Long Shudders Poems
Long Shudders Poems. Below are the most popular long Shudders by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shudders poems by poem length and keyword.
Enemy UNDER COVER--
See the flying of the lover,
I think she's angry at her lover.
Once an enemy under cover;
At war with everyone on the double;
He finds it hard to see her flower;
Overshadowed by the active bell tower.
Who is that caring near the pylons?
I think she'd like to eat the lion;
She is but a beautiful female;
Admired as she sits upon this hill;
She's not alone she brings a friend;
a pet sparrow, and lights from heaven;
The sparrow likes to chase the cat,
Especially one that's in the path;
The lover shudders at the lively pebbles;
He want to leave but she wants the rebels.
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. ©2019
7/5/19
PARALLEL AUTUMN SURPRISES
A ferris wheel of no return, she stood with rosy cheeks so fair; both day and night just wide rocky bridges of light and dark. All she needed was bulb of fresh start.. Three months pass after the love explosion happened, her pillar of strength taken for independence sake. Only candles of hope she has; slowly, slowly losing its glow. Her eyes were a train flood of crystal tears. Her heart jailed from loss but needed to be freed for the sake of a budding life. She opens her door day by day beaming a sunshine in her face. Her chest-buds bloom so graceful. Her tummy grows a robust breathing sphere. Parallel autumn surprises bring her to a sandwich salad showcase. A year passed, in a fragrant natural lair with the light bowing down on them, she planted a kiss on her baby's lips.
Hush... to ... rush...
Hush... to ... rush...
Teardrops held long tumble thunder
listless from her eyes
of rest and quiet
yet, her steady voice whispers
a storm...
Head... to ... toe
Head... to ... toe
Forlorn rose maiden exhaled-
cyclic shudders: wells of regret
like a ruined garden where blossoms frown,
green leaves too, turned brown.
Sun... to... rain...
Sun... to... rain...
Her life blossomed
amidst earthquake break of failures,
true love she finally receive--
it pardoned her wrongs.
Sighs... to... groans...
Sighs... to... groans...
Bright twinkling stars
tended safe the narrow path
as silhouetted liquid moon cajoles
her long bittersweet escape.
Kiss... to ... freedom...
Kiss... to ... freedom...
Her heartstrings strum endless:
her abounding joy!
Upon hopeful eyes mirror,
the sparkles of her infants tears...
______________________________________________________________________
***Haibun Freestyle
08:34 pm, November 24, 2015
The Prince and the Fairy--
See the soaring of the prince,
I think he's angry at the vince.
He finds it hard to see the flowers,
Overshadowed by the glorious towers.
Who is that standing near the skies?
I think she'd like to eat the wise.
She is but an interesting fairy,
Admired as she sits upon a secretary.
Her enjoyable car is just a castle,
It needs no gas, it runs on hassell.
She's not alone she brings a mountain,
a pet bird, and lots of water fountain.
The bird likes to chase a pebble,
Especially one that's in the djebel.
The prince shudders at the caring lake
He want to leave but she wants the backache.
3/4/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
Rhyming Couplet Ideas by James Edward Lee Sr.
The most baby blue, two-storied house; baby blue chimney;
and milk-chocolate-brown rooftop. A whimsical triangle pine,
in front and ‘longside the home, seems to be atop a hill,
newly covered in pearl-gray white snow.
Spheres of snow, descending and ascending - spirited
prayers on Jacob’s ladder. Chimney, roof, house, and
fence posts dotted with drips of snow. Likewise, snow
shudders underneath the shutters eyelids.
Posts, of beige, baby pink, milk chocolate and tawny,
wrapped in holly berries and leaves; Coal-black iron gate,
more open than closed with crafted hearts.
Home surrounded by holly berry arch - perhaps a red cardinal
will alight and give a delightful nibble on a berry or two.
The pine and shutters, piquant. Ponders the apple of the eye,
stitched to the variance of woven threads, surely by foible,
needle and fragile fingers, not reaching for perfection,
but perfectly piques the curiosity for a poet’s meditation.
Listen to the tears,
Slow and steady, dripping
Feelings folding away,
Promises, dreams, echoes,
Faith, hope, love that sees,
Through the shadows,
Into the song who sings
Grace beyond what we hoped,
In the tears, trembling cries,
Silencing the darkness
Revealing the secret lines
Between wonders unheard of
And, admiration of the love
Who shudders in the tears,
Erasing the struggles,
While coloring the mirrors,
Small drops, little reflections
What it means to see…
Beyond the tears, into the eyes
Who sparkle, with a subtle glow,
Softening the edges of teardrop’s
Splattering illusion, feelings
Flooded by a moment’s fear,
Before the strength of grace,
Hears the tear and wipes away,
Even the slowest stains,
Whispering light through every night,
Reminding me why…
Each tear is a cry for what is right,
A cry for the beacon of light,
The guide who is love come to life,
True love is a man called Christ.
Denizen of abyssal labyrinth,
legendary ancient Wyrm seeks succour
within prodigious sepulchral cavern:
her domicile for an ageless lifetime.
Ethereal shafts cascade through ceiling's
stochastic rifts, piercing tenebrous tomb;
vicious viscous scarlet smears juxtapose
against shimmering iridescent scales.
Aeons past, Faustian pact formed with Man:
vow of harmonious co-existence
exchanged for fulgurant falchion forged in
the heart of dragonflame's conflagration.
Sacred covenant shattered this night by
myriad ironclad interlopers;
ruination's harbinger was strident
warrior wielding token of treaty.
Last vestiges of cacophonous roar
dissipate into the Stygian depths;
acrid stench of brimstone clogs the air as
remnants of vitriolic pyres linger.
Twin gargantuan fibrous wings contract
behind enormous muscular torso;
fulgurating talons sluggishly sheaved
as serpentine tail shudders and falls limp.
Priceless metals and prismatic gemstones
intersperse with charred and twisted corpses;
amongst detritus of mortal conflict,
majestic titan finally crumples.
Massive lurid yellow orbs exhibit
an unfathomable intelligence;
succumbing to the inevitable,
moribund colossus bows forlorn head.
Lifemate butchered by zealous paladin;
remains of final clutch just motes on breeze.
Burden borne by solitary relict:
regal behemoth was last of her kind...
----------------------------------------
(C) John C Michaels, 25th April 2017
Free verse, no meter, no rhymes - as per contest rules.
10 syllables on every line (howmanysyllables.com)
For the contest entitled "A Mythical Creature" sponsored by Julia Ward.
I'm playing seafaring games on the marble table,
sketching between the blue striations of the stone,
a slab that resembles an ocean to my young mind.
I draw armadas and stick figure Spaniards,
foes that fall into shark-infested waters. Cannons roar silently.
Mum is at the sink drinking. Soon dad will be home,
he will bring with him, two magazines; a ‘Woman's Own’
and the ‘T.V. Times’. He'll have a bottle of sherry for mum,
a ‘Mars Bar’ and a Superman comic for me.
Clock hands crawl nearer. It seems that the terraced house
trembles, slightly at first, but gradually the shaking
gets so I can hardly stay on the stool. I have to hold tight
to the table. Oceans tip over. High waves slosh back and forth
in my mind.
My own stick-figure shudders, teeth chattering together.
My mouth begins to mew like a seagull. Mum looks around,
yells for me to stop -
I can't it's 6.30 P.M. on any Friday, and for a while
we all will be together in this one rocky boat.
~~
>The Unseen Clock
This is not the struggle of a single, glorious fight,
Not a dragon to be slain upon a cliff at night.
This is the struggle of the gutters, slow and deep,
Where promises and paychecks are a bargain you must keep.
It’s the alarm clock’s verdict, a sentence you can’t pleacenterThe 9-to-5, the 9-to-7, the 24/7 plea.
It’s the bus that sighs and shudders, breathing metallic breath,
A chariot for the weary, on a road that smells of death
By a thousand paper cuts, by a million silent screams,
And the flickering of office lights on forgotten, tired dreams.
It’s the everyday people, with their everyday scars,
Pushing carts through supermarkets, polishing the bars,
Fixing someone else's engine, staring at a screen of code,
Carrying the unseeable, but ever-present load.
It’s the gutters of the spirit, where ambition goes to drain,
In the gentle, constant drizzle of the monotonous rain.
It’s the coffee cup that trembles in a hand that’s going numb,
The calculation of the days until the weekend will have come.
It’s the struggle in the shoulders, in the small of the back,
The fear that if you stop, you’ll never get the rhythm back.
But in the gutters, look again, a different kind of fire,
The stubborn will to build a life, is all the soul’s desire.
The courage in the lunch pail, the love packed neat inside,
The second wind you catch for kids who run to you, eyes wide.
This is the daily battle, fought with time and weary bones,
On the factory floors, the call centers, the telephones.
A war waged for the simple things, a roof, a meal, a song,
The struggle makes the everyday people mighty, proud, and strong.
How do you feel about Mondays? The ultimate best psychiatrist would ask if he cared.
Not about your mother, or your childhood, ridiculous lovers, or feelings never shared.
Monday feelings are the top dog meter, to discover if you are living life as you.
Do you leap out of bed, ready and happy, or do you clobber your alarm clock with your shoe?
If you cannot wait to put on your clothes, throw open the shudders and do the happy dance,
If Mondays makes you smile, giggle, and laugh, possibly skip, hop, twirl, whirl, or prance,
If your heart leaps up with gladness, because you consistently get to be the-real-true-blue-you.
It is possible that you are doing what makes your heart and soul brand new,
If Mondays cause you to feel more joyful and smile bigger than every other day of the week,
If Mondays bring more hope and cheer than any other day, and make you want to sail, fly, jump and leap.
If Mondays are the best days, the ones you look forward to with the most gigantically good feelings of all,
It may be that you are living your life as a human being, fulfilling other’s buckets, so tall.
Yes Monday feelings are the top dog meter, to find out if you are living your soul’s heart dream.
The lessons you begged for when you left those cheering angels, who sent you down the heaven stream.
If your Monday feelings are not like this, the good news is, it is never too late.
Run away from the job you are doing now; clear away the slate.
Monday is the most fabulous barometer, loud and true.
You are the only one who knows if you are living life as the real honest you.
Written July 30, 2018
Contest: Mondays Poetry Contest Sponsor: Tania Kitchin
This Dog
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Each morning this dog,
who has become quite attached to me,
sits silently at my feet
until, gently caressing his head,
I acknowledge his company.
This simple recognition gives my companion such joy
he shudders with sheer delight.
Among all languageless creatures
he alone has seen through man entire—
has seen beyond what is good or bad in him
to such a depth he can lay down his life
for the sake of love alone.
Now it is he who shows me the way
through this unfathomable world throbbing with life.
When I see his deep devotion,
his offer of his whole being,
I fail to comprehend...
How, through sheer instinct,
has he discovered whatever it is that he knows?
With his anxious piteous looks
he cannot communicate his understanding
and yet somehow has succeeded in conveying to me
out of the entire creation
the true loveworthiness of man.
"This Dog" appeared in the poetry collection Arogya by Rabindranath Tagore.