Long Skittering Poems
Long Skittering Poems. Below are the most popular long Skittering by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Skittering poems by poem length and keyword.
Pursuit for elusive prey
teases yours truly
into treacherous catacombs
dangerous mentally
challenging pitfalls,
sets small hairs of back
on camp creeks edge
of night, where dark shadows
evoke outer limits
of twilight zone
prompting me constantly questioning
purposefulness, qua hair raising pursuit
embarking these modern roman times
all for naught,
nonetheless I chide self
failing to heed
emotional, mental, psychological...fallout
in sum re: springing Jack in the box reflex
to sally forth and earn kudos,
asper potential Prince Valiant.
Thus situated with blank computer screen
capacious external Lenovo for myopia
(and incessant squiggly floaters to boat),
this literary glutton for punishment
feverishly fixates to plumb depths
measuring mor'n 10,000
leagues under the see
ming lee impossible mission
to ensnare nearly extinct
fluttering, lyfting, shutterflying...
smarts to outwit unsuspecting
beak henning quest
tendering, tasting uber victory
quivering crossbow
targeting yawping
zoological discovery - channeling
primed with taut fletched arrow
on high alert for stool pigeon
cautiously optimistic kickstarting
another futile attempt dagnabbit
experiencing prestige,
oh...and by the way...,
no animal harmed
regarding made for video poem
gamely capturing quarry scotched,
nor gruesome scene
synonymous quasi abattoir
representative bird den sum
bloodless coup deeming
endeavor par excellence.
Fingers madly scramble
to poach skittering idea
fry day most ideal
omelette ya know,
aye feel yolked to defeatism,
one after another faux
promising brainstorm egging
quickly flitting inaccessible
potential flash in frying pan
just as fast dashing
into bajillion pieces
shell shocked scrivener
scribbling lame as duck
goose laying golden egg...
dropping immediately out of sight,
maybe best resigning forlorn
inchoate never albumen,
albeit quite linguistic stretch for
(all be human success story)
prospects beyond reach
ova this wretch
New York Times
bestseller author jinxed
forever dooming yours truly
grinding poverty my ill fate.
while atop the surface of planet Earth humanity
all abustle skittering
to and fro, hither and yon
engaged in self important activity yielding profits,
sans blood, sweat and tears won
full throttle industrial
manufacturers quaking unstoppably
only intermittently pausing,
where managers standing arms akimbo
asper quizzical looking hue cree ton
megaphone blaring orders to underlings
so "Boss" tweed can line pockets
for his/her daughter and/or son
Head Honcho most aggrieved,
when red ink doth run
undermining the bottom line,
thus farming out labor to distant places
(where wages amount
to pennies on the dollar)
locals such as Lake Woebegone, Qum, Timbuktu,
et cetera where pun
gnashing working conditions tantamount
to slave labor,
yet scare other options open
hence able bodied men,
women and children scramble,
despite back breaking grueling physically
exhausting grunt job accepting second to none
with nary any rest for weary
long as workweek includes a mon
day, where bloodied bare hands claw
purported Mother lode
with feigned frenzied zest
enterprise bolstered
via executive bank ministers
financing lucrative scheme
attended to by majordomo
attired in expensive vest
corporate investment project elicits
quaffing, imbibing, and chugging elixir
produced from heavily guarded recipe
qua electric kool aid acid test
where coeval business men/women rest
assured bonanza forecast upon
former green acres hiding treasured quest
marginally concerned such nettlesome
pillaging, ravaging, torturing ranks
wealth driven vanity as deleterious pest
shortsighted exploitation money making embarkation
glorified as investment nsync to feather nest
retirement funds despite leaving the environment messed
up, whereby future generations saddled with
poorly bandaging gentrifying, resuscitating
gaping wounds upon Gaia at best
shortening quality of life
for all (poetry) Earthlings aye attest.
I've been experimenting with Poetry Soup's "Shape Poem Generator." This is my first attempt
Someone
left a blue teacup on the porch rail— silver around
the rim, a little chipped on one side like it’s lived
a life. The night leans over it, not gracefully, more
like a tired guest trying to pour stars without
spilling too many. A few miss the cup entirely,
skittering across the wood like bright
crumbs. The moon watches, not
offering advice, just hanging there with
its usual half-smile. By the time the cup
is full, the sky looks lighter— as if
giving away a handful of its
brightness wasn’t such a big deal. You
could lift the cup, if you wanted, and sip
whatever the night tastes like today.
Probably something quiet. Probably
something true.
Thunder Challenging the Gods
Soft warmth coerced an easiness
spent waves lapping my thankful feet
crabs skittering sideways, castanets posed,
dance to the ebb and flow of
water’s endless journey.
Gulls circle tides shifting winds
shrieking at the change of fate,
hardened edge and hot steel blend
sparks igniting demon trait.
Valiant the battle
waged beneath the darkened sky
humid heat – dry cold
light slashing the horizon.
Thunder challenging the gods.
8/11/2016
submitted to – It Takes Four – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Broken Wings
syllable count verified by howmanysyllables.com
Crystalline
Kimo
Quatrain
Tanka
The wind is having a tantrum.
It whines and screams and
Howls around the house,
Tearing at the shingles,
Whacking the roof with branches,
Blowing porch chairs into a corner,
A loose cushion into a puddle
On the next block over.
It throws the recycle bin
Into the raspberry bushes
So cans and bottles litter the yard.
It sends trash can covers
Skittering across the road
To land against the fence.
It snaps tree limbs like pick-up sticks
And angrily summons the rain
To slash against the windows
With little icy pellets and
Drive water in under the sill
To form a puddle on the floor.
Probably tomorrow it will clear,
And we’ll all go outside
To clean up the debris.
But the mischievous, childish wind
Will have the last laugh -
Because who can punish the wind
For the mess it made!
Eerie parlor music squeaks out over the musty floral rug
No human people have been in here for a long time
The organ has lost some keys; which gives a weird sound
The ghosts in the attic cringe, remembering better days.
Once a showplace, the house is overrun by vermin now.
Skittering and scampering across the floor is commonplace.
Mice have nests in the rug, and in the long-forgotten divan.
Tiny streams of light come through the holes in the paper blinds.
Owners of this house have allowed it to die an unnatural death.
Urine smells keep the riffraff out; including a mother opossum.
It is the place where halfhearted spiders go to die.
Not haunted, yet, full of unhappy memories.
Why the organ plays herself, none of us know.
We wait in the shadows, willing a human to come forth.
Hoping they will somehow fix her up, making her fresh and new.
A man attempts to peek into the windows.
The organ ceases its dirge-like play.
We animals skitter into the darkest shadows.
A surprise for a realtor on this holiest of days.
Halloween, a day for crazed visitors.
Seems appropriate that he wears a mask.
Yours truly jogs his memory to write
about witnessing bats appearing at twilight
swooping mammals (in search of prey) quite
silently whooshing thru the dusky night
flitting to and fro, hither and yon
across the darkening sky
analogous to erratic zigzag pattern
traced courtesy skittering kite
resembling little black birds
(think chimney sweeps)
predicated espying them from height
of about five feet and ten inches
beautiful creature whom
one human they excite
dark shadows temporarily
eclipsing man in the moon
obscuring said natural satellite of Earth,
come cool weather,
whence winged wafting animals own birthright
despite suffering *****sapien
wrought them bum rap reputation.
Though initially frightful,
bats unique aesthetically beguiling
captivating anatomy does appeal
and compromising said species
quite a big deal
cuz they naturally regulate
an essential role in pest control,
pollinating plants and dispersing seeds.
Recent studies estimate bats
eat enough pests to save
more than $1 billion per year
in crop damage and pesticide costs
in the United States corn industry alone.
Habitat destruction undermining
aforementioned living things
akin to Damaging Achilles heel
anthropomorphising, (albeit personifying)
planet earth, an entity
all living things get their meal
cuz meddlesomeness to steal,
viz humans beings self appropriating
bountiful resources of Gaia
with selfish zeal
only spells demise
of self serving bipedal hominid.
"I don't see myself..." he began.
That's quite OK.
You can feeeel yourself.
We can see you.
We do see you.
(and we are trying to feel you.)
Let us in?
"...making it through the next few days..."
he continued.
That's quite OK.
There is nothing to make it through.
Time doesn't have a vessel,
you aren't a vessel
hurtling along, bumpily
racing along, perhaps lost:
pinballing are caroming along,
ploughing, skiing, skittering,
piloting, surfing, mucking,
hopping, dithering, meandering.
No!
Time washes over the ever-present
present.
A tide, or swath of sun
rolling over the shaded meadow.
Time comes to the immovable,
the unchanging. To know this,
locate your heart. Your Spirit.
To do this, seek another, serve another,
open, offer, extend, comprehend.
Touch, Listen, Grieve Unalone.
Smile.
"...without inflicting grievous bodily harm on someone,
much less the next four years." he ended.
That's quite OK.
You're quite OK.
Today, though
you're losing sight of
how you deeply are
and you are...
quite OK.
Turn, perhaps instead
to Beauty.
Seek Awe.
Revel in some Ridiculous.
The prickly-sharps you feel now,
are real, are true.
but feel, you're you.
Not them.
Let's them, too
be washed off,
be abraded,
let the Tides of Time
wash clean the
needly pokey stuff
let the Tides of Time
polish the youYou.
Let us help, too.
you ARE felt.
you ARE seen.
you are not OK.
You are OK.
-ShhDragon
(for Joe Turecek.)
Management here at
Highland Manor Apartments sent out word
that tomorrow, January twenty third,
two thousand and twenty one,
we (all residents) will receive the first (of two)
inoculations to stave off getting COVID-19,
hence mine poetic title might seem absurd.
Aforementioned stance toward death
obviously antithetical
regarding desire to stay alive
and most oppressive
when mine mental, physical
and/or spiritual yours truly
takes a (swan) dive
analogous where bajillion bees
swarm from their hive.
Linkedin with well known poem by and by
penned by Emily Dickinson, I didst decry
expressed her relief to die
"Because I could not stop for Death,"
she aptly crafted verses to comply
reverently, merrily, and gloriously accepting
cessation of existence well nigh
as does one garden variety generic goofy guy.
All natural catastrophes aside,
plus excluding thermonuclear war,
where civilization would get fried
nullifying idea viz,
let conscience be your guide,
nor no place to run and hide
left to grapple with dystopian quandary
shuttering fright housed inside
in one poof annihilating prejudice
(white privilege included) and pride
reducing to ashes trumpeting
self importance, where snide
persona grata becomes irrelevant
as does living social
or vacationing in Telluride.
Interestingly enough,
I do not entertain notions
inflicting self harm nor suicide,
but expect longevity (to ride
one after another orbitz around the sun)
maximum total (represented courtesy
value units and tens place)
at minimum exceeds double digits
in plain English aged
to perfection groom and bride
attains at least ninety nine years.
Despite skittering within hair's breadth or blink
looming over the edge no time to think,
cuz no matter being knight in shining armor
I can scrunch and squint thru visored chink,
and espy and the title
of a storied book by Tom Wolfe I think
Old Rotten Gotham sliding into behavioral sink,
amidst so much flotsam and jetsam
while singing Skidamarink
surrender unavoidable fate
cuz destiny dis rapper doth not shrink
and recognizes that whatever does not kill
will only make me stronger
(money back guarantee)
I attain a spry five score birthdays
and while away hours
playing solitary game of tiddlywink.
The time has come
to generate the retrospective
ambiguities etched in stone
perplexing to the underside
of the recriminations
sliding to the conservative right
The dance goes on
skittering and sliding
along shiny glass floors
powered by locomotive
puffing into clouds,
you gaze into space
Dreams of a more envious
pastoral speckle intuitions
of a well developed humanoid.
Beyond your wildest expectations
the illusion goes on
spitting, sputtering
in a steadfast manner
driven buy imperfections
of days gone bye.
You long for the resurrection
to circumcise possibilities
of a shaft driven turbo
turning to and fro
stifling transgressions
into a tumultuous radiance
blinding to the monstrous
aftermath of an illustrious
stiletto heal.