Long Snarls Poems
Long Snarls Poems. Below are the most popular long Snarls by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Snarls poems by poem length and keyword.
Life resembles the seasons,
colorful, dreary, cold or mild;
and we partake in them
without the expectation to win,
to imitate them with each emotion flowing inside,
taking the form of a river: raging or calm;
causing absolute joy or permanent harm,
making us aware of the choices of our reasons...
As we rejoice and grieve, struggle, share,
dream, appreciate, suffer, love and senselessly hate;
somewhere the strongest,
who stood at crossroads,
overcome those obstacles with unimaginable pride,
inspiring others to follow and boldly dare,
and that uncertain outlook changes
from desperate to hopeful, from bleary to bright...
Life resembles the seasons...
our own shadowy and fleeting years,
empowering us or defeating us: inducing purpose or insignificance,
hurling innumerable curses at us or showering us with endless blessings,
carving out the faces of glorious heroes or indignant villains;
damning the actions of the unyielding cruel,
the laughs and the snarls of the delirious fool,
rewarding the fearless leaders who proclaim peace...
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
It is Winter Carnival time, everyone in a double
bustle. Christmas Night, as emotions bubble;
kids full of mischief getting into trouble.
The whole carnival is decked out with Christmas décor!
Swelled faces with joyful spells, sounds of bells, and so much more.
A whole new winter world waiting to explore.
The clown's face painted in white paint,
fiery orange hair, a big mouth in red taint.
It snarls a show of teeth
all covered in candy Heath.
Each evil eye of three glaring while I'm underneath.
A red ball full of tea rose, for a nose that disposes out like a hose;
you won't want it to be near your toes.
It wears a ruffled collar satin clown suit and walks with a toot,
half red the other half white and big black combat boots; he's so cute.
Kids run around the clown hand in hand like a chain
trying to get first dibs on a red candy cane.
It is Winter Carnival everyone in a double
bustle. Christmas Night, as emotions bubble;
kids full of mischief getting into trouble.
The poor cranky clown wearing a frown
ready to put himself down
where he dwells in his night gown
when the sun goes down.
12/19/2018
Poetry Contest: Bunny Jump Honey Lump Funny Chump
Sponsored by: Caren Krutsinger
Regardless of kingdom, class or division,
Whether labelled exotic, tropical or wild,
All white flowers are favored by my vision
As pure perfection, peaceful and undefiled.
White blooms whisper a symphony crescendo,
Dancing and thrilling my inner light with awe.
Ivory buds melt stress snarls to a mellow,
Spiritually enhancing, soul deep thaw.
My inner spark glows fresh, pristine elation
Beholding white petals thick, crisp purity.
Vivid white softens life with calm creation
Of unsullied, ideal clustered surety.
White flowers grow innocent serenity
Displays with chaste, passionate, pacifist ways
To gift bouquets of velvet tranquility
And genuine, snow-calm softness to my days.
Outfitting himself for wrestling
he sneared at the smiling gentlmen in the locker roomI wanna see how I could not be perfect
see ya'll guy think everything is easy and getting up early
and doing the thing makes you
qualified to be champion.
Snarls the Old man against the the Pretty Guys
Women love em: and the Ladies wanna
get wiff em.
You son's of es: I worked my ass off getting butts in the seats
I wrestled in a horse stable when we couldn't fill the areanas.
We wrestled at an old abandoned mine
when we couldn't get the fans interested.
then when the crwds picked up
you Sissy es come along and take the spotlight from under us.
I heard you say the Dusk Stalwart was
grion Old and stiff around the collar.
I heard you man: I heard it all.
He's got his gear tonight man,
he's here tonight man
Ah hell I feel like I can face anything!
You guys are gonna learn
what it really takes to be
a self promoting Man!"
I'm gonna go outta my way
and Learn you Pukeass es!"
"Let's reveal the sky to the masses!"
"Maybe with enough voice ya'll will sing my name to
seranade my new Missus!"
A dog threatened asks not why he’s under attack
He bears his fangs and snarls right back
When a river is blocked it feels no heartache
It keeps on rolling until the dams break
A duck has no sorrow when chicks leave her side
Whether instinct or knowledge she takes it in stride
A squirrel will not dwell on nuts never found
He knows there are many more in the ground
The tree that is dying laments not its fate
It does not regret having begun too late
It has no gods to curse and no tears to cry
No future to mourn nor past to deny
Would that these lessons were not lost on me
But mine is the burden of humanity
July 23, 2018
BEHOLD, see, times tower hast struck three, hour chimes for thee,
The Devil's hour is here, my dear, but thee need not fear,
Sound, nay bells, snarls? Demon dog's gnarls bound from Hell's Gate, dear.
Fear not, for thine art with thee, heart, mind, pith soul you see.
We will be by thy side, so fear not and abide here.
Thou prepareth a cup for thee? Nay, drinketh not, dear!
The Devil's beer, a special brew, fear just for you, see.
Causes thee to slumber, see, it is us, thee must hear!
The hour will be in the past, thou must move fast, to be,
Come o'er here, my dear, and have no fear, for we art here.
The clock has struck four, so out the door, thou art FREE, FREE!
2020 January 27
2.) Come here, my dear, and have no fear
Babies and young saplings are silky smooth,
adorned by curls and twirls, unfurled.
But age assails and weather beats brows
to dry, and wrinkles the smooth with furrows and lines.
Twists and contortions compels, yields, and compliances
reshapes the surface to bumpy, with knots and gnarls,
knurling a rough grip, to deny the slip
that smooth young skin and wills
are prone to show when asked to follow a lead.
The rough and worn acrimony of old age,
despite the crabby, cantankerous snarls,
can be gripped and convinced to comply and yield.
It is the gnarls of age that knurls the grip.
Every morning at a quarter to six, I can hear my he him trotting down the hallway to the bed where I lay, shriveled up under my weighted blanket, so fat and un-tall.
There’s a part of me that should feel sorry for my little Cowboy husband Joe, but the other part is as angry as Sophie Dog, who snarls and snaps when she hears him in the hall.
“Time to get up!” he says in a sing-songy way, being a nice guy, who truly, only ever wanted to be a child, outside, who could laugh and play like a kid with honey bun food.
“Son of a mule’s *******,” I say, in the kindest cowboy-kind of way, knowing he’s going to feed Shark next, and he’d better tip toe as I am in that kind of I-HATE-EVERYBODY-KIND-of-Mood.
Big Joe.
Big Joe.
Big Bad Joe.
“I saw that the baby opossum on the porch was out of food again, so I banged on the window, and he ran off with that little hop-skip he has,” Joe babbles on. “After he left, I took some cat food out. He’s eating it now.” Joe is wearing his best hat, and boots, but I don’t give them no mind.
Son of a horse’s behind, does he always have to yap like a coy dog? I think as I try to get a growling Sophie dog’s butt off of the covers I’m trying to put back over my head, so I can have some peace and QUIET; “Get OUT OF HERE!” I yell, I’m 11 minutes behind!”
Big Joe.
Big Joe.
Big Bad Joe.
Sophie and I get woked up three more times by him, and we chase him out each time, baring our teeth. It reminds me of my early days with my mother who used to be just this damned happy and annoying in the morning. She used to give us pancake rolls. Which means she used to jump on our bed and roll on us making us extra angry before we left for school.
The last time, the final time, the I mean it this time, he brings me my usual Chuck Wagon Caren is hungry as a giant Stegosaurus on speed breakfast. Five pounds of hash-browns, a three egg omelet with bacon, and it damn well better be the exact temp I like, he has learned the hard way Sophie and I are
Very particular about the temp of our bacon. He takes off his 10 gallon hat, sitting it on the bed, and says “anything else, my ladies?” Before we can speak, he magically produces my jalapeno peppers which we dump lavishly over our hash-browns. Yes, he is the perfect cowboy for this fool.
Big Joe.
Big Joe.
Big Bad Joe.
Hot and wet as heaven pion
Rainfall scattered warm clarion, dropped some their leaves
Referred to evergreen rainforest
Girl starred being black, smiled for dark spots with silver-grey eyes
Kingdom animalia said: “Where is our crown?”
Heavy logging answered
Tilar wana memereng tepining tegil
Sardula, death.....
Bull coexist without competitive
No sanctuary in poverty
Human driven doomsday
Panthera pardus melas and the girl cried
Away from riverbanks, swamps and clearings
Where is Hillsides, mountains, mesas, and sunlight penetration?
Say sorry to piphytic plants
No attached anymore to trunks and branches, trees felt down
Suck to obtain rainwater
Fallen trees create scary gaps
Said goodbye to Pleistocene refugia
The rest only empty liturgia
Tilar wana memereng tepining tegil
Sardula, death....
Melanistic leopards coaxed black panthers
The guardian solitary and territorial lover
Sang a love songs and passed away
Growls, snarls, meows and purrs
From dusk till dawn, defending territories from intruder clown
Farmlands weighing hundreds of kilograms bombs
Away from riverbanks, swamps and clearings
Where is hillsides, mountains, mesas, and sunlight penetration?
Tilar wana memereng tepining tegil
Sardula, death......
The zone is a crease.
Like a dimple of haunting.
Diving into the wild sensation.
Feeling prickly.
Pine trees grow at night.
There is a vampire.
Takes all the pinecones to his nest.
Spiraling like October does.
The zone is a person.
Like me except she is a ghost.
Or worse.
Eats worse things.
They grow at night.
We know because,
The prickling.
Like rabid spiders.
A place under construction.
All the time, being excavated.
By wild, mysterious beings.
Like me, but worse.
They grow at night.
Pop up by morning,
And no one believes me when I tell them…
You can’t cross there.
Someone always does.
And gets eaten by a pine tree.
Growls and snarls.
In this nothing-world.
The zone.
Is under construction.
It’s not the place.
It’s us.