and keyword.
Your smile shines~
as the early effulgence enshrouds
upon wisteria water
echoing ephemeral embraces
on tenebrous turquoise trees
that bear your name.
Your laughters linger~
upon the emerald leaves
that radiate a lilac shade
as the sun goes up
like your eyes that sparkle a hue
transforming into Caribbean blue
on the first glance
of a sweet romance.
Your song soars~
entwined in ethereal ensemble
above each passing cloud
where etched elegies echo
a lost and found love.
That magical morning scene
of enchanted garden near Giverny
unveils a dream I keep
in wild willows lilac leaves
where my story dwells in silence .
The shy sky behind them~
wishes to kiss the gleaming water
where silent sanctuaries are sheathed
upon the indigo shadow,
accentuated by fine chiaroscuro
embracing purple petals
that whisper through silent water
where lofty love story dwells~
perpetuated by each sunrise.
Recollections were a little hazy,
His leaving party last night,
Undying friendships sworn,
That last friendly little fight.
Goodbye, Scotland the Brave,
Home of the warrior Clan,
The Batter Fried Mars Bar,
The Rangers footie fan,
Cool pints of Heavy
Plates of ‘taties and neaps,
Lining for the stomach
After boozy long sleeps.
He wore a Black Watch Kilt
Hung modestly to his knees
With a hem of fishing weights
To stop it lifting in the breeze.
A sheathed Skean Dhu projected
From the top of one long sock
As he stood there, a solitary figure,
On the banks of his local loch.
A supply of Haggis sandwiches
Were wrapped in a large pack
Carefully stored for his rations
In the Bergen on his back.
Goodbye porridge mines of Pentland,
Casual beating for the Haggis hunt,
Time to think of his own future,
Best foot forward, Eyes to the Front.
One last wistful look around him
Then, carefully adjusting his load
He took that first step from Scotland
Along that long High Road,
To the Land of the Sassenach.
He was a Scot through and through
But in such troubled times as these
A man’s got to do what he has to do.
Chill confines a diary of absence
as September keyholes a papered wall.
A smirk tears a face--escapee silence
--styles wall with nothingness, dead ends AWOL.
A bottle of spent wealth parlays about ...
tangled weaves justify the performance.
Pebble leather worships darkly, blacks-out
a ghosted pundit building blocks, mischance.
Cold fashions the well, tilt pour sands reserves.
Alas, pitched secrets facades of falsehood,
its prisoner scopes round a war of words,
sheathed arrogance knells myPhone, knock on wood.
Crinkled gone days lay ... flattery goes on.
Scrawled lines drown, looming voice curts; "My Dear John".
*Image of Child Sad Suffering provided by Pixabay.
Not Of This Earth
Poetic Form: Narrative
Asymmetric mistrals warp speckled vaporous pallidness toward rhythmless voids. Obviates an evacuating azure as a midday star pivots to a twilight qualm. Numinous absent souls of supine prying pupils, yon ethers sinister obscurities, caught in stained oblique ocular whites. Drunken sanguineous veins to gluttony as impish tinkers sporadic doubts riveting telltale images. Metallic aerials ousted the clouds to unperceived iniquity.
Exhausting times since the alien armada infested Earth in a furrow of carnage. Abominable hordes disembarked, eviscerated whole metropolises. Hideous beings, an abysmal sight, smothered the remote vestiges of our civilized world. Cities ere their decimation had numbers reduced in fleeing desperation. The annihilation of life on Earth engrossed thoughts upon the scraps of humanity left. Ravenous creatures generating utter rampage to and abroad, slighting none to decay. Be they mortals or breathing existences of our lesser kingdom, perished in the bloodletting. Some kept as breeders for the succession of consuming time.
A cohort strung of plain folks, thrust as one in a nameless realm, sought ephemeral refuge in a subterranean hollow expanse. Bestill for the scarcity of fragile credence as the intrepid one, espy a grotesque glistening of crimson blood, secreting from the sheathed hoariness of fangs. Sentient rouses heedful footfalls per monstrosity exposed jawbone, that swapped shrill for snorts, neath laden eyes that had shrewdly scowling luminous orbs. Creepy anvils pierced hairline, afeared incus, sensitively measures close octaves, spurs the labyrinth's nerves. Alas, its vulgar pelt of bulky fur stretch hither and fro, bars clamors reach.
Cavernous chambered partitions mimic as trepidation ebbs nevertheless. Unceasing progress to that bemused destiny, as anonymous atrocities, plague each within their shells, e'er crucifying the last semblance of their true selves. Ardent impulses seeping via their lithe ruby channels, crossing neath the bits of their betraying skins, as they escape the nebulous sepulchral. Beasts at 6 o'clock, tho' what unknown lurks yon pits facade, save a future yet to be titled.
2021 May 12
My father's Roger Maris mitt
Was kept in perfect health.
It showed no wrinkles no blemishes
Nor flakes of skin.
Its limber fingers were sheathed in leather,
Its pocket was well stretched
As it yawned with each breath.
Bathed in linseed oil,
It was a dark jersey cow
As it slept like an oyster
With a pearl cradled in its palm.
My father's attention was precious as gold;
His time was well spent with little to spare.
He was my coach, he was my father
Playing catch on our field of honor.
Years passed by with a blink of an eye;
His fraying attention became unraveled
By his job, by money, his family's health
And his aging body.
His golden mitt seldom saw light;
Snaring a baseball was wishing
Upon a starless night.
With patience and compassion
My father guided my life,
By catching a baseball my self-confidence grew.
But, his life was snatched by death
His game forever ended.
He was part of my foundation
Which will never fade from sight
As long as I remember, a baseball
Caught on an autumn night.
Standing in my backyard, I see my father's mitt
Cradling me;
Like a baseball I recline
In his loving arms forever.
Like a playful cat,the sea purrs in,
Its susurrus soothing us with its softness.
Dappled white,it dances around our feet,
Clutching at our ankles with its sheathed claws.
Some roll over to have their bellies tickled,
Others shrill with delight at its gentle touch,
Younger ones squeal in alarm
As it probes
Their popliteal spaces
To push them down.
Yet on another day,it raced in roaring.
People stood like mice
Admiring its majestic white mien.
Too late did they turn to flee.
It pounced and swallowed its prey,
Dragging them into its feral maw.
Now in shock we stare at the stark images
And find it hard to believe.
(a story in trochaic tetrameter)
Even a Prince must bend his knee
to the lass who has won his heart.
“Please be my bride, stay by my side
forever - tell me we shall wed.”
“My love and affections are yours,
they have never been better fed
- you are surely pleasures master,
with your rough hands and softer lips.”
“Then let us petition the clerk,
we can be wed in a fortnight!”
Sometimes love takes dismaying turns.
There are standards, some are double.
The future princess must be chaste.
The clerk asked, “Are you a virgin?”
“Do you seek to entrap us, sir?”
The prince asked, his hand to dagger.
“We cannot hoodwink the law, sir.
It must be asked and answered.”
And so the clerk asked it again,
“Would you swear on your honor miss?”
“If I had a virgins honor,”
the possible, future princess said.
The high clerk sighed and sheathed his pen.
“Most honest and least virtuous
lady, the marriage cannot be.”
“So, then the law is strictly tied
to something lost in love’s first blush?”
She asked, with no show of dismay.
“My actions follow the law, miss.”
If the clerk sounded bored, he was.
The prince, however, was outraged.
and on the verge of a salvo.
The clerk feared a soliloquy.
To stall the coming storm, the clerk
said, “I believe you KNOW the King?”
“He’s my father!” The prince revealed,
to no one’s shock or great surprise.
“The King, the law - the law, the King?”
The clerk's finger turned like a wheel.
Somewhere deep in princes mind
a dim bulb lit. “To the Castle!”
The clerk smiled wryly at the lass,
who shrugged back. Love would find a way.
By a clear mountain stream an enchantress sat skywriting,
her bracelets seemed to jangle a melody as her arms moved.
The wind stopped blowing lest the clouds corrupt her work.
The knight, dressed in black, wore a mask and intended damage.
His knife was clenched between his teeth, as he moved noiselessly closer
- breathing shallowly for stealth.
The birds suddenly stopped chirping. “Go home boy,” the enchantress whispered.
The knight blinked and froze but the enchantress did not look around.
She pulled a half-penny from a pouch, kissed it, and lobbed it into the stream.
The knight went from certain to vague - he sheathed his knife and wiped his lips.
“Come, drink.” the minx motioned to the stream.
As he sipped water from his cupped hands the beautiful woman
said, “Your love will bear you two sons if you’re home before dark.”
The knight wiped his hands on his trousers - nodded - and ran for his horse.
The enchantress smiled to herself as she finished her unearthly poem.
Hidden under crop circle
resembling an ampersand
hides sheathed silo - obscured,
said symbol adorned every armband
of national socialist, yet weapons
of mass destruction) bland
lee, blatantly ignored global pact
prepared from this once (bajillion
years ago) geologic bottomland
repurposed for a bomb bin able
(made in good ole US of A) brand
to release payload
upon given command
i.e. at moments notice,
the notorious brigand
usurped entire communications broadband
to stow and let loose by,
thee once upon a time pokey cowhand,
now chief of state tyrant,
sans military industrial complex edifice
where deadly warheads demand
did and trumpeted by "FAKE EVIL"
apprentice madly (ad libbing)
gesticulating, & expostulating to DISBAND
at once - to no effect
falling on deaf ears
as Doomsday Clock rhythmically
minutely gourmandises
cannibalizing entire webbed
world, whose former slender
(now stubby) baby grand
piano playing butter fingers
primed to press miniature
Taj Mahal shaped hand,...
(now a pause for infowars
commercial identification about Homeland
security threatened by migrant husband
and wife, especially terror unleashed
from baby, whose hood
loom doth not expand
much taller than kickstand),
Regular noteworthy poetic program resumes:
...but biological chattering multiplicand
the fiercest most critical operand
linkedin with scheme
asper deadly retaliatory reprimand
against leader of free world,
a hot headed note tory us
donning wig by handmaiden Shetland
knitwear, which Total Mortal Kombat
every man, woman and will soon understand!
KA-BOOM! Into a bajillion
(to the power of Googleplex)
goes civilization and discontents,
and since World War II
accursed with self destructive hex
hmm...mebbe terrestrial for
another species similar to T-Rex.
A tongue sheathed wields weight
heavier than any swung sword.
I learned to tuck my knives behind my teeth,
to swallow silence—make it my armor,
until my own words tasted bitter,
cold as iron.
There was a time I wanted to tell you
how I could break—
but truth isn't a gift, it's a weapon
in the wrong hands.
I remember that night at the kitchen table,
your eyes soft, waiting for my answer.
I wanted to show you the cracks you'd made,
but I pressed my lips tighter
until they hurt—I couldn't risk the violence
of my words.
Pressed lips became a gate,
my voice, the fortress—
a stone wall, no friendly opening.