Long Sprayed Poems
Long Sprayed Poems. Below are the most popular long Sprayed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sprayed poems by poem length and keyword.
Dark glowing eyes, a hazel bun, well tucked
and neat. Lips curve like shells in porcelain,
Awaiting to express, her brave conduct
That I could sense audacity, back when
Ladies bowed to men, such common duty.
Yet she possessed an ardent fire, heated
by graphic flair; sultrily chaste to be
among lords of glory. Oh, brushes red
Spill on fabric; If I could but explore
Her sprezzatura dripping lush oil, while
I breathe her strokes. My heart needs not of more
from galleries that hide a face beguiled.
My own dark eyes will memorize her hands,
Sprayed by palettes of brilliant renaissance.
-----------------
*sprezzatura—an intricate display of elegance
and wit—with a bold flourish.
*~ Though all of Anguissola’s self-portraits reflect
her dignified essence, her work, "Sophonisba Angusola
virgo seipsam fecit 1554", mirrors her deep desire to blaze
a new trail in the world of arts and new feminism.
I looked into her eyes and they spoke
of some smouldering need to fulfil her destiny
as a self-possessed, creative woman way ahead of her time
when male artists ruled during the Renaissance.
~ Sofonisba Anguisolla: A Contemporary Sonnet
For A Renaissance Woman... Contest
~Sponsor: Cyndi Mac Millan
~Poet: nette onclaud
The Unexpected Moments
1. Spider floats down a web, you grab at the web, then you toss it out the door,
you feel a tug in your hair, eight legs fumbles about, you shake and shake,
until it falls on the floor
2. Step off a curb, a tire screech, a car horn that never lets up
3. A honeybee in love with a woman's hair sprayed hair, hands waving all about
4. An edge-of-the-seat horror flick, popcorn sprinkles in your hair
5. A surprise party with an odd start, where's the handkerchief
6. A tap on your shoulder from behind, you roll your hand into a fist
7. Someone said boo and you do the boogaloo
8. An authority person calls you by your full name
9. The 'To-Your-Face-Do-Not-Flinch' Game or punches galore
10. A teacher's get-your-attention ruler slams the desk
11. The dreaded alarm clock goes off -or- didn't go off
12. The dozing off at work, co-worker finger snaps
2019 May 27
*4th Place*
What Makes You Flinch
~~Julie Leigh Rodeheaver
What takes you so long to solve the crime when you have all the evidence that you can find, what take you so long to solve the crime when you saw the man rang the doorbell and sprayed bullets inside the house.
You heard screaming and shouting and saw everyone running about; you saw the young man jumped through the window and broke his nose when he fell on the garden floor. The other one escaped the shot but broke his legs when he fell on his back.
What takes you so long to solve the crime when you have the entire alibi that you can find. What take you so long to solve the crime when his motive is consistent with his action, the distance from where the gun was fired and the dimension from which the gun was held is far more revealing than the man that pulled the trigger.
Go back to the scene of the crime and take samples of the scalp from the tree and listen to the forensic scientist analysis and you can tell what was going on in the shooter's head before he shot the people dead.
What takes you so long to solve the crime when you know that the bison abducted the deer. There was no baby rabbit at the sreet corner, it was just a bison lurking around the back seat dressed up like a scavenger in frock waiting for the right time to mutilate its first-time customer.
Abduction or consent the bison and the deer almost ended up in hell , the wheels and turns, the twist and blows split its legs apart and plunge in its head into the dark. It gored the deer quite deep causing it to sprang to its feet and when the quota was met the bison ran away and the deer escaped.
What takes you so long to solve the crime when the evidence is wrapped in the woman sleeve? As if you didn’t know that the bison was part of the show.
When you are going on dare hunt, don’t drive alone, just take a public transportation into the town.
If your motives are right, you will get a message from the sky, which says do or die; you must take a ride at midnight to meet the saturated cloud before the next full moon, fasten your seat belt, I will be seeing you soon, what takes you so long to solve the crime.
Leave a man to him and his words
and telescopic terrains will open,
as splendid as the midwinter constellations
sprayed in a barbarous sublimity across the sky,
with the serene orb of Jupiter hanging unflickering over the land.
They tell us language is but a cruel game,
an endless warren of pinball deflectors
fit for Ariadne but not the sensibilities of mortals.
But it is only when we realize that the greatest Catharsis
is that which exists in the fecund abyss of solitude,
the paradise found in the stamp on our souls,
that we can wrestle and mold our words like primal clay,
Craft cosmos from chaos in the folding mirror of our consciences.
All our words are symbols; pregnant indicators of some untouchable abstraction,
ideas too deep for the anchors of voyagers
and too high for the staffs of mountain climbers;
Let us conquer the earth to salvage the truth;
let us try and snatch it from the sight of God.
Even so, that actual essence which we have always sensed,
which we try to reach through the quest
for the thrice-blessed stylus to write indelible code
upon the chalky slate of our hearts,
is unattainable when we act rather than receive.
True aloneness is openness to purification;
to infusion of the symbol with alabaster plate.
The lighthouse is a greater relief to the wave-whipped sailor
when the shore glistens with freshly-fallen showers,
Throwing the glare into wide-open pupils:
So it is when we allow the loftiest and earthiest of truths
To immerse our thoughts and their verbal accidens
In the baptismal font of infinite regeneration.
Domestic chargé d'affaires
became mine bailiwick
dint of the missus being
disinclined and less quick
budgeting, hence I inadvertently
accepted lickity split,
subsequent obligation did
smoothly clack and click,
which minimized conflict
whereby we shared equal intrinsic
reciprocity complicity, culpability
then at playtime, thee enigmatic
one whipped out adult toys
stashed in the attic.
Altercations impossible to avoid,
'specially when unemployed
(think Rob zombie humanoid)
additionally, I lacked emotionally unalloyed
communication cues, nearly destroyed
romance, cuz only recourse re: primal
non verbal, viz Braille
while disguised as android
amorousness I expressly enjoyed
satisfactorily papa bear
groaning courtesy steroid
launching petsmart aery mission
poised to strike no
matter mainly to void
i.e. unpacking heat prohibited,
one tony peppy trooper deployed,
but unexpectedly waylaid
understandably yours truly annoyed
unsheathed hot pistol manually toyed.
Admission, confession, decision firmly laid
down, I oft times insisted felt test ease made
purposeless seething hormonal secretion
triggered fountainhead sprayed
activated provocation upbraid
ding the then live in girlfriend
French kissing parlez vous
pledged troth plus
serving as milkmaid.
The death of winter carries varied sights.
In April, when dandelions roar, “It’s Spring!”
green yards transform by magic overnight.
Gramps had sprayed his lawn, but in ours weeds bring
an old game for kids as they dance and swing.
Small windmills in disguise, children spread seeds
giving Grandpa a cause for some dismay.
He is no grouch, fence conversation leads
to friendly talk of butterflies at play -
riddles about what nature does in May.
The kids amazed, watch squirrels building nests,
questions evolve about the birds and bees.
Gramps calls them varmints - Mother's Nature’s pests.
“Ask your folks”, he replies with cough and wheeze.
In naptime dreams, he aims a gun at trees.
Gramps takes a walk, golf umbrella hovers
for spring rains do not announce their coming.
A neighbor lady hobbles to cover.
Listen, his cane on her sidewalk - drumming,
sweet songs of spring love, two voices humming.
written May 7, 2014, edited on May 25, 2014
(continued from Part 1)
..To those that don't comprehend
No accident or by default
- WHY the world is;
or has become insane,
Inevitably of course
we see that,
There IS a Group to Blame,
All bewildered commentary aside,
It IS and has been owned, controlled, by those
that are so, desperately so..
To not see, nor look above your
Homes
- the torrid and poisonous trails
Of noxious toxic Nano particles,
sprayed constantly over our once blue iconic skies
Flouride, Mercury and much more besides,
stops all cognitive reasoning
secretly contained,
in Blood-brain barrier,
..insipid nanobot A.I,
An evil connectivity resides
Consider this in your mindset,
Abused but yet - constantly accused - blinded with Trillions in Debt for You
From your idiotic, pathetic but incapable character; to despise,
To your minute and limited worldview..
A love of
- official standard Lies,
Why does this basic notion escape your innate, yet
- subdued perception?
To Those That Don't Understand..
Feign incomprehension
all you want - the difference remains intention
It is and always was
a form of Cabaalistic
Slight of Hand Mind Control
Their 'Might is right'..
You may not dare to mention,
But of course - though,
As with everything else,
- always Hidden in Plain Sight
By way of complete and utter, otherwise abundantly clear
..Deception
One simple message to take onboard
Raise the consciousness and
Awaken.
Kurt Hubbard-Beale
April 25th 2021
During covid 19 lockdown
The PoetTree
Awaken Poetry. Awareness Poetry. Geopolitical. Philosophical. Music. Shared
I am the queen of self destruction.
Ritualistic Razor sharp scrutiny of my reflection -
constantly spewing hate at my mid-section,
whilst effortlessly faking the pursuit of perfection.
A crumbled up heart beckons restitution in the midst
of train-wrecked relationships,
ruinous friendships,
and crumbled up to do lists,
in white-knuckled fists.
The essence of happiness remains a mere mirage
for one who is an expert in self-sabotage.
With nothing but empty reminders sprayed out on a dreary collage,
it is exhausting living an ever consuming facade.
Procrastinated plans worship at my feet,
whilst brooding and bellowing as I hit snooze on repeat.
Impatiently my ambitions take a seat,
before wisely declaring undeniable defeat.
Daily my mind’s army assumes a familiar avoidant stance.
Love and hate engage, again, in a repetitive dance,
between an avoidant retreat and a stagnant advance.
It is clear: as long as I sit on the throne of
self-destruction,
for me… for being whole..
there will not be another chance..
After thirty years of missing her
I knew that I had never loved her,
yet there she is
crouching naked over my face
wanting more
and I as willing as ever.
Ghosts are more potent than the living,
a sexual fantasy more gently erotic
than the bruising struggle
between flesh and blood.
Once (a long time ago),
a huge python slid into my house.
I watched it cross the floor,
not mesmerized, but struck into a stillness
by its very existence,
the gravity of its conjunction with my eyes,
its alien presence.
You come to me now
not as an object of love, not as a memory,
but as a presence, a conjunction with
my libido, and something else…
Last night tiny black ants were moving slowly
around the kitchen floor,
of course I sprayed them with ant-killer.
This morning there are corpses to brush away,
Then I see one lone ant travelling
from one poisoned cadaver to another,
as if confirming a reality it had never
experienced before.
It seemed almost like a ritual,
a dance of farewell.
The dead are always with us, never changing,
always the same, and there is no brush
and no away.
I realize now what you still mean to me,
it is something we never meant to each other in life;
it’s now a ritual in a fantasy landscape
where ‘farewells’
are more real than any past love.
The busy Moon forgot about the Tide.
She left it out all day upon the sand.
And when it found itself alone topside,
there mischief was immediately at hand
It washed the muddy Rocks until they shone,
then dragged in trash to mess them up again,
it chilled the chubby babies to the bone
and tugged their pudgy feet to pull them in
It rearranged the peaceful ocean floor
wrapped all the kelp into a tangled wreath,
then turned up all the driftwood on the shore
to tickle little creature underneath
It tricked the Fishermen it came across
by pulling at the lines they'd cast about,
took cages that it saw the Trappers toss
and let the little Crabs and Lobsters out
It called to Clouds that hung around the sky
then strained to meet them halfway in between
and splashed them until they began to cry
but just to make it rain, not to be mean!
It fooled with every Fish that floated by,
it sprayed the Seagulls when they flew too near,
it pooled in spots it KNEW the Sun liked dry
and played with all the boats along the pier
It twirled the baby Squid until they laughed
then passed them each a sponge to blot the ink
and after they'd been taught this master craft,
it swirled away like water down a sink
The Tide adored its mischief and it would
have gleefully put more toward its spree
but for the Moon, who for the greater good,
rose none too soon and let it out to sea!