Long Skirting Poems
Long Skirting Poems. Below are the most popular long Skirting by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Skirting poems by poem length and keyword.
Be careful of the thing
that doesn't exist.
Do attend to the loss
of the lightest fundamental
(you just couldn't lose)
because it never really was -
the consummate vacuum.
How is it not possible
to lose one's mind?
"To avoid tripping
when getting off the train
at a high level platform:
mind the gap."
The voice of authority
renders the request -
but instead it's an order:
Don't fall
for the vacancy
its emptiness
(but not emptiness?)
don't get hurt.
"How does your mind work?"
This question, a one
that never could
be substantiated.
It's not a question
one should ask.
So why did I say that?
____________
(Fill in the gap.)
And, in the process of caring
so much for so little -
of tending to what amounted
to nothing in the end -
tripping, stumbling, and losing...
Get a grip!
Stay put and remain upright,
maintain your balance;
equanimity in a yoga pose
needs stillness of breath,
and keeping still
sometimes feels like the
most painful stance of all.
Falls tend to occur when
least expected? Not so.
They happen when stopping,
or embarking,
or leaving,
or all of the above.
So watch out,
stay focused, and do
whatever it takes
not to get hurt.
Why should I mind
this exquisite aching?
Now the foundational fabric
rips apart at the seams
while avoiding tripping
at the high level platform.
A favorite slip
(skirting the issue, a peculiar talent)
might not be worth repairing or
perhaps it's damage, irreparable.
It's not visible,
so why ___?
(Such a shame.)
We don't know
what we don't know.
Ripped apart, undetected -- yet still.
This gap has
(sew its seams!)
a mind of its own.
Please just say no
the way you already know
there is no quid pro quo
the process is painfully slow
your mind's altered from seeds you did sow
a withdrawl fit or two you'll throw
your brain's chasis will flitter to and fro
desiring the pleasure-pain once more to flow
you'll quake then tremor for another blow
but over time more resistance you'll show
the residual effect will linger as you grow
new habits you'll need to plant then hoe
when depression tugs and your mind craves another row
remember your barge already scraped that bridge so low
and shipwrecked your life on the shoals of woe
with steadying hands your anchor widely strow
skirting every pirating dealer; now your foe
He defied tragedy as he rowed
His sturdy boat towards the middle
Of the cursed lake where once
His wife fell into the icy water
And drowned. He could not swim.
Time passed and he learned to bathe.
For he was not ready to stop rowing.
Every time he was on vacation leave,
He would challenge the cursed lake.
Let’s see if he’ll drown now that she’s dead.
He arrived in the middle of the large lake.
Suddenly he could not move his boat.
Instead, a current dragged him towards
The dreaded place where Sophie had died
And the boat came to a halt. A wood thrush
Flew down and rested on the farthest bow.
What a symphonic song it gently warbled!
A breeze rose and the bird flew away.
He felt strength in my arms and began to row
Skirting the shore with its many sandy beaches.
Until he saw a woman waving at him
Now he admitted she did not look like Sophie,
But had the same red curly hair and lithe figure.
She wanted a lift to her boat house, so he complied.
No word was spoken and off she went.
He rowed to his boat house, changed and got in his car.
The redhead was there thumbing a lift. Hamlet came to his mind:
"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
Was his destiny running after him?
East Devon Beacon
by Michael R. Burch
Evening darkens upon the moors,
Forgiveness?a hairless thing
skirting the headlamps, fugitive.
Why have we come,
traversing the long miles
and extremities of solitude,
worriedly crisscrossing the wrong maps
with directions
obtained from passing strangers?
Why do we sit,
frantically retracing
love’s long-forgotten signal points
with cramping, ink-stained fingers?
Why the preemptive frowns,
the litigious silences,
when only yesterday we watched
as, out of an autumn sky this vast,
over an orchard or an onion field,
wild Vs of distressed geese
sped across the moon’s face,
the sound of their panicked wings
like our alarmed hearts
pounding in unison?
Keywords/Tags: East, Devon, Beacon, England, Moors, Forgiveness, Maps, Miles, Lost, Directions, Compass Points, Moon, Geese, Lights, Headlights, Headlamps, Fugitive
What's the point of suicide
when I feel already dead inside?
Too long past due
pulling breath's last plug
last gasp
last primal scream
for and against capital colonizing campaigns
but acted out in dizzying silent mime,
rumored to be a scary thing
this last big surrendering event
before unconsciousness
of changing time
marching inevitably forward
and backward,
out
and back in
until no more back
or in.
But what frightens this fading identity most,
No one will know a difference,
notice I'm different,
least of all
decaying from within
me.
Already unconscious
subconscious,
merely skirting conscious life
precedes flirting with absence of awareness,
burning bridges
pulling life plugs
turning out my lights
already too dark to hear
fear memories
too alarming to feel
images
too disarming to care for power
for light
Too defining
future past experience
enlightening
too long
refining
past due
healing
organic capital investments
ourselves
too long overdue.
Stamps, perforated passport squares,
Took me oft where I wished to be
On my own low budget world tour
Warm, safely tucked in dad’s armchair.
I loved to dream in dad’s warm chair
A young wallflower who would dare
Brave adventures safe in my head
Free from boldness, courage, and dread.
Flipping album pages happily,
On safari in Kenyan lands
Lions and leaping gazelles roamed free
Yet touched by fingers of my hands.
On expeditions I went too
Daring danger in my armchair
Reaching the South Pole without dogs
Unlike the frozen Robert Scott.
Special fun were armchair cruises
On Captain Cook’s long lime-fed trips
Skirting blue coralline lagoons
And braving windy polar seas.
Major countries - I saw them all
From Trafalgar to Taj Mahal.
I loved the sight of Singapore
And beaches of Aruba’s shore.
Ladies danced in Italy;
Belly dancers in Araby;
Hip-swinging girls in Hawaii
And clog dancers in Germany.
Over lands and seas I passed through
Many creatures passed in review:
Albatross, porpoise, and blue whales
Butterflies, lemurs, and conch snails.
As around the world I now roam
I never dreamed my acquired taste
Could leave dad’s albums drowned by dust,
Forsaken for my wanderlust.
6/17/2020
Just nodded yes, when my ego had said no
Lost all consuming forces, simply let go
Met you halfway, instead of skirting the square
Perhaps sat down, when you brought over a chair
Found quantum entanglement, not just sheeple
Its herding force, far away from the steeple
Magnetism in both poles, pulling from all sides
Positive and negative, filling vast voids
Overcome the burden, in self surrender
Let empathy conjoin, and love engender
Gone outside my comfort zone, where truth persists
Quelled year old hate, encouraged alternate bliss
Lived together, stop digging at empty space
Found peace together, ending human disgrace
Believed together, without losing mere face
Came together, with all consuming embrace
But then again, (I wish I had) lots of things
Not just a pair of arms, but fully fledged wings
I’d fly ‘cross Nepal, meet and kill the Buddha
His words incanting, Shoulda Coulda Woulda!
The wind cooled Witchy’s pumpkin-orange,
yummy orange,
handsome face.
She rushed so worried south-east through a lace
forest so so silent
(in her pink boar shoes) watching so silent.
Fog came. Wind got worse.
Her conical crown and wide brim hat remained.
It was made of a rabbit named Morse
There Witchy wasn’t at all entertained!
Suddenly the wussy fog flung itself away
in all directions.
Plants sneezed. They felt harebrained and grey.
Leaves cheered. No affections!
Why? The wind had died in all directions.
She guided herself aside the truly up (so glad)
about river rolling mad,
and hopped up onto a perma-tanned sad
log (she worried she’d get
her titanium dioxide-stained muumuu wet).
On a royal silver tray called Rummy
sat like a medical dummy
three stripped bare
vacuum cleaners didn’t stare.
'BRRRM, BRRRM, BRRRM,' one said kindly,
the one with the less parts.
‘Hello, hello, hello,’ Witchy said kindly.
Time slothed by (she wasn’t even half way to Hiss).To
her, Hiss
was a true place of bliss.
Soon she was so bored.
Not even all the great thoughts about being
at the party could cure her from being bored.
So for fun she jumped with zoom
through a picture frame four times her height,
and smacked onto the floorboard of a bedroom.
All she could say was, ‘UMMMM. HUHHHHH?’
A blueberry woman, who was old,
and was planting many totally fast-growing gold
coloured veronica plant seeds in old
rotting skirting boards (totally old!)
ignored Witchy’s questions: ‘Where am I?
How can I
go through a picture frame and end up in here? How will I get back out of here
to the party?’
The woman just dropped (Oh Marty!)
and napped about a guy named Marty.
Veronicas grew without water.
Some pretties wallowed with their new daughter.
No sign of future slaughter.
Witchy was very angry, very scared, and blue.
‘What if I NEVER get out,’ she complained.
What else could she do?
The floorboards went CRACK! CRACK
CRACK!
This Dissembling Man...
Trod thru three
score orbitz with air
tight (hermetically sealed)
lid on his emotions bare
reft of evincing
concern and/or care
ring forever guarded against
incursions upon fragile as chinaware
psyche foregoing giving
healthy breathing room
never to dare
risk challenging discomfort zones
skirting, hemming, and hawing
deliberately averting, shying,
sidestepping away against
welcoming awkward adolescent
romantic experience, thus
never playfully trying to ensnare
and/or allowing, enabling,
and providing gamesome
opportunities providing willingness
tubby triangulated ascending
ark hay yick teenagehood,
when deux dozen, foursquare,
nor eighteen candlebox birthdays,
nonetheless hungrily glare
ring with salivating
envy peers that hare
tuff hoar did gather
their rose buds...despite,
or perhaps because raging
testosterone overtook coy
demure lassie tude surrendering,
whence young womanly
primal urges let machismo insnare
whereat discovering prickly
"beau" vine love on par
with being a millionaire
despite tiffs that,
tested one's mettle quickly
learning the vital lesson
to turn/beat cutting
edge sword into plowshare
setting the figurative stage,
when feathering one's
nest to prepare
for legal covenant,
(a death do me part
binding resolution) endeavoring
to sustain a lifelong
commitment however difficult and rare.
Life leaves scratches
her fear of limitations
in an unwieldy gait
uncertain in her body
self wisdom that wounds
knowing missed chances
what to value, what to preserve?
her edifice cracked by misfortune can be restored
and every fragment isn't a puzzle
at age sixty, a bootleg feel for indulgence rises
flowered dress to fuel her traction
as shoebox isolation fades
new force of will
to seize joy like a ring toss hoop
to drop the faithful security of mask
a jump off fences
she follows the river's path to a seniors' dance,
skirting forlorn alleyways,
to a hall decorated welcome, like the wave of circus flags
as melodies rising, loosen barricaded thoughts
to the beauty of aged embracing
in a slow dance that doesn't feel one sided
movement that sways in touch
a dash of spice
movement that blooms
the space around her
Poem revised July 27, 2022