Long Shriveled Poems
Long Shriveled Poems. Below are the most popular long Shriveled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shriveled poems by poem length and keyword.
Ominous Foreboding Augurs...
Innocuously incubated kindled
imperceptible dire strait
restlessness like tinder
with pinterest Deutsche agitate
barreling like a freight
train running so much
faster than an eight
track uber twittering,
rumbling, quickening and inculcate
dissension among dissolute
rabble rousers, who
do obediently initiate
rank and file will not abate,
boot re:reed out (bus) soon,
thence coalesces into ablegate
insidious encroachments
no longer patiently await...
ideal conditions to hatch
schism within parched
soil perfect for hate
mongers of democracy
breeds anarchy to facilitate
chaos, which quickly spreads
like kudzu, or wildfire Arson
Welles immediately forcing leader
of free world to abnegate,
(heard to trumpet "FORGET
THE WALL" mate),
(despite being caught in his
pink frilly underwear), to late
for Mar a Lago escape, where
formerly great wealth did
pool lightly coagulate
elite class heard faint stir of echoes,
then earsplitting clangorous louder
than an ICBM din (er bell)
rent asunder forcing
freedom of "FAKE
MEDIA" to abdicate
all the while pointing beringed
index finger to accentuate
his Taj Mahal ululation
interspersed veni, vedi,
veci stopping for spate
to coif (died in the will)
hirsute and aerate
said wind swept hairdo
pausing every now and again to snap
selfie portraits, plus
instagram loved ones to alleviate
that pompous, outsize,
and humongous ego fast deflate
ting into a shriveled up POTUS
float hissing boilerplate
hot airy premature ejaculations,
he would not capitulate
(sooner be rocketed
to Pyongyang and cell bate
good times with Kim
Jong-un to emasculate!
I now absolve myself
that aforementioned jest,
a tongue in cheek diatribe belies
my means to predict any forecast,
yet if any resemblance
of chance events
materializes between
my pablum childishness at best
there could arise fruitful market
for kitsch sheen collectors items
high as Mount Everest!
Growing my hair down below my knees...
stimulated courtesy follicles,
where Coconut, Olive, Grapeseed,
Jojoba, Amla and Vitamin E oils
allowed, enabled,
and provided head start
germinating peach fuzz into brown strands
after Flaxseeds, Pumpkin seeds and Fenugreek
being sprinkled on my scalp
yielded a bumper crop of hirsute weeds
occasionally tripping me up
analogous to hallucinogen
causing a public health hazard
warranting, necessitating, and goading me
to give shout out for stylist
to tender mine lovely brunette locks,
which might be repurposed into a wig
for patients undergoing chemotherapy,
or afflicted with alopecia,
(the partial or complete absence
of hair from areas of the body
where it normally grows; baldness).
As a knobby kneed, puny,
scrawny, wimpy kid whose,
(back in the nineteen sixties),
his parents decreed their singular
(painfully shy dorky, geeky and nerdy)
old school boy who sported a buzz cut,
which found him reacting and responding
(in short order rebelling)
passive aggressively by
refusing to bathe
until mommy dearest demanded
(well nigh upon
the bewitching hour of midnight)
to witness her son soaked
and essentially marinated
(until my skin shriveled like a prune)
in the (clawfoot) tub
lest he stink to high heavens,
and given a serious dressing down
by the timely principal Mister Clock.
Far back as I can remember,
the significance of hair
assumed an outsize role,
whether enviously eying other lads
their thick straight hank,
or nowadays bristling
with self reproach
cursed with thinning
greasy limp strands
(interspersed with gray)
experiencing shame being seen in public,
a disgrace to our family name of Wagstaff
and an embarrassment
to the human race
ofttimes associating
myself with Samson,
whereat emotional, physical,
and spiritual strength
rooted (pun intended)
within each hair shaft
(the visible part of the hair
that sticks out of the skin),
and rooted in the skin and extends
down to the deeper layers of the skin
surrounded by the hair follicle
(a sheath of skin
and connective tissue),
which is also connected
to a sebaceous gland.
Shriveled toes moving forth on muddled brown soil,
sending chills down the morose spine of brutalities.
Three hundred and fifty four days numbed in tyranny,
she crossed them in white on demeaned prison walls.
On twelfth of May, paced 20 yards in 20 guarded strides,
she now gleams her tattered uniform in jubilant pride.
Time to fly back to her nest like a migratory bird,
her chained hands released from blood red scuffles.
Chapped lips spill her bravery in rubies of free verse,
her solitude of raging strength somersaults as music,
her feet cleanse carpets of buried ashes in emerald blue.
Behold! A warrior glides over asleep pastures of onyx,
golden hues awaken rustling leaves in pearly drizzles,
lilac sunrise embraces her freedom veiled in sepia light,
rising spirits back in homeland, roars the prisoner of war.
Information used highlighted in bold:
Poem Name: Solitude
Written on: May 12, 2020
Views: 354 as on June 19, 2020
Type: Free Verse
Written on June 19, 2020
Views For Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Funom Makama
~Winner: 4th Place
A simple leaf unfurled himself one spring
His fledgling face beholding sun-kissed sky
Where each cloud traced a new imagining
And bore aloft his dreams to one day fly
In time he left behind such childish ways
And focused on his purpose to the tree
To harvest and consume his brightest days
And so impress the jade-clad bourgeoisie
With time he found his verdant color fade
As shriveled lines subverted youthful cast
And even dreams of flight now felt betrayed
By seeing how that day would be his last
I think about this leaf and reminisce
For what am I but such a leaf as this
8/1/2026
Sixties Secret Agent
In black and orange inks
some wag had stenciled,
"no need for tests -
for use on dinks".
Gung-ho. Can-do.
Make war, not love.
You hit puberty, and find
you're the biggest kid on the block.
Time to throw some weight around.
Buy yourself a Glock.
Damn this forest.
They don't play fair.
We'll catch 'em in the open
with our phosphorescent flares.
We invented cocaine drinks,
electric chairs, chop suey -
let's have us a little think:
claymores, napalm, hueys.
If only we could find a way
to murder all these trees:
if all this life were scalded, flayed,
and shriveled till it dropped away,
poisoned, sickly, palsied, grey,
then Charlie, skulking somewhere
out there
would show up in our lenses' stare
and we could bring our guns
to bear.
So. Get it done.
Chrysanthemums offer copper and gold,
to augment Autumn's gilded treasure chest;
flaunting florets that are strikingly bold.
Roses are vulnerable to the cold,
and when their shriveled blossoms look distressed,
Chrysanthemums offer copper and gold.
In late Autumn, they're a sight to behold,
aromatic blooms that outlive the rest,
flaunting florets that are strikingly bold.
When wildflowers wither and turn to mold
amidst barren trees that appear undressed,
Chrysanthemums offer copper and gold.
As Autumn approaches Winter's threshold,
Chrysanthemums are at their very best,
flaunting florets that are strikingly bold.
As frigid nights and Winter snows take hold,
there is one flower that leaves me impressed.
Chrysanthemums offer copper and gold,
flaunting florets that are strikingly bold.
The last-call lights flickered once more
A warning sign she chose to ignore
Her soul, just like her pocketbook
Was as empty as inside the glass she looked
The bartender said, “Lass, you now must leave”
As she wiped her tears on a tattered sleeve
With no place left in the world to go
She ventured out in the freshly fallen snow
The beauty that she once wore with pride
Had long ago shriveled up and died inside
Her vanity had taken its high priced toll
Leaving behind a lost and lonely soul
Girls who were much less popular than she
Now bask in a love life of prosperity
While she is a smile in many a lad’s past
The less frivolous girls have had the last laugh
Now her love is something she can’t give away
None of the men she devoured elected to stay
That pint she just drained with her last sip
Is the only thing left willing to touch her lips
Her lights flickered their own last call
As she ached for some more alcohol
Hearthside: an Imagined Sequel to "When You Are Old"
by Michael R. Burch
“When you are old and grey and full of sleep...” ? W. B. Yeats
For all that we professed of love, we knew
this night would come, that we would bend alone
to tend wan fires’ dimming bars?the moan
of wind cruel as the Trumpet, gelid dew
an eerie presence on encrusted logs
we hoard like jewels, embrittled so ourselves.
The books that line these close, familiar shelves
loom down like dreary chaperones. Wild dogs,
too old for mates, cringe furtive in the park,
as, toothless now, I frame this parchment kiss.
I do not know the words for easy bliss
and so my shriveled fingers clutch this stark,
long-unenamored pen and will it: Move.
I loved you more than words, so let words prove.
This sonnet is written from the perspective of the great Irish poet William Butler Yeats in his loose translation or interpretation of the Pierre de Ronsard sonnet “When You Are Old.” The aging Yeats thinks of his Muse and the love of his life, the fiery Irish revolutionary Maude Gonne. As he seeks to warm himself by a fire conjured from ice-encrusted logs, he imagines her doing the same. Although Yeats had insisted that he wasn’t happy without Gonne, she said otherwise: “Oh yes, you are, because you make beautiful poetry out of what you call your unhappiness and are happy in that. Marriage would be such a dull affair. Poets should never marry. The world should thank me for not marrying you!” Keywords/Tags: Yeats, Gonne, sonnet, Irish, Ireland, age, aging, mature, love, separation, parting, divorce, winter, night, fire, bars, books, shelves, chaperones, dogs, mates, parchment, kiss, bliss, fingers, pen, will, move, words, prove
Arousing opulence of ancient ballrooms
She creates her own make-believe world
Waltzing coyly in terpsichorean rhythms
Upon glittering stage where they sell love
Each time she caresses arms of a stranger,
Pretending to levitate in sultan’s harem
In glitzy appeal of polygamous mansions
Where she reiterates to sighs of ambivalence--
This used to be once the venue of glamour.
But her allegory of ardor quickly fades
As her disillusioned ego yearns for solace
When invisible bruises begin to ache
Having surrendered esteem to ruthless nights
Trading dead-feelings in lavish marbled halls
Where stench of alcohol, perfumes, and cigars
Traps perturbed anguish inside prison walls
From which, she knows, there’s no escape.
Initiation period for her was the hardest
When beauty and youth at height of apex
Squandered her magical Cinderella zeal
Abandoning fabled-castle her childhood built
Crying into that gutless, gruesome night
For lacking the force of fortitude to leave
Before she condemned her soul into abyss.
She’s worthless to the heartless crowd now—
A shriveled rose desolate in parched garden,
A discarded bottle of expensive scotch;
So, voicing contempt, like a caged bird she sings
About the wedding night she always fancied
Reciting lyrics, crooning spent feelings,
Whispering the names she picked for her kids.
Look closely at her, she has no chains now,
She can abscond easily whenever she wants
But, alas, no longer has she the desire to fly;
For her mutilated spirits relentlessly bleed
Ever since her own hands clipped her wings.
August 29, 2020
Placed 1st: Woman in chains poetry contest
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Inspired by Woman in Chains song by Tears for Fears
The moonlit sea hides within the scent of waves
which waft and lilt on shores of dreams
Evanescent thoughts of effervescent moments
linger oncemore through nights
where heart was young ,emotions deep and lips unsealed.
Alone I sit close to a rock which bears no colour
as softened ripples caress my memory
and silver stars outline the black of empty skies
The cold damp mist covers my eyelid
as the wind blows within my soul
the same old soul which knows each sound
each every rustle of shriveled leaves
brown whitering leaves which leap and creep
in prolonged darkness.
Somewhere so far my breath still mingles
in open fields beneath a sun
which warms the skin of evergreen
amongst white orchids which fill the air
somewhere so far somewhere out there.
Somewhere so far the worn out chords
of a guitar still play their tunes
and broken footprints still mark the path
of my bare shoulders within your arms
as broken voices whisper no words
as early snowfall freezes the years.
.