Long Shortest Poems
Long Shortest Poems. Below are the most popular long Shortest by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shortest poems by poem length and keyword.
........jiggle clumsily; post halter-
behind braids- busy in evacuation of the cool pool water,
like a carefree bull in the field.
Her eyes sharp and cruel, unyielding to the faulter.
Fixating on a fool,
one caught looking,
looking around in a house of slaughter.
Baiting fingers thread the hook at the back of the neck.
Electric eel, slippery Brook,
Devil's daughter-sees her slithering tool- He, electrically awestruck like
A fist magnetic, en route to the face spilling drool onto Tesla spool archway portal of open space.
Strings attached, loose and taught,
drawstring and shortest lot of toothpick drawn from maw aftermeal twisting twirl, say ahhh.
Umbrella, sundress, undressed girl, with dimple and curls, Salem's lot,
lizard kind of you're in trouble.
You are aftermath wreckage, rubble.
Thrown into a dancing fire.
Inn-keeping-with something to visualize and desire.
He becomes her familiar,
one that roils in a mire.
The catch of the day
hung out to dry, for the letting.
To bleed, into the night.
Like a stain setting.
Sniffing helplessly like a hound
in the open airs entrails- in the dew of it's misting device of shroud.
Hellbound
In a twisting abyss of chance -romance,
in advance of death in a trance.
Hade's Siren smirks at the arrow holes of Eros bow.
Marksmanship, gamesmanship, act 3 underwaymanship, with an encore and a show, and a tip.
She takes a bow in mocking disrespect-
turned about face in splay.
O the feel of the steal.
The flash of a blade.
The flash of ages, gone to seasons
of gray.
Cursing in looks of kill, of a dialect universally known but unnamed.
Of that wet and silvery feel.
Winter Solstice Heralds Cyber Age
Summer Solstice has the longest day and the shortest night
Winter Solstice has the shortest day and the longest night
Mid Winter Night's Dream is the play that Shakespeare didn't write
On this night the stars, galaxies and nebulas perchance to dream
The Greco-Roman mythical gods descend to Mount Olympus
Let the play begin with Zeus' lightning fireworks, classically recreated
The chorus of frogs comment on the party to end all parties
The sun rises on Olympus heralding the Dawn of the Cybernetic Age
Nature is the very life-giving globe,
She's galaxy, cosmos and universe;
Kith and kin, like moon and stars, in her throb;
Each creature, like true mother, she does nurse;
Hills, vales, seas and oceans in her immerse...!
She's peerless and paramount in patience,
Dig her; kick her; clip her; crop her; she's calm;
With bits of cooling clouds dwells her presence,
To rains and breeze and streams she's soothing balm;
Shortest grass she protects; and tallest palm...!
None in this world can comprise her beauty,
Beauteous beauties before her charm bend;
She never fails in her rhythmic duty,
Each brokenness of beings she does mend;
Each dooming dominion she does amend...!
12 July 2022
It's All About Three Q's Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Theme: Nature
It is three a.m.
The witching hour.
Trixie, my muse wants to play, do I want to sleep?
It does not matter.
My muse has me by the shortest nerves.
She is not letting me go either.
She loves to look up new words.
To sit with a Thesaurus in my lap.
To flip through and write down our favorite words.
To check and see if you can add an "ly" to this word and that word.
Trixie controls my mind.
They both want to play.
We work tomorrow.one of the under-bosses of my mind whispers.
We have to get up in two and a half hours.
Do we want to sleep?
It matters not.
Trixie rules me, especially at the witching hour.
I reach for the Thesaurus.
We were taught that battles are of steel,
A clamour of voices in a distant field,
The geography of the external threat ,
A name of curse , a debt to be collected.
We hone our wit like a sharpened stone
To crack the shell of a neighbour's ego,
To point out the cracks, the small
inconsistencies ,
Thinking this is how a victory is built,
One defeated conversation at a time.
But it is a shallow house that stands on smoke,
Built by the one who points the shortest finger.
For true architecture is done in quiet dark,
Not on the map but in the muscle of the heart.
The deepest and most perilous topography
is the intricate labyrinth of our own self,
The architect knows the final enemy,
He sees the vast and creeping edifice,
The great, formless thing within that whispers:
Build for me. Point the finger outwards,
Forget the cracks in your own foundation.
To face this shadow is a secret war,
Where we learn to use the chisel on ourselves,
To chip away the structures of conceit
And stand, not in victory over another,
But simply and purely with the truth.
CLOURISTA
mood
& personality
an
intuitive
complex
of influence
decor
perceived
in
a spectrum
of
primary
pigments
tone
& saturation
red orange
yellow green blue
purple sides
of shortest
hue
'til blackness
in white
fades
into
a unity
of grey
with
intriguing
sublety
&
intensity
in
the
lasered
eye
emit
random
chaotic
photons
both coherent
&
radiates
sensations
in contrasts
&
complements
vibrate
in
the spatial
mind
light/dark
instinctive
& vivid
a
visual
spice
enlivens
&evokes
awareness
of
apparel
impressions
piquing
unadulterated
clarity
&
appeal
Before there were endless,
delightful days of tender joys
and together we cherished
a very sweet happiness;
there has never been a moment
this lonely and sad...
Outside there are
twinkling lights everywhere,
carols being joyfully sung
and enthusiastically played;
hasty folks carrying bags full of gifts,
glancing at items they shouldn't miss...
Beggars huddled together at cosy streets' corners,
don't ask for money,but wish every passerby,
"Merry Christmas!"...hiding their empty eyes,
hoping,like me, for a small miracle
in a wealthy city so very kind to all;
a great city, which never forgets generosity...
This is going to be
another Christmas to wish away,
writing fancy cards to friends and dear ones,
near or far;wrapping presents
by the glamorous Christmas Tree,
but the true spirit is not in me...
All I am wishing today:
is to have you around and inside this heart
for an entire lifetime;
if everyone wishes for what their heart desires,
I,too, can start dreaming of what
tomorrow can bring me...
This is going to be
another Christmas to wish away,
to mark down in my unfinished diary:
as the saddest day
in my life's history...
not feeling how painful it can be!
O generous Christmas,listen for a minute...
I am hoping to see,in the shortest time,
her beautiful face showing the prettiest smile!
I am going to trace those distant footsteps
in the mist of the falling snowflakes;
O impatient Christmas,please wait!
Some people like to live on the edge or hang on a ledge. Not me.
I'm just Daniel, a trailblazer forging ahead, making a pathway for others.
In the process, I have no shortest of respect for God's great creation.
I set foot on a wilderness from the warm Atlantic to the cold Pacific,
and spent a lifetime trapping, fishing, hunting, and heading wagon trains.
Earthquake Susan's quiet and sleepy today, not likely to quake, shake, or tremor. Volcano Sam has started emitting smoke, but maybe he won't blow his top today. Unlike a Hurricane Helen roaring across the Caribean on a course with measurable data, Sam's under a lot of pressure and he's always filled with suspense and unpredictabilities.
In mid-winter when it's quiet with lots of snow, I can hear Sam's pleads as he hopes people will pay more attention and not take him for granted. Like a youngster filled with rebellion and rage because of 'he knows not what', that volcano just ahead named Sam cannot control the massive 'buildup of fire' going on inside of him.
But I have been listening, watching, and studying his history for years, and if I have learned anything about my proper relationship with Sam, it's that I keep my distance and pay attention, being ready at all times to flee this entire mountain area.
12262018PoSoupContest, Sleeping Volcano, Eve Roper; 2P
Light arrives late now,
a gift unwrapped slowly,
each dawn spilling gold across frost-etched windows,
like honey through crystalline latticework.
On the seventh,
the world leans closer,
whispers birthday into winter's ear,
and I imagine candles blazing against the shortest days,
small rebellions of flame that refuse the dark.
What I want most is this:
mornings thick with cinnamon steam,
streets glittering like someone shattered all the stars,
and swept them into careful piles along the curbs.
I want laughter that fogs the air between us,
conversations that spiral upward like smoke from chestnuts,
the kind of warmth you can almost hold.
Give me December as a doorway,
not an ending,
snow falling soft as possibility,
covering everything we thought we knew about cold.
Let the year turn on this hinge of hope:
that darkness is just another way of saying
we still have light to kindle,
that December keeps teaching us to gather close and glow.
You find a place where
the sun reaches across
the river with a little feeble
warmth to rest on your face.
Soon it will be the shortest day.
The shadows are cold
and stretch out like fingers,
pinching at what light
you've managed to keep
flickering within yourself.
You find something pleasant
to think about, a memory
perhaps, a fancy,
anything to put into
an old heater to keep
you warm and give out
a comforting glow.
It is then, images begin
to take form in flame
as something in you stirs
and writes itself in ash
to mark another winter solstice
on the walls of your
hibernating soul.