Long Slender Poems
Long Slender Poems. Below are the most popular long Slender by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Slender poems by poem length and keyword.
Without Knowing Your Gender...,
(nonetheless ex post facto still flattered)
Bhutan names defy affiliating,
determining, identifying... gender,
and what a faux pas this dada admits,
when a blessed high school
student did league gully tender
benighted, gifted, ordained yours truly
with sobriquet "Guru"
alluded to in previous poem, render
ring this foolish hearty good fella (me)
falling prey to embarrassing situation,
(I did misrender
as would be expected
from this crash test dummy,
who dented his psychological fender),
vis virtual mind bender,
when an initial presumption
smarted Matthew Scott as offender,
asper online youth NO pretender
by him, aye mean the sender
communicated his admiration,
adoration, adulation for this big spender
of sincerity, viz singular poetic magi - (ha)
made presumption that
unknown messenger slender,
and female, and
upon enclosing appender
referencing person as "lovely princess"
did respondent clarify finding deface
of zee poet here -
logic chops went thru blender
as if slapped by a suspender
experiencing irrevocable shame
as though a contender
attempting to guide false supposition
playfully mistaking sexual
identity of male sender,
he (young kneeler)
bowed as winning scoring goaltender
down as mine professed
metrical feet, he who acquiesced
non Asian minor, friender
NOT seeking moneylender,
nor mistook my heart of gold),
mine apology I did obligingly surrender
and possibly chuckled to himself,
asper an uproarious hellbender
whereat my countenance turned
fifty plus shades of lavender.
Money has no color,
whether it came from Black, White, Asian
or any other tribesman, a dollar is a dollar, not more or less.
Money doesn’t smell,
therefore, it weighs the same, whether it comes from
marijuana dealer’s pocket or holy temple’s offering basket.
Money doesn’t have a heart,
that’s why its size is the same whether it was earned
with sweat and tears or swindler’s easily made filthy lucre.
Money doesn’t have a face,
whether it came from hypocrites, wicked or honest wage earners,
they circulate in the market place without distinctions.
Money doesn’t have eyes,
that’s why if it was pulled out from a brand-named hand bag
with slender fingers or a old beaten purse with stiffened fingers,
they dance together hand in hand.
Money, though, is a quantity but not a quality,
money from wealthy ones always shines regardless how they
were made, while money from poor are treated contemptuously;
why is that so? Probably, money invented by men has
now become an uncontrollable monster, and goes,
to make a new myth, leading this corrupted world.
Although money is a quantity,
since the time when money controls men, the size of money
became a standard and the weight of the money became a status, virtue and dignity.
And now, after men have accepted the paradox of money
as a course of nature, it became impossible, even with collateral,
to go against the current of the river. Rather, for weak or strong,
bad or good, or even dead or alive, it flows only downward
pushed by the rushing water.
Walking on the forest path on a hot summer day,
I find an old oak tree, dry and dilapidated,
with barks peeling off, roots dislodged from soil.
It is waiting for the time to die and fall.
In my twilight hour I could relate to the tree.
So, I ask : would you mind talking with me?
Tree : Not at all. I’m glad that you stopped by,
for I’m so lonely among the young ones who are
green and climbing high, cares little for me.
Me : it’s a pity, but you’re not the only one forlorn
and isolated among your kin. You must have seen
much better days in your life time.
Tree : Yes. As a slender silky sapling I sprouted
joyfully from my sub-soil habitat slowly,
the beguiling breeze gently embraced me as I
bred boughs that fluttered like verdant wings,
I’m a splendid possession the forest is proud of.
Me : The forest is your abode where you’re happy
to belong, and it must have fostered you well.
Tree : Yes. In the precinct of its pristine expanse
the forest let the rays from the sunburst sky
spread charismatic colors on my calm canopy,
brushed the satin leaves with spectral splendor,
suffusing my heart with exuberance of delight
that I still preserve in my fading memory.
Me : But memory has the unique capacity
to retain dreams we see in life, some we realize,
some we don’t. You may remember a dream
that you desired the most to come true.
Tree : When I was getting old and felt desolate,
my dream was to fly away to a distant land,
but the southern wind told me to grow up high,
and touch the sky instead to be free like bird.
Me : And you did that so very well, standing tall
even now, and can play with the drifting cloud.
Do you regret not being able to fly?
Tree : No, I don’t. My dream wasn’t fulfilled,
but it’s satisfying to see the birds build nests
on my arms. I immensely enjoy the songs they sing.
Moreover, I’m happy I’m still rooted in my land.
Me : You don’t know how long. Like all of us
someday you have to go uprooted.
Tree : True, but I’m content, I lived my life long and full.
I know I’m dying, and may fall in the next storm,
but I’m not sad, for a new tree will grow in my place
with full glory, and the tree of life will survive.
Once upon a crystal ball in splendor
Well within the confines of the tent
Where light is not your friend
Slender fingers of the gorgeous girl
Using only wavering motions
Hover just above the glowing orb
Conjuring up the future from the past
By simply trembling into a formal trance
When the gypsy opens up her blazing eyes
Filled with wisdom from the ages left behind
She speaks in a crabby crackly voice
That of an old witch we wish we didn’t know
And tells you what you want to know
Gypsy places a warm hand upon your face
Holds out the other palm up in front of you
Says, “That will be one dollar!” as she gazes
Not into the future but at the entrance way
And hollers, “Next!”
TRIP TO DREAMLAND
A vacation trip to calm salient suburb overwhelmed me in childhood. We stayed in in Grand Mom’s house covering large rea with huge garden to face hills, to embrace forest and to look at dancing stream as dream. I was enchanted with peerless pleasure finding tremendous treasures of Nature so close under wide sky.
I was charmed listening to giggles of bubbling brook. Me, Mom, my sister and brother crossed the slender stream by foot feeling the touch of little brittle ripples.
Enthusiastically I picked up pretty pebbles and collected shiny glistening gem-like stones from the river-bed and pebbly stream strand.
I climbed the peak of low hill experiencing the glory of victory of my first expedition. I was just startled to respond on echoes shouting in the valley.
Wood apples trees were overloaded with mellow fruits spreading all along the boundary of the garden. After lunch, I used to tear off fruits to relish sapid juicy pulp with small wooden spoon. I was too amused enjoying chirping and chattering of unfamiliar birds.
I met a maternal uncle as father-figure perfectly matching with the environment giving me first music lessons.
When child at seven,
Interaction with Nature
placed me in Heaven.
On seventy plus
Reminiscence still haunt me
wishing rendezvous.
08/12/17
Haibun Contest by Debbie Guzzi
On my untouched white canvas, I hide,
Thoughts flowing like a deep river inside,
A universe of melancholy quietly enveloping me,
Like the sea singing its unknown mystery.
Shades of red like a heavy sunset,
Over the horizon, in the threads of my soul set,
Embroidered with birds returning to the nest,
In the evening's shadow, under the beloved sky's crest.
In my palette, the sunflower's yellow shines bright,
Warm rays gently emerge, narrating their light,
The blue of the sea lightly stains my fingers,
The sky of passion unfolds with tingling shivers.
Luxurious green lays in fine strokes, tender,
Like a mother nurturing her eternal child, slender,
Shadows of people and trees dance afar,
Yet my white canvas remains pristine, a silent star.
Contours sketched on the edges like a string,
Intertwined with flowers and bees taking wing,
My head rests in art's fantastic lap,
Where hopes and dreams take elastic shape.
Moonlight enters through the window's view,
Ink transforms into a hidden rainbow hue,
I draw wings, and the pages curve,
Flying like my whimsical dreams, like a nerve.
In this endless stream of consciousness,
I remain a painter of thoughts, a restless spirit,
My white canvas, my silent witness,
Of an inner world waiting to be heard in its fitness.
The eve of Christmas a day I won’t soon forget
It was the day we celebrated yes I do remember
The family came together for you with no regret
Recalling a child, spying around, found a train set
I would start to feel the excitement in November
The eve of Christmas a day I won’t soon forget
Someone hurries to buy a last gift in a Corvette
Another sad to celebrate, a gift they can’t render
The family came together for you with no regret
The rest of the holiday, I’ll change my mindset
Going to show some real spirit, not be a pretender
The eve of Christmas a day I won’t soon forget
If there is anyone, it’s to you that I am in debt
Lil sweet lady, no you were powerful yet slender
The family came together for you with no regret
So far from that magical time I’m a dark silhouette
But my cold hard heart starts to melt in December
The eve of Christmas a day I won’t soon forget
You taught me about Holiday spirit, with no regret
Written by me Wayland Bunch II on 12/10/2013 for Happy Holidays contest in
memory of my grandmother. I changed the last line, felt forced to change it, but will
still categorize this poem as a Villanelle. I could have easily repeated the closing line
again, or could have called it free verse, but neither would have done justice to
the message or the form, because I used the power of the repetition, provided by the
form, throughout.
The Psychedelic Nest
I had settled into that nest like a lonely bird-man on a branch,
I sat upon the wet straw trembling in the cold rain that soaked me,
the mother-bird went about her business flying here and there through the air,
the male ignored me striking with his sharp beak upon my bare nape.
Under the enormous wing of soft feathers I sheltered next to the hot eggs,
those crazy little ones laughed in their white and fragile shells toward the light,
I read Mister Nietzsche contemplating the round planet in the distance,
the food from my suitcase was beside my notes about the technique of non-action.
I used them as napkins my thoughts written on old worn papers,
from time to time the young lady passed by stepping over the tall green grasses,
with her shiny white boots cutting the thin delicate blades of grass,
I would rise on tiptoe reciting showing my slender poet's profile.
The mother-bird raised her beak toward the sky clattering in the clear limpid air,
the young lady made a vague undefined gesture then left toward her white house,
toward home across those grasses that grew tall on the green plains,
once the strange hunter came nodding his head staring straight at the nest.
He looked toward our hidden nest the mother-bird covered me with her wing,
under her dense wing in the eggs those little ones fell silent thrilled by his presence,
I was the bird-man who sat motionless in the nest above the ground,
with my suitcase full of written thoughts and napkins dirty with old philosophy.
I trembled damp in the cold rain under the wing of thick and warm feathers,
I contemplated the distant planet reading Nietzsche with the book in my trembling hand,
the young lady left coming always with white boots over the tall green grasses,
and the strange hunter nodded his head staring straight at our tree.
That nest was my temporary home the tree was my tall shelter up high,
those little ones laughed softly in their white and warm eggs toward the seen infinite,
I was the bird-man who sat motionless on the wet and cold straw,
with my suitcase full of the written technique of non-action that taught me stillness.
I dreamed that I was tangled up in vines
too numerous to count (such slender twines).
They’d somehow crept upon me in the night.
It felt so real, this strangely “twisted” plight!
I tried to move, but I could not break loose.
My face and limbs were wreathed, each in a noose.
Fresh fear set in. I writhed and writhed about,
then realized I’d have to wait it out.
In time, the vines were clearer to my eyes.
Their peril was a pleasure in disguise,
And instantly, I knew just what to do!
I turned into a mouse so I might chew. . .
My nightmare had become a child’s fond wish. . .
I set forth nibbling cherry strands of licorice!
For Frank Herrera's "Dream" poetry contest
I cannot forget Trayvon Martin - slain teen
no matter manifold more young people
unthinkingly killed, who spirits aspire
to ascend higher than a steeple.
revisited and slightly revised today
March 14th, 2021.
One deliberate shameful death,
whose demise linkedin
violent cessation of breath
thank heavy gun wielding hand
innocuous thug disguised
as armed neighborhood watch
firearm brandished
as weapon of choice.
Once again rifling thru outdated drafts,
I unwittingly repost grievous bulletin
that made headlines nine plus years ago,
an innocent lad received fatal shot
into said unarmed teenager's chest
according to testimony
courtesy Doctor Vincent Di Maio.
Memory of aforementioned crime
relegated to dustbin of criminal minds
whereby dime a dozen killings
(nowadays barely register shock)
countless young persons
genetically bequeathed with
healthy dose of melanin
gunned down during their prime.
George Zimmerman (then age 28)
ought to be pitched into the
alligator and crocodile infested Everglade
for his senseless killing (outright murder)
of Trayvon Martin slammed
as involved some illicit wick kid trade
(a slender African American
more precisely youth flush with color
only 17 years young -
(birthdate - February 5th, 1995
death date - February 26th, 2012),
whose martyrdom grows
as days/weeks fade
an exemplary gregarious helpmate
swimming against the tide
to make the grade
now slain while just a youth -
the unfounded killing
by a neighborhood watch volunteer,
who felt afraid
that this dark skinned young man
appeared suspicious pulled the trigger
with comeuppance to be paid
though -- no retribution can restore
lifeless body, still
agitated waters nor offer shade
from the justifiable media frenzy
sparked from Geraldo Rivera made
even with unanimous
approval of guillotine blade
for violence cannot only rejuvenate
a promising future
evinced by Trayvon Martin
reincarnated into tree or leaf blade
but only serves to beget subsequent
violence now unto his grave
said teenager laid!