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.
Beware friends
bearing strange fruits
the shadow cloaked in whispers
promises of delights
bloody sights
A Crescent glows nigh
ravens black
Hue of night
only craves Dantes flames
ravens black
in the razor light
Blind, I scream
with delight spires
gleam on the horizons
Murders of crows
gather on seams of midnight
A cry of thrills,
reach deep into the night
Full of fright
Beware friends
bearing stange fruit
Black, crimson, jade, frays, tangled and bleeds
Rot, clots and skittering things
Crows cry,
crazy laughs in oblique
and obsolete oblong
halls if ruined hues,
gleam bright on
horizons razor edge
Bloody black suns
Eclipse halos of fire
Blind, I scream into fractured rooms
Towering houses silhouetted, dire.
All my fears my dreams
my infinities bleed
Beware of friends in dark halls
Absent and absolute
Ravens dream
I scream
As shadows seep
Things burn
Into the deep black hued oblivion
I whisper a prayer to nothing..
And stare.
4/21/21
JET
I absconded with reader rabbit (Peter), to celebrate Saint Patrick's Day
Ah Sheik Hog - Ho!
One "FAKE" Wingman
think Monty Python's
Flying Circus skittering
on thin ice - Skidamarink
a dink, a dink...
hither and yon, to and fro
Via O'hare To Dublin y'know
Cuz, The Leprechaun within
me, no spring chicken bro,
nevertheless oz offer friendship in toto
good day to thee with cheerful adieu.
Though nowhere to be found despite search team
loudly trumpeting thru depleting fresh air
supply terrestrially polluted atmosphere,
asper the unknown whereabouts, regarding
said royally titled quasi legally inherited bare
naked lady loving bastard oven heated affair
son last seen donning Herringbone Wool headwear
supplemented by Irish merrino wool sweater
and custom made Hemp (smoking hot) pants
informing observer with seedy, faux debonair,
and pseudo (reed "FAKE") suave cultured couture
clothing automatically camouflaging to disappear
without a trace, thee alluded to rival to the throne
(Irish to keep ye in the dark) like chocolate eclair
secret recipe (one takes to the grave), unless held
at gunpoint by bonafide Machiavellian consigliere
ruthless if necessary forcing captive to declare
high fidelity, indemnity, loyalty, et cetera to a
life of lawlessness adopting anonymous incognito
guise accepting bewig noggin with long knotty hair
tattoo skin with "FAKE" scars to accentuate fear
factor accepting (blood bonded) brotherhood till
death do you part loot, pillage, vandalize, et cetera
in a blitzkrieg effort (albeit violently) to repair
evenly distribute disparity between 1% and 99%
grassroots uprising (peopled with migrants) spear
writ ting their exploitation at the (Taj Mahal) bear
sized paws swiping at susceptibility, vulnerability,
inequality, et cetera series of unfortunate events
decreed, instilled, ordained clamped like ironware
shackling one generation after another, an outright
outdated, on par as anachronism, feudalism, stoicism
where stark difference between rich and poor unfair,
especially, cus the latter labor sweat of their brow,
which backbreaking toil essentially endows wealthy
at expense of grunt work signalling ominous nightmare.
We sleep on each other,
lick on each other,
run around and nip on each other,
we are wholly 'each other,'
personalities
hid
in the ruff and fur around our necks
and the snaggle of our teeth.
We wag in unison
heart-timers synchronized.
When out in the big smell
we seek every scent
that sprout's
from the muddy baths and the great
wafting sky-waves that call to our blood
to come join,
come lope and snuffle.
The trails of other's drives us crazy,
we roll in bundles of ecstasy,
squat, squirt and snap at the thick odiferous airs
then inhale the news from every rump
we greet.
Under our skittering paws
leaf and grass, spatter and scatter
as we charge into each other.
What are these leaves of grass?
Each one could be a page
in poem of sniff and scratch.
The wind threads through our snouts
and we shake our heads
until our brains rattle in wonder.
Old Walt Whitman forgets to mention us,
but deep within his far pacing musings
we are there like an itch.
When he pauses his pen to nap and dream
our breathy huff huffiness
tickles his toes.
That snowman is nutty,, a real square! The mean elves said, tittering.
The rest of the fey got away from them, running and skittering.
Come with us! A pleasant Christmas faerie said to the Snowman.
He said, “I would if I could but can’t, for I am positioned on this land.”
We could roll you down the hill and remake you, a helpful elf said.
Snowman chuckled but said “I do not roll, for I am square, Little Ed.”
Oh, said Ed, feeling embarrassed, trying to figure something else out.
They don’t bother me at all, the snowman said with a shout.
I was made square by a child who is very pleased with me.
He wanted to take me in and put me by his Christmas Tree.
He is thrilled I am made of squares, and frankly I am too.
If we were all the same, wouldn’t the world be kind of blue?
An essence heard a heartfelt plea
meek, unconfident, not familiar
"Should I bother anymore? Please guide me."
His words hardly mist....
a response slices the scene
with the speed of a guillotine.
skittering over the asymmetrical
similarities of a snowy expanse
a messenger appears
cracks of icy dunes
produce precarious pawfalls
plaguing the vixen.
venturing further precisely
she plods over precipices
of ragged protrusions
desperate to achieve the comfort
of a smooth surface.
"Where you go is perilous!
I worry for your safety!
It can't be done, you won't survive!"
...cried the timid.
Her movement stops on cue
slowly facing the pupil
she teaches in silent syllables
floating on unknown frequencies.
" DAMN YOU NAYSAYER!
I have no time for the likes of you.
Say I won't survive? Come out alive?
I've fought through worse pain
finding sustenance to gain
morsels leaving one inspired
not feeling as if they're mired.
Search within your pores
find where you have hidden yours."
Dumbfounded - the novice stirs restlessly
"Perplexed, I see, you are mon cherie.
Hear what you seek before I flee.
When life's coldness surrounding you
leaves you writhingly wretched
don't feel so desolate and utterly dejected.
Deep inside lies the truth
albeit quite protected.
Bugger those scorning your worth
their eyes glisten shades green.
Stagnantly feeding ego's girth
pompous words - own to preen.
YOU are the Alpha here Jack
there is no need to whine
Condemn the disapproving pack
let your own light shine
Too much weight put into their drivel
making your inner child snivel
Buck up, put them in their place
other's ire force them to chase.
This be your nefarious impasse
faux approval merely to fit in
Always people of that class
saying anything to win
Lastly,
though I've said enough....
It's as you learned when a tyke
those times you fell off your bike
quit being a ruse
get back to your muse
keep working at what you like!"
Sunset facing her gaze
signals the quest resumed
Her protege audibly sobs
a simple seven syllable soliloquy stating:
"Thank you
I love and miss you!"
with a whispered (mom)
Tender tendrils of whispy wind
touch a cheek with a kiss
and a lasting voiceless return.....
"Forever, son"
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!
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.
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.
He/him (ratty, scrawny,
and tetchy ugly villain)
scurried into dark recesses of hermitage
averse to cavort, frolic, inure himself
into the duplicitous schemes
capitalized, glorified, popularized
courtesy vanity of *****sapiens
lest imp of the pervert
already sacrificed as renegade
hashtagged heretic condemned
without merciful intervention
after being duped into capture
subsequently broadcast viz TikTok,
when turncoat quasi nincompoop
kook Harmet Harms
kickstarted, ejaculated, and blurted
out hideaway of sought after perpetrator
to burn (no small potatoes) at stake,
but fortunately falsely accused
unbound against immolation
and reprieve jumpstarted, issued, and hissed
eleventh hour granted clemency
commuted death penalty
criminal sentenced solitary isolation
rat infested dungeon
housing convicted prisoner
ultimate crime and punishment
(decreed as non establishmentarian)
doled out after protracted proceedings
courtesy amazing graceful puffed dragon
unwittingly delivered merciful respite.
After being shackled hand and foot
then dragged into vermin infested cell
cowled ascetic (an exceptional escape artist)
busied himself disentangling restraints
and suppressed giddiness
when successfully free.
Off behind fake facade
walled in imponderable bedrock
dark passageways tunneled off
into unsuspecting chamber of secrets,
whereby amateur (he) brewed
exotic gaseous/ liquified potions
tumbled, gurgled, bubbled...
lethal skull and crossbones
labeled mixtures especially intriguing
adept alchemist expert
possessed sixth sense
intuitively discerning deadly
scorpion stinging poisons
abracadabra wizardry
magic spell cast
rendered, kindled, eased
tormentors severity relaxed
spellbound granted salvation.
Hence busily engrossed at makeshift laboratory,
our mutual (of Omaha) friend
did potchke with vials; every now and again
referencing ancient looking tome
vaporous emissions served as smoke screen.
Hands of father time
painstakingly elapsed amidst
flickr ring torchlight
grotesquely accentuating
exaggerating ferociously
pantomiming silhouettes courtesy
hungry skittering varmints
hurriedly scurrying to and fro.
Gazing out my window
Slate-gray day, wind whipping
Leaves uprooted, skittering along
October surely gone wrong
Saw rain slant across the lawn
Threatening skies all around
A day to stay inside the house
I trembled like a frightened mouse...
A knock at the door froze me but good
Perhaps a ghost from nearby woods
I opened my door a tiny crack -- anyone there?
'Twas an anxiety attack that had me scared
Opened the door a little bit more
A pleasant surprise for me in store
The wind was warm, the weather pleasing
Sweet October's return ~ my panic now easing
~ Musings on an October night
where the weather's changing ~