Long Spruced Poems
Long Spruced Poems. Below are the most popular long Spruced by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spruced poems by poem length and keyword.
When I raise my thoughts from the dead,
All become coloring beauties to my bedspread.
No one exist without a quirk:
Raising bloody craziness that irk,
Moulding new happy home-- an artwork;
Not only Innocent people do jerk.
To win; some envy, some criticize
And not only politicians politicize,
But I don't Know of what is it to actualize--
Reasons people stand to antagonize.
Conversation with myself is a boost;
To be belittled to such a roost--
It must have not been of spruced,
Yet doesn't need to be deduced!
The best bird's improvised nest:
Is in God's centered mind contents digest.
(Isthmus)
And Mama pins laundered sheets on the clothesline
Raising her creamy arms with a hum,
Gentle against tainted bricks of our wall
Right in front of this grassy yard…
My velvet dress all spruced up
Fragrant, pressed by morn’s daylight
On luster of mid-autumn:
I observed and scanned her thinning curves
While I paused to grasp that final snapshot;
Enough for me to watch her caring touch
The way she would affably blot out my girlish tears
Crawling down her hands:
The backdoor now swings loudly, then quietly
Exposing run-down, decaying frames
Which rarely irks a mood so airy as that last smile
In twilight’s passing: Robed in clean lacy gown,
Dreary heaves falter to speak …if she only knew
I tucked my velvet dress for my child, O Mama’s legacy.
*
8/26/2019
If Only You Knew: Silent One’s Contest
*
the old mill reposes in the middle of the peppered autumn trees
spruced up under the jurisdiction of golden, yellow, red, maples
the scene cannot be captured in a photograph, it is soul searing
My throat clogs up and I gasp, full of childhood memories
I sit at the edge and watch the revolving spokes of the water wheel
the mini falls splash and dance at my feet; I inhale the scent of the woods
September has never felt so welcoming and loving
Tears dance in my eyes, as I am overcome with nostalgia and hope.
The last time I was here I thought I knew about the world
Traveling for the last thirty years proved that I knew nothing
Forgetting the feel of this sanctuary, of my roots
I give praise to God that He allowed me to return home.
I sit rolled in a corner
Almost forgotten
Quietly ignored
Crimson velveteen tufts
Densely packed
Underlay visible
Obscuring the majesty
Only ever ceremoniously unfurled
When dignitaries visit
The streets I cover
Usually covered in dust
Dirty and dank
Freshly cleaned
To impress and fool
In the fetid air
The tang of fresh paint
Dingy corners spruced
The homeless ushered away
Children beautifully laundered
Flowers lavishly garlanded
Overflowing bins emptied
So when I am laid out
And smart soles
Tread on my blushing fibres
The illusion is complete
And with my presence
The bare truth hidden
Fleetingly…
Till they have gone
And I am rolled away
Then in my absence
The putrid decay
Of real life resumes
Argh, I Ne'er Got Got Bran Did With...
A Muffin Top Before - Why Now!?
Impossible firm he (reed myth self)
to compete with Adonis, no way no chance
asthma gut busts over
waistband of sweatpants,
the choice couture,
asper this poet, who kant's
cease spewing regularly
(quotidian) raves and rants
years ago (another lifetime),
I partook of contra dance
sing, (and most casual suitable
place to find romance)
plus burn calories matter of fact,
a milieu to buff and enhance
physique, while simultaneously
kibitizing with great expanse
of pleasant gals and guys
one must not be afraid to prance
(albeit in accordance
with a caller on stage,
and maintain endurance)
synonymous with aerobic exercise,
and also act flirtatiously amorously glance
sing and/or stealing a French fried
kiss, yup dashing all
the way out to France,
yet returning just in time and proper,
or improper instance
all the while sustaining
the energetic activity over expanse
of a few hours (traditionally
held on Thursday evenings)
and for that block of time held in a trance,
asper...analogous to
spellbinding arrow or lance
suspended part way thru flight,
cuz all troubles troubles
temporarily melt away
which venue mentioned,
which small number of bucks one did pay
to participate among mine weekly highpoint,
where life liberty, and pursuit of happiness
which place this then akin to a cray
zee lee whirling dervish, did pine
to spruced himself up, and ready to hay
for four, thus sped without delay
this bag of lovely bones hapt tubby
more more trim, unlike
less physically fit body of today,
and scant finances find me find
foregoing joyfully
listening to musicians play
and healthily exhausted
with closing waltz,
thence out tummy car
yours truly did sashay!
It was all about a grim,
Foggy, smoggy, old Thursday night
In Hithergreen,
London’s belching south,
Below Europe’s icy, dark trees and
In the silence of grieving mornings . . .
Bulbous clouds bleeding with strained oomph
Would stir the ingravescence of patented ills.
The trains always come railing!
Railing loud and silly
Like heathen bandits with no shame.
But before such mornings,
A half-distilled liquored, low-brewed
Evening caused me tears
When I chopped onions.
A spruced up harlot was coming to dinner
By the way!
Oh, yes, from London’s bleached Soho,
Venue for awesome sex.
I may have forgotten to tell you, brother,
But through the insistence on cutting further deep,
There it stood!
Ilse Koch!
An old character!
She piled up arms against ashen flesh,
Fomenting tears to rain down on the faces of many.
And with each stare,
I asked for permission to be laconic
Just to preserve the dews
Of the heated stove near the chimney of an
Age-battered window of a grey, frazzled winter night.
After three decades and a kicking more,
I deem it glaring waste and blatant loss
To play sad part of second servile fiddle
In elite cadres agleam with ersatz gloss.
Whatever charged scrolls attuned to pelt
With loaded deterrents deft souls that try,
I now must with age's ever-tightening belt
Stand to trite spites and their swipes defy.
Despite your puffed plots sick to the brim,
Those smiling streaks quite honed to trim
Purest dreams spruced by endless hopes;
I must pull down your fog’s fettering ropes.
Your lusts-spitting spikes I'll at last shame,
And sink them beneath your gloomy mast;
None of your snaky snares again shall trap,
Nor any of your foiling fangs soil this name.
All your trussing tentacles I must bid adieu,
Now that I am at last wholly done with you!
Imagination reminds me of things I dare not remember
No idea if they happened or not
Certainly not swirling in pinks and oranges
the way I wanted things to do, amid black and white stripes
I was a modern era woman who adores the mixing of dots and stipes
No one does that! Until they did, famous designers, shaking us up.
Showing us that absolute means nothing. I adore everything sixties.
Memory brings me things I know probably did not happen
But they are spruced up and more exciting now and enthusiasm sells.
I gloss them over, and use psychedelic paint, and play them in my mind.
Satisfied with them.
Spruced, cleaned up, did up
It's been ages or so of corruption erupt
As yet, making heads or tails of disrupt
What could have been, a city of brotherly love
From, we will never blink free of
The once boom town of olden days, forgotten
With its forsaken downtrodden
Reflection of shattered wind hum
And vanished forebears, begotten
Times --News flash hearing
Bouncing back, itty-bitty
Fordtown, Motor City
Rousing, awakening, breathing
The start of a new beginning
Know-how, patcher uppers, mending
Casing, coating, covering
The fractured wounds of di-TRITE, history
By and by, one and all to see
That you're recovering so forth, to be
Time will camouflage all of thee
Leftover wounds, fade and shade
Generous amount, lipstick, paint, masquerade
To feather back in, the once decried
And find character domain with pride
No sense in holding, something, blurring
Expectation is in the purifying
Smell the wild breeze of futurity
Witness the buds blooming
And a sea of new faces developing
Promising, a forgetful time of *Big D* nebulous dreary
Every friggin day
mother hen runs amuck,
while all chicken's
beady eyes appear awestruck
drawing particular
agitation, irritation, perturbation...
of Punxsutawney (Doctor) Phil
(well grounded) woodchuck,
the latter glaring at henpecked
yours truly rifled
tail feathered rooster,
whether communicating
nonverbal sympathy
towards me, a garden variety
Gallus gallus domesticus dumbstruck,
who doth make feeble attempt
albeit without explaining
rhyme or reason
poetic, plaintive, pathetic... cluck,
regarding doomed pyrrhic victory
against incessant cackling
more fowl and upset
than goosed duck,
she that casus belli hideous source
feels cooped up bred to lay eggs
absent any pleasure to fµç*
out her tail feathers fin
hushed yoked for sole purpose
mutter under beak, what the "huck"
subsequently, she takes frustration
buzzfeeding me 'bout chained to
chicken feed to earn
breeder (yours truly) favorable luck
yielding "FAKE" farmer
Matthew Scott Harris megabuck
regarding top quality accolades
raves subsequently generate
he invariably feels moonstruck
matter of fact expanded business
necessitating workers to drive
state of the art rigorous motortruck
the missus decries mistreatment
scratching thru mire and muck
to fill little beasts in belly,
eventually retired, repurposed
relieved invariably chef
buoy or gull hardy sole destiny,
whereby one or another
hired hand will gingerly pluck
every spruced, primped,
groomed... feather
in short shrift priming
precious helpless creature,
(who bemoans lack
of state bird status)
into slaughterhouse five
butchered, filleted (maybe), quartered...
routed to household kitchen
gamely served at potluck
toothpicks applied to teeth
loosening gristle unstuck
after appetites satiated
belt unbuckled years ago
purchased before Sears Roebuck
shuttered stores, plus
bought linens and things
comfortable pillow perfect to tuck
under drowsy sudden sleepy head
unaware coop d'etat mutiny hatched,
whereby sly fox weasels him/
herself to guard henhouse
finding petrified slack beaked
AC/DC powered chicken coop,
where prating poultry thunderstruck.