Long Slat Poems
Long Slat Poems. Below are the most popular long Slat by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Slat poems by poem length and keyword.
Acquainted ! Attracted ! I adore you, Hello Miss !
Beautiful bud of love bloomed in bliss.
Cheered ! Charmed ! Caring craving on your charisma.
Dedicated ! Drank dreamy desires drowning in dilemma.
Ecstatic emerald emotion in exciting endeavour.
Fantastic feelings flew in fervent fervour.
Grace and glamour in amour glowed on slat glance.
Humble holy happy heart hiding hesitance.
Intensive impulsive illusive instinct instantaneous,
Just making me jubilant jocund jolly joyous.
Knot of allure knitted in neat plait
Loyal liberal lavender love though not in plaint.
Mellifluous marvellous mysterious.
Noble nice neither shaky nor nervous.
Overwhelmed oblate on oblivious obsession
Pure pristine pride piercing pearly passion.
Quivering and quavering heart to quench thirst !
Romance in rapture rolls, ready to outburst.
Serene sublime simple sentiment, no sanctimony.
Thrilling, tempting togetherness ! Typical testimony.
Urge to unravel , unleash even being unconscious.
Vigorous in voice ! Veneration for my Valentine! Venus !
Whirling heart with weary eyes watched you to walk away.
‘X ‘ : The unknown ‘love’ left unsolved in 'Xtreme dismay .
Yearnings of youth yelled yielding yucky heart break.
Zone of love in zest and zing was closed on abrupt ACHE.
I walked up the sidewalk to the front door
That had a welcome mat.
The doorbell I rang was kind of flat.
I saw Frankenstein peeking through a
Window slat.
The man who answered the door wore a
Tall black hat.
Good evening. Oh drat!
The skeletons are doing the head pat,
Our hunchback is a brat
Who needs medical attention stat,
Casper the friendly ghost some how
Stepped on the cat
Which put it in trama now we are using
Wolfman to catch the rat,
The gypsy can't believe where she is at,
All the zombies fell in to the witch's vat,
This brought the witch that was flying to
A Stop with a splat.
As for old Dracula he keeps saying what?
The mummy took a swat
At the bat
Who was chasing the gnat
Out of the biggest flat
I have ever seen. The spider's webs were
Made out of some good looking tat
As on it they sat
Looking at me as if I could make them fat.
Nice chat.
I said suddenly remembering my folks
Didn't know where I was at.
Imagine that.
I knew it was time to scat.
Like an eye looking out through black and blue night.
Scintillating squint in Dead of Winter; looking through
Slat of the Midwinter blind. The Canadian waning of light.
I could have been listening to a sermon, sitting on a pew.
Caught the “deer in headlights,” before the eye closed.
It was like peeping through a hole of the universe; gold.
Tree branches spread out, as if fancy’s figment disclosed.
I’m open to chiaroscuro and the Creator’s diurnal hold.
Could have been an angel’s flashlight, looking for a fleck.
Perhaps where Heaven touches earth, that is so cold.
The wind twines with hymns and the flurries hit the deck.
A groom carries a splendiferous bride across the threshold.
God’s natural art emboldens impressions with constant sear.
The intensity both bold and minute embrace our existence.
Climatically they manifest, grab hold, redirect, and adhere.
Never ending dispersion of colors and seasonal coexistence.
Rain beats against the window,
as a little boy leans his forehead
and little hands against the cool glass,
staring, longing to go out.
His eyes light with excitement;
grinning from ear to ear,
for down the hall by the door
he sees his sister’s red and white polka-dot umbrella.
Glimpsing around to make sure no one is looking,
with quick steps he goes to the door.
He rises on his toes,
reaching and wrapping his little fingers
around the doorknob.
Slowly opening the door ajar,
he seizes his sister’s umbrella.
Pushing the button he pops it open
and slips away unnoticed.
The pitter-patter of rain strikes the umbrella
he holds high above his head,
as he runs across the yard
to the old wooden bench in the pouring rain.
Jumping he grabs a wooden slat
and struggles to climb on the wet slippery bench,
springing high his little feet finally makes it up.
Bouncing up and down,
screeching with enthusiasm
watching the colorful rainbow,
soaking wet,
he holds on to the back of the bench.
9/3/2017
Winding path through the tawny wood
Hanging branches form a shadowy hood
Dangling vines each spindled fold lace
Slippery, svelte moss cloaks the base
The vented light peeps through fibrous trellis
Addled mind with beauty to encase
Swerving shadows creep down the swaying lattice
Each truncated step to efface
Fallen leaves weave a sprawling mat
Soft soles o'er silky fibers prat
Trodding o'er tender mushrooms, rendered scat
Listless feet trample each groove; probe each slat
Restless roots the rugged edges trace
The undergrowth crowds the shrinking space
Meandering route into sleepy hollow careens
Whittled bushes, saw grass the stillness gleans
Through the swaddled cradle padded soles calmly pace
The rhythmic lullaby of whistling wind heart doth embrace
Through stunted hollow into bracketed thicket
Spiny branches throw up a cumbersome picket
Each spiked shrub colludes to form a sticky wicket
Bristling, twining band is serenaded by singing cricket
Struggling through the gristly garden
My stinging heels bleed for reprieve, pardon
Just ahead, a carpeted, emerald meadow streams
My sodden feet dance into the velvety seams
How empty can an inbox possibly be?
Not unlike a door..... practically off at hinges
The paint is definitely peeling
More than one shutter has fallen astray.
One piece at a time
Have you ever seen that?
How old houses....
the shutters give way one slat at a time
It's almost like watching a clock tick
After 1 year the slat on the front shutter drops by 1/4
of an inch
By year two there are three slats on the front shutter and four on the back falling falling slowly
Drop an inch...drop an inch
small little pieces of wood losing their ballast
By year five the paint's chipping on all of the shutters
you can tell they were all red once or some dreadful pungent green
Then great shards of paint seem to start clinging off of the clapboards too
Can see it almost like a song
plunky pock rock or a slow lanquid sad ballad
a song of one lost a sea or to storm or just decay
the first chip of paint is the first note
and then all of a sudden the whole house seems to want to join in and it's chip chip chip , chuck,chuck pluck pluck plunky plunkity and it's a symphony of lost paint chips like raindrops sound in an empty metal pail
Neglect
nobody cares ....that the shutters are falling apart
and no one cares that the symphony of chips of paint has begun
because nobody lives there anymore and no one is listening except fro teh occasional drive by
If that house was an inbox.
It would understand mine
Such
an empty house
When you're the first person to enter
an empty house...
It's like you're swirling the dust
of the only thing that lives there
elves and fairies and dust dune devils
it's like they know you're there
But there is just the eerie silence
The elves, sprites, ghosts and memories cling to what remains of the tattered curtain...awaiting a...curtain call?
The house is never ever really empty
The walls remember the hands
The ash remembers the fire
The sink can still taste the water and feel the rust
Even the dust on the floorboards remembers what it was like to be mud on a boot or a cell of her skin
An empty house has more inhabitants
than my inbox
in the beginning....My inbox had a voice
Maybe even my in-box remembers
how it once said
"You've got mail"
Oh to the whoa, Honey, today I saw a trio of funny!
Walking the street, my blink did many times repeat,
mercy be, I did see three furry cats wearing hats.
One cat was quite curvy, two chunky, but sturdy.
Curvy was all a-curtsy in a flat, wacked, black hat
that on top popped a nervy, floppy drunk skunk.
I don't think nervy knew or gave skunk any thunk.
One of the chunky cats was pure funky to look at
for his hat seemed to have been picked at
like a muskrat laid splayed on a slat from train splat.
The third in the herd on that quirky street journey
was quite the brat-cat, a tweet putting on a show.
On this cat’s head sat, to my dread, a wee placemat
that was threaded in a somewhat hazmat format.
So, my honey-bunny, not for love or for money
could I scat catalog three felines in asinine hats,
but I worked at chit-chat with the quirky cats
and was agog to learn through our dialogue
that their names were Dog, Frog and Hog!
Now, let's go eat fishes to stretch our britches.
We bear bunnies must avoid tight pant glitches..
For 19 years, I have missed a Lovely Queen; absolutely one of the finest. To my father, she was a kind wife; to some, a beautician; to me, a lioness.
She was neither a 'holier than thou', nor robed in deceitful righteousness. But she was very much clothed in love, like a feathered dove in her nest.
We neither saw in her any form of coldness, nor bitterness. She learned to absorb the storms, and 'move on', I guess.
She wouldn't dream of giving us anything less than her best. She was direct and never distant; none were ever denied access.
She shared her love freely, never portraying frustration and stress. We never hungered or thirsted; but were always warm and dressed.
We were made to feel secure; experienced lack, but never felt less. Born in 1928 and perfumed her world for 70 years; mama died in 1998.
05072017PS Contest, Easy, Slat A
Rain beats against the window,
As my little boy leans his brow
And little hands against the cool glass,
Staring, longing to go out.
His eyes light up with joyous excitement;
Grinning from ear to ear,
For down the hall by the door
He sees his sister's red and white polka-dot umbrella.
Glimpsing around to make sure no one is looking,
With quick steps across the floor he goes to the door.
He rises on his tiptoes,
Reaching and wrapping his little fingers
Around the doorknob.
Slowly opening the door ajar,
He seizes his sister's umbrella.
Pushing the button he pops it open
And slips away unnoticed.
The pitter-patter of rain strikes the umbrella
He holds high above his head,
As he runs across the yard
To the old wooden bench in the pouring rain.
Jumping he grabs a wooden slat
And struggles to climb on the wet slippery bench,
Springing high his little feet finally makes it up.
Bouncing up and down,
Screeching with enthusiasm giggles
watching the colorful rainbow,
Soaking wet,
He holds on to the back of the bench.
6/19/2020
Degree work again! With Aberdeen University,
Long distance, so not in strange surroundings,
This time in the subject of my choice and tenacity,
For posterity, so as to keep above the drownings.
It’s Christian Studies, or I say theology or religion,
And psychosomatic is the word to deflect and bat,
Which loudly venerates in the divinity selection,
Where divinity scholars attempt that requested slat.
Psycho-so-matic, or “the mind” “by” “motor action”:
“the mentality” “using” “cognitive brain structures”;
“the mental” “through” “neurological muscular motion”,
The psyche so as to do with events, people and cultures.
But why don't theologians see psychosomatic analysis,
As astronomically colliding with that transcendental verb,
In which god apologises for that divine interference,
When anytime, god changes your clarity into a muddy blurb.
As a disabled child in physio, for sure I truly understood,
The word “psychosomatic”, ‘cos my bible-loving dad,
Thought the word was academic trash, not white nude,
Because it validates contextual sociology as the comrade.
So did my arm and legs movements all depend on god?
Or on psychosomatics - if my parents had sent me out full?
On happiness, psychology, mood, highers and fine kin squad,
On settings, sociology and environment, and not on bull.
Surely the discussion in theology class should entertain,
Really straight, whether the bible fits into the normal tap,
Where you march, join, journey boldly through the terrain,
Of a richly humanly authored character splayed literary trap.