Long Snarl Poems
Long Snarl Poems. Below are the most popular long Snarl by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Snarl poems by poem length and keyword.
An all-but-empty Interstate stretches
straight, streaking horizon to horizon:
it is a ribbon with no bow, wrapping
northern Nevada.
The eye fixes
on absent fences, looks for limits,
scans scenery overwhelmed by sky.
I cock my thumb to beg a ride;
a tear forms at the corner of my eye.
"Damn wind!"
I mutter, half believing the lie.
A dusty pickup rolls toward me
then accelerates, leaves me staring.
It dwindles into distance. -- "OK!",
I snarl.
I kick a rock, pick up my pack
and start to walk, left thumb poked
out to nothing.
Someone will stop.
Two cars speed by; I wave to them.
My belly rumbles and I count
the steps I take. My wet eyes ache.
Someone will stop.
Or won't.
Sophie, our black cocker spaniel can be a mean old broad.
She is thirteen, so that is ninety-one in dog years.
We were wondering how she would “do with the new puppy”.
My husband wanted to wait until she was gone to get a new baby.
Are you kidding me? That could be six or seven years, I told him.
I am not waiting six or seven years!
His parents had cockers that lived to be eighteen and nineteen.
In dog years that made their ages 126 and 133.
This new baby Beau was quiet, did not make a sound in the car.
We were on the road two hours; he did not make one single peep.
He was fine until Sophie gave him a warning snarl.
That puppy answered her with a bark that came from the bowels of hell.
Sophie turned tail and ran
We have never seen this before.
This is when I knew things were going to be okay.
Every boy has his toys,
and each girl her dolls;
and as they grow they are put away where light can't enter:
there in that closet, which often memory recalls
how delightful and merry their days were,
but wishing for a return is a constant, useless prayer...
Everyone once had the possessions of a younger age,
some were precious and memorable, others simply painful and vacant;
and who can remember being hugged and truly loved by all?
Many still reminisce the sad thought of having been offered none at all,
and how they longed to have felt a little, sweet taste!
Nobody desired that more than I did, and only mother provided that!
Blue-bells seemed blither than I.. colored flowers that have no feel,
no soul to express their joy or sorrow, had I become like them?
Larks and mockingbirds weren't as malcontent as I was indeed;
all they wished for was some rain and the quietest place to rest!
Oh, how much sympathy I felt...with no one loving them, but their Creator;
and my circumstances affirmed how true that really was for me to declare!
An evil doer can be a father, who denies his children profound affection;
malice or thoughtlessness scars the hearts of the tender ones,
to become a malady or blight that leaves many fragments of broken lives;
and shouldn't someone grab them by the scruff of their necks,
and put some sense into them when they intentionally induce pain?
This snarl...rebelled at such atrocity, although no slaps could prevent those tries!
Husbands love your wives devotedly,
mistresses are the cause of your adultery;
would the faithful ones pursue an extramarital affair?
And what are the consequences of your sin and surliness?
A curse from God for many generations,
to deny your little ones the possessions of a younger age!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
My favorite orange top with the raised flowers in white
Made me prance into church, feeling beautiful and right
I sashayed down the aisle, feeling all that for sure that day
Until a young child said “You’re having a baby! Mrs. Kay.”’
At fifty-five years young, I did not think I could feel any worse.
That orange top went into the give-away-pile with my ugly black purse.
Unless clothing gives me joy, it is not going to be worn by me.
Style creates my mood, always has, don’t you see?
You’re not wearing that! My husband said to my Bohemian wrap.
I sure as hell am, I replied. “Why don’t you go take a nap?”
He cannot ruin my pretty clothes with silly comments like this.
I gave him a snarl, the bad finger and a sweet sounding hiss.
I did wear the wrap, and my girlfriends all gathered around.
You look so wonderful today, they murmured with all kinds of sound.
I knew then that it was not as gorgeous as I had hoped it would be.
So it went into the give-away-pile, while I tried on other clothes that fit me.
It’s only one day a year, Muffins said. We can do this.
Her friend Puddlewiddle gave a snarl and a hiss.
I don’t like wearing Antlers on my soft head!
I would much rather wear ribbons instead.
Come on said Muffins. The old woman is going downhill.
We are both lucky she orders Kibble and feeds us still.
Some of the old ladies in here are more daft than she.
And their volume is sky high on their incessant TV.
Okay said Puddlewiddle if I don’t look silly or stuff.
Miss P. looked goofy, but Miss M. ignored her weird fluff.
Muffins was a peace maker, and happy of course to do it
They both wore their head dresses and sailed right through it.
A meowing duo in the front of the Meow Methodist Church.
Where the old ladies sat while jealous cats perched.
In their finery galore, Christmas colors of red, green and blue.
I feel sad that I missed it. How about you?
From afar, a green sea;
up close, a twisted snarl of brittle waves.
textured walls reach out and oppress
mildew whips of flora flotsam fauna jetsam in my face
echoing shadows follow in waking eddies
shrill light on a myriad of eyelids that flutter as I pass.
MY BROTHERS.
blind fingertips of rain stream in my eyes, as cacophonous shadows lead me through improbable passages the naked eye cannot discern;
bathed in clarion surges of gold, a seabed of mist reflected from the deep.
This is the cauldron...
my arms reach out painfully to scoop up blind tears in the green sea, but a faceless monstrosity wails in solitude, denser and denser as I go, oppressed heartbeat of light through tall trees.
Breathless, bursting, cords of light fall from the heights, he then fell and his eyes filled with sand.
MY BROTHERS --- there cannot be one when there is one because without two, there are no numbers, and the one is no one and everyone --- fraternal eternal -- and rebirth billows through the mist in a distant voice, beckoning me on.
The Cauldron...
A menagerie of puppies
were way too polite
They knocked on the door
With nearly no delight.
Can we use your driveway
For our annual grizzly bear dance?
I said, “Most surely”.
My husband said “Not a chance”.
The menagerie of puppies
gave me a card, and took off
They gave up so easily!
My husband did scoff.
They’ll be back on Tuesday,
Ahead of the snow
I assured him,
for I truly did know.
The annual grizzly bear dance is so fun!
There are contests,
and challenges
Where we dance in the sun
They growl and they snarl
And bring a Mariachi band
A menagerie of puppies
Having much fun as they can!
People in my school have names for someone like me.
Freak, crazy, weirdo, a spawn by the devil's decree.
I took note of every malicious word they ever spoke,
knowing that before long they'd no longer make me a joke.
None of them knew how truthful were their mocking words.
They had no clue I could spread my wings to fly among the birds,
with ravens that caw out for blood at the stroke of each midnight.
I'd fill their haunting dreams with images of daunting fright.
A snip of dried herbs, a pinch of fungal root, boiled in fat of fowl,
a concoction for me to savor, secreted to me by my mother, an owl.
Eyes that see through bloodshot color, they would see them too
when the full moon was high and the sky turned dark cobalt blue.
No help will they receive from a scream or gyrations to be free.
They soon will know they should never have made a mockery of me.
The time is near, my brew is cooled, now it's my time to have fun.
Tonight their dreams will be nightmares, a gift from the evil one.
With their eyes closed, they will envision they are being chased
by hundreds of bloodshot eyes, the likes of which they've never faced.
Black robes adorned, scepter of wormwood waved from my hand.
Eyes... wild bloodshot eyes, will seek vengeance at my command.
Fog advances to the bedrooms of those who sleep in peace.
My adrenaline is pumping, just a few more minutes until release.
A snarl of satisfaction I feel curled upon my blood red lips.
You won't belittle me again with your taunting nocuous quips.
NOW! I gave the order for the eyes to creep into their dreams
But my heart is beating too fast. This was not part of my schemes.
I can't see a bloody thing. What's happened to the spell I cast?
How long will this blindness torture me? How long must it last?
A truant officer was sent to see what had become of the freak.
Through a window he saw many ravens, all with bloodied beak.
No body was discovered. All that remained was a robe of black
and a note scratched upon the floor. "Too late to take it back."
::::::::::::::::::::::::::
December 26th, 2015
Deep and Dark Contest
Sponsor: Broken Wings
The same person, a different view.
Your mind wonders
You wonder how you arrived at such a place
So free, limitless, untouchable
You breathe in the free pure air
Absorb the innocent views, too pure to criticise
You are your greatest friend
Your mind wonders
The snarl at this cruel world
Unfair, hateful and disrespectful
The smell of anger fill your lungs
Sights you see are to be censored
Trust no one but yourself
Paradise, the smile you wear catches
Others see your view and are embraced
You truly have blessed your self
You hold wealth in the palm of your hands
You want for nothing
You have everything that your heart desires
Paradise, a place that is only dreamed of.
Why embrace when others don’t care you say
Church is the only place that can bless you
You can not see wealth
You will never have enough
Your heart will desire everything you have not.
You are of great stature
A simple person of simple needs
Simple by way of perception
Nothing is a challenge
Tasks are presented to you
You take them as positive lessons
You struggle with only yourself
A simple desire to love to hate
To you, nothing is free
A walk in the park presents its challenge
Nothing is your fault
Everyone else is to blame
I don’t have ideas she told me. Ha! I scoffed. You do.
Like baby tigers, they are waiting to be released.
But I don’t have any time, she argued.
While you are in the car waiting for your kids?
Ten minutes here, six minutes there,
Pretty soon, you have an hour’s worth of thoughts
I am not clever, she told me.
You don’t have to be, I encouraged her.
You can be morose or sad or depressed.
Writing can be gargoyles and slugs, it can be devils.
It can bite your readers in their cheek bones.
All you have to do is write a word or two.
To begin.
Just one word really.
I always wanted to write when I was younger, she said.
But now, it’s too late. I am too old, too fat, too angry.
Anger makes great poetry, I said. Throw some angry words down.
Let them snarl and snap and ooze around in a syrup like rage.
She stared at me. I cannot write like you can, she told me.
No, I agreed, but I cannot write like you can either.
Just pick up a pen and begin.
I don’t have any ideas, she argued.
And frankly, I did not have any more time to waste….