Long Startlingly Poems
Long Startlingly Poems. Below are the most popular long Startlingly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Startlingly poems by poem length and keyword.
A Poem-A-Day:
And today, by the way,
I so badly wanted to envision a sunlit sail,
the sunlight on the sail that has just manifested like a dream sifting through a partially clouded sky, perhaps...
or maybe
the solitary sail is under a startlingly sharp blue sky that is cloudless.
And maybe the wind really whipped the colorless sail. Or it was almost still as it smoothly slid by, like the evening star cast across the heavens slips so quietly, boldly across the night...to become the morning star.
I so wished for the sailor to be very distant, although he sailed too close...
Of course, love has preferences:
I prefer eyes sort of like, yours.
Misty at times,
And at others, deeply dark and
Startlingly invasive – no point
In trying to keep secrets from such
Penetrating eyes. Then there are those
Moments of unsettling absence. I attempt
Vainly to enter your silence, gain needed
Access to mysterious inner parts kept
From me...I try to cross the meridians
Keeping souls necessarily private, where
One meditates and prays in solemnity. My need to
For safe familiarity, juxtaposed with
With strange planets and alien landscapes
Each mortal possesses and senses to
Sacredly guard. Yet I track your disturbing
Aloofness. As a hound on the scent. Into
Whirlpools of privacy where no uninvited
Sojourner has right to venture. No one
Should attempt to know another that entirely,
That consuming. Yes, love has preferences. Like
Your dainty bell ears, and adorable ski nose --
And very large feet~ all for the next poem.
She is young, startlingly pretty. He notices her when she takes a chair.
Be with you in a few, he tells her.
Look at the samples if you like.
She picks up photos of his art and begins thumbing through it.
Her skin is exquisitely beautiful.
He does not see this until she is behind the curtain with him.
She hops up on the table and looks at him with solemn amber eyes.
Did you see something you like?
She shakes her head ‘no’.
Her skin is virginal. He feels weird about this.
What do you want?
A new butterfly, an original. Something you have never done.
He nods.
Lots of markings, she said. Details.
Would anyone mind? He asks her gently.
Tears form but she blinks them away.
Not anymore.
Wordlessly the tattoo artist picks up his tools and begins
Determined to make her the most elegant butterfly he has ever created.
Lance was a drifter, a gypsy, a loner, a lone wolf. Proud of it.
Not a highway man, not a flim-flam man, but a man who had traveled and knew things.
He had never settled down.
Or so he thought.
Until he met Lucy.
He recognized her instantly.
A blue-eyed, dark-haired gal with a personality that preceded her into nightclubs.
She had the best laugh in six counties.
A girl with a song in her heart.
A woman who had no idea how startlingly pretty she was.
She captured him instantly.
When Lance turned and looked into her eyes,
He knew he had come home.
He would never be a happy drifter again.
He had met his world.
She did not realize.
Had no idea,
but he was determined and he pursued her recklessly.
It became annoying and disturbing.
She was fearful of him.
He became angry.
Another mean woman, teasing him, leading him on.
He never realized he was the problem.
He was given his eighth restraining order, and mad as hell about it.
Just another tease.
What is wrong with all of these women? He wondered.
Never recognizing his smothering, incessant, exasperating, ways frightened them.
Never seeing himself the way others saw him.
Lance, drifter, a gypsy, a loner, a lone wolf, meeting his true love in every bar nightly.
What does autumn sunshine gloriously reveal?
When the sun sets too swiftly in the west keel
When a breeze said, "Sweetheart, I admire you."
Now moan the dying chords of the gloomy view?
The cold that begets each blurred leaf moans,
It clangs inside the veins and blisters the bones.
I loathe the mellowed tones of the clock thrum,
The hallway of time strikes a brilliant hoodlum.
I'm ridden that the fig's fallen leaves can't be undone,
I queried, yet has been unfit to mend the core bone.
Those dreary addenda appear to float on the vein,
And reflect my adamant dismay to me within.
He was fraught before dying startlingly,
A load of the burden of debt is crushing loosely.
Then, he learned a lot from this position,
Judge people who have plaid in fiscal coercion.
Hide behind the fig leaf, in the shadow,
Hide behind it your heart's calm to follow.
Never trust that fig leaf; it has a bark
Snack and taste from my oozy limp mark.
It's the fabled stint to delve into the spurts of life,
Lacking a fig leaf, you might swap bare in strife.
None left after the last leaf fell on the ground,
Also, each one saw it clearly, but no sound.
Written: March 28, 2022
1ST Place Contest Winner
This or That, Vol 11 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Sister Mare, here is one last tear in your honor, coughed up indignantly
Without a bit of sanctimonious thought or belief that you might care
You, my poor choice sister, have long ago abandoned us significantly,
I had lost concern and caring, but you have a faithful sorrowful mother, Mare.
She pines during the days, and defends your honor when I whisper
My big brother feelings were never important to you, and maybe not to her.
I will give you one last tear, in your honor, and I will shed it little sister.
Today, feeling dead, in front of your plain grave, I stare through my tears, that blur.
Mom could not come to your service, for she is not well these past ten years.
You have no knowledge of this, keeping yourself numbed with the drugs.
She would drowned in unhappiness if she knew the culmination of her fears.
In lucid moments she prays for you, and lives so you will give her final hugs.
Yours always meant so much, for they were great, when you were in your mind.
In recent years, you have been a stranger, living merely one town away.
Sister, a sadder tale in our family, I could probably never find.
Startlingly white clouds are smiling upon your resting place today.
One last tear, and then I have to go. I have a family now, a wife, and two boys.
They do not know about you, and I will not ever burden them with your story.
One last tear, and I am dropping a last gift, your box of childhood toys.
Maybe someone will come by, and pick them up and praise your undeserved glory.
One last tear, but then I go. I have a life …
I smother my face
In the coolness of the nighttime breeze,
Gently chafing my cheeks
Singing its nocturnal lullaby,
And the soft creaking of my rocking chair
Adding to the melody
I watch
As what remains of the warm amber glow
Gradually begins to fade
Into the darkness
Of indigos and violets
I then start to notice
The routinely chain of events unraveling
From the corner of my eye
Brief, minuscule bursts
Of bright green light
Infiltrate the air, grass and trees
All around
The indifference
Of a thousand chirps
Emanate from the encompassing world
Advising me to give in
To my arising slumberous tendencies
I obey.
A loud rustling
Jolts me from my state
And I awaken, startled
As a vast shadow
Startlingly bursts through
From, precisely, nowhere
My dazed self,
Now petrified by
The utter incomprehensibility
Of the moment,
Fails to notice
The stern gaze
Of the newly present owl
Observing me
Hesitant in my movements,
I timidly turn my head
Towards the beast,
Its eyes burn yellow
With the simple notion
Of true reality
I gaze back,
Intimidated,
The creature’s knowledge
Utterly overwhelming
I soon realize
That I needn’t to ask
A thing of it,
For it carried the wealth
Of a million lifetimes,
It knew
The answer to every question,
Any ponderous thought
That has ever been inquired
By man
This singular creature
Apathetically diminished
Any sense of superiority
But
From my first blink
In what seemed a fortnight,
It vanished
Along with
Its looming insight.
Maradona, ice palace princess was more formidable than we knew
Her reputation was startlingly modest, said the soothsayer, Lou.
She led the dragon brigade in January, stated snowy owl, a friend.
Her army annihilated the enemy, I mean to a devastating end.
Heaven’s pink angel bird messenger warned us of her arrival.
We wondered if we would be able to thrive, or just hope for survival.
Crystal cavern frost monger told us of her daring and dangerous feats.
Some of the stories were so outrageous, I listened to all the repeats.
She is on her way to winter palace, it has a few powdered blue roofs.
It might still have some dents on it from Santa’s reindeer’s hard hoofs.
Maradona rode on a white burly elk by way of Lebrabreeze valley.
She is the kind of ice princess you do not want to find in a dark alley.
The dragons were snarling, growling, and looking for places to hide.
Maradona is dangerous, she kills folk everywhere including outside.
Don’t be fooled by her fabulous rhinestone-like ice crystals and smile.
She has slaughtered many in this country, she has cunning and guile.
Cats and dogs were hiding in snowbanks, covering up with blue snow.
Guardians of Nostradamus society had barely any place to go.
We were frenzied when white elk marched Maradona up the frosty hill.
Glistening snow was silent, ice crystals adding to this January chill.
Diabolical Maradona can give you dreams, from her translucent wings.
Her pearlized crown is amazing, the envy of presidents and kings.
Her wisdom and whimsy whirls in so fast, you are thrown off your feed.
What else in this world would her sentinels, the white wolf dogs need?
Chopping wood sounds like shots - gunshots.
If they are done right, and these are.
Chop. Chop.Chop. Shot. Shot. Shot.
I am outside, writing in the sun.
My hands are startlingly warm.
A sense of well-being surrounds me.
A pink aura has me in her grasp.
The wood chopping sound gets my attention for a second.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
I look up at a weird angle and there is a rainbow reflection in my glasses.
The sound has stopped.
I thank God that it is not gunshots. It is only wood chops.
I hear them during hunting season here, and I guess every two weeks or so at school.
I do not want to get used to them.
It is bad enough that my students have.
They no longer look up.
Cunning and tricky for a youth of today
I was a fool to fall for your playful way
I should cut my visit but I don’t know how.
For your furious apology is a startlingly wow.
Quit looking at pink stars with obvious full fair.
You are notoriously vain, this I can share.
I should run from the hills, saving my soul too.
But alas I am prowling and howling joy for you.
Wolf in your mind with dainty magic caravan.
I am your minion, flapping in the sunlight of flair.
Sizzling for your touch, sparkling for you, my man.
My zippy happy magi, luring my soul back to your lair.
Written 7-11-2020
Contest Lipogram
Sponsor Emile Pinet