Long Strummed Poems

Long Strummed Poems. Below are the most popular long Strummed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Strummed poems by poem length and keyword.


Cough Syrup

the beatles 
were right when 
they wrote day
tripper instead 
of night

~

flight of the bummble
bee could have been a
hummingbird but 
heard played on 
a tuba was an 
elephant that
couldn't
waltz

~

the warning label
clearly states that:

if combined
with alcohol
may induce
sleepiness

~

my doctor's warning
has always been my:

medication
if combined
with alcohol
may induce
sleepiness

i'm just
trying to
redefine:

mixed
drinks

~

so the poem

~

in the tentacles of floppy
chathuluesque suggested
relish not chutney but
relishing something
that might be more
than reefer madness
or the badass
happiness of
a once in a life
time opium ride
things don't seem
to slide or collide
they really are what
your guitar strummed
them into becoming
never flat as a tire 
or a Dali watch i
can't hang
around too
much unless
i truly want to
confess and
make myself

dead
dangling
hang man's 
noose told
the truth so
the truth be
told since i'm
just hanging
around i at
first thought
but now my
brain is just
stuck on an
oxygen loss
but this is
unusual
since
most
at this
moment
have ginger
bread neck snaps
and have pooped and
peed their own  pants 

butt i'm receiving
like an antenna
ant tv telling me
i need to keep
my teeth clean
not forgetting
to floss so
what's up
with that
pubic
hair

after
eating
a slice of
her hair oh
my her pie in
another poem
where sweetness
just dropped in the
other or what wait for
the other snowflake i let

her drift
in my head
all day maybe
be coming a
snow torn

ado
a do
a deux
      i did
        so, si, i do
Form:


Premium Member Focus On the Thumb

Some focus on hair, on legs, on muscles or on lips
   on feet, on shoulders, on arms or on hips

Yet though you may think it a bit odd or dumb
   my sole focus here will be on the thumb

Is the thumb worthy of a rigorous dissection like this?
   I'll let you be the judge of that in the final analysis...

The thumb, of course, is what makes us primates
   same as black and white stripes make men inmates

Speaking of distinction, the thumb's what babies suck
   and just you try from a babe's mouth that thumb to pluck!

When gardening it sure pays to have a thumb that is green
   while a handyman who's all thumbs is regularly demeaned

Then there are 'rules of thumb' based on real-life experience
   casting out hypotheses, guesses, and other such interference

Remember 'Tom thumb,' the tiny man once swallowed by a cow?
   King Arthur's favorite, he even tangled with giants - O, wow!

Such a graceful dancer was Hans Christian Anderson's 'Thumbelina'
   He could just as well have made her into a prima ballerina

I mustn't leave out Little Jackie Horner who famously
   stuck in his thumb and pulled out a plum!

And for those of you who like music some
   Imagine a guitar strummed without a thumb

So, in closing, to conclude, to summarize, in summary, in sum
   Just when was the last time your thumb went numb?!

Premium Member Night of Love In Andalusia

I lounge lazily on my deck chair 
up high in the spacious loggia 
loafing the time away, patient, waiting..... 

The ocean ebbs into the small bay 
as the sun sets far away over the horizon. 
From below electric lights flash on  
one by one and guitars are strummed. 
The smell of paella wafts up  
towards my rumbling stomach, 
but I sit on, unmoved, immobile, waiting. 

The summer heat is scarcely relieved 
by the faint ocean breeze.  Salty sweat 
runs down my unshaven face,  
a welcome taste as my tongue licks 
the sides of my parched lips. 

The murmur of people reaches me. 
She has arrived and the guitars sing.
So does my heart as I behold my wife.
Slowly she pirouettes on her dainty toes, 
her skirt resembling a veronica, 
like a cape that baits the bull 
in a Spanish bloody arena. 

I cannot see her red, red lips 
that taste like lavender in height of summer, 
I can just barely make out her silhouette, 
her sexual curves, her lithe footing, 
her inviting mien, her head held high, 
a proud senora dancing just for love. 
Soon the dance will end and I... 
why I just wait till she'll come to me, 
in the dark cover of the night. 
with a tequila and a night of love.

Premium Member The Moon Speaks with Forked Tongue

Night's crush spills black ink
the moon unzips hidden seams
turns souls inside out
foreboding haunts chokes the air
mystery bleeds from her face

Night leans on the shore
moon's breath a blade of silver
cooling tepid skin
the tide tongues open raw seams
salting wounds to sting and heal

Moon bends in bow arc
stringing light across the sea
searching for fractures
beneath the unblinking glare
shadows cower, faint, exposed

She writhes feral, drenched—
her breasts plunge in black water
eyes white with hunger—
she rips at our fraying threads,
raising fear to blaze with flame.

Hopes rise in moon's mist
drawn up by her silver hand
spilling into dreams—
she gathers us in like tides
weaving paths to becoming

Light stings into lust
with hymns strummed on naked thighs
a harp of end chords—
every string the ocean plucks
screams in time with tug of tide

Dawn scars the moon's face
her ghost hides behind torn clouds
soft unrepentant—
the lilt of her vanished hymn
echoes a throb in our bones

Oh sister of night
oracle of ebb and surge
you hiss with forked tongue—
what prophecy do you bear
light's mercy or void's abyss?
Form: Lyric

The Cliffs of Sand and Sea

The music 
is her breath, 
or…wind…

into the open
bottle. The songs
of folk-lore.

***

Around her bon-fire, 
embers sear the sleeve,
of her Hoodie;

The sparks 
are as red
as the blood

of a burst 
aneurism.

Thus...
she could have

a "broken heart".

The sparklers
in their hands,

the flames
of our Sun,
dressing

the edges...
of Sorrento Cliffs,
that think

they could
conquer
the sky.

The beach
in a dream...
melts the sea

and sky 
into a flesh-
colored

palette
of all
light browns.

I said,
She listened...
I like her.
***
A chord,
of a guitar, 
strummed; 

a piano
played
by ear. 

Meg rocked
to the melody
of her life.

Human-like 
spirits...Gods…
in her eyes.

***

He remembers:
The 1940s- 
a decade 

as dark 
as a tree
in the night…

to me.

A poet’s verse. 
By 
Walt Whitman.

The "Nor' Easter"
crushes...

yet...

the snow
falling:

hush...

such a
yearning 
is mine.

***

Dissection…
of the sentence;
a line...

" No, this is a true story!"

The story…

as simple 
as the BUD 

in Spring,

as complex
as the flower,

as it BLOOMS.


Most Mind Boggling Mysterious Mortal

Mystification prevails stupefying yours truly
befuddled, he blindly stumbles along rocky
pathway illusory impediments strewn helter
skelter intangible obstructions hinder access
psychological barricades effective impasse

detains, deters, detours manhood maturation
manumission manifestation materialization
linkedin, when permanent submission arises
beckoning corporeal leaden entity into avast
eternal realm, where material disintegration

promises venerable salvation releasing angst
strummed plucked fretful existence denied
utmost exploration sequestered soul hermit
tickly sealed courtesy custom made NON-
GMO supercalifragilous expialidocious

airtight, vacuum sealed with trademarked
matts scott good housekeeping approval
lifetime achievement award maintaining
quasi pristine mint like condition afford
double (FREE for the taking) full refund

if dissatisfied with stutt...tut...tut tearing
functionality, yet batteries NOT required
and assembly unnecessary, but maximum
remaining life usage, asper garden variety
mutant requires preservation within sterile

bubble, lest exposure to human contact are
rouse dormant (latent) propensity breeding
biologically pre programmed predilection
to propagate species, this despite low libido
level, thus Memorial sale steal (actually no

expiration coincides with natural longevity)
slight depreciation before cessation arises,
which I project - little less than half life of
ordinary Earthling, whose quixotic, poetic,

ecologic, plus conscientious ethos promises
greater fulfillment, sans spirit, mind, and
body versus being addicted, hypnotized, or
tranquilized by latest technologic contraption.

Premium Member School Time Crush

Will You Go to the School Prom With Me?
 I Promise I Won't Shout With Glee.

This is very hard to say.
I feel like I had to say.
As I watch you at school every day,
I try to let you know. However, I stay at bay.

You captured my heart a long time ago;
the first time you smile at me, I did know.
I could not let the thought go,
reflection past when we were young
my heart strummed and sung.

You are special. You're amazing in all I see.
My heart ignites blazing curiosity.

I just love the way your ginger locks embrace,
fall and trace around your face.
When I look into your dark chocolate eyes,
I melt and feel the shining in the sunlight skies.

I love the way you laugh when you're around your friends.
You are the  fresh breath and light eager to start the day until it ends. 

I don't know how to say;
when I am near you, I fear, I want to run away.

You drive me to want to reach the unreachable,
to touch the untouchable.

I was wondering if you could be my date
for the school prom. I promise, promise I won't let you wait. 

Make my dream come true and a chance at romance.
We will listen to the music and dance;
your heart with mine I chose.
I promise I won't step on your toes.

2/1/2019

Poetry Contest: School time crush 
Sponsored by: Faraz Ajmal
© Eve Roper  Create an image from this poem.
Form: Rhyme

Premium Member When Love Takes Flight

Of all fond thoughts held deep within the heart			
Like strings lightly strummed fly with agile wings			
Take flight yet never from my mind depart				
Soar as wandering clouds where angels sing				
Thrilling depths unknown and conscious thriving
			
Meant for few who’ve neutered malice thinking			
Free of hate and void of carnal striving				
Loosed from the pull of gravity’s sinking				
Launched to heights reserved near omnipotence			
God is there, since love is His personage
				
Displayed, arrayed in great magnificence				
Building a home of divine parsonage					
Forever to reign in heaven’s glory					
Love is the wind and might of the story
© Tom Valles  Create an image from this poem.
Form: Sonnet

Premium Member Ukulele

(A Tribute to  Bruddah Iz: Hawaiian musician, singer, songwriter, and Hawaiian sovereignty activist May 20, 1959 – June 26, 1997) - Wikipedia
 
A soft sweet sound he strummed with glee:
“What a Wonderful World It Is!”
Such songs he sang for you and me.
A soft sweet sound he strummed with glee.
Hawaiian landscapes we could see
on hearing songs of Bruddah Iz.
A soft sweet sound he strummed with glee:
“What a Wonderful World It Is!”

His ukulele Iz still plays,
for he’s where peace and love abide,
and island sunsets are ablaze!
His ukulele Iz still plays.
“Over the Rainbow” he now stays
with angels singing on that side!
His ukulele Iz still plays,
for he’s where peace and love abide.

Nov. 6, 2022 
for Writing Challenge - Unburden a ''U'' Word- Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Form: Triolet

Aint It Funny How It Is


   I like the accidental, 
incidental
way- the mist kisses and lifts from the timberline, 
like angelic lung 
that breathes it all in,
drifts to the next flowering, 
a honey bee in a land of fairy as our heart's 
flutter and are arrow stung, eros strung.

The way the sun facets its beam in
shutter glistened wink, 
balance hung in the cascadency of echo-system, 
beats, chirps, wakings strummed.
How loving that the lens is left open to show 
we are live radiantly in a song and not alone, 
not a curse of one.

I like how food just happens to be,
a bounty of giving, 
a consistent conglomeration congealed upon itself 
and presented as social happenstance 
of living happened stance,
aroma of heart lance of delicious varietal trance 
of sustenance. 
In colors decadent,
juices, magnificent enough to be
a cuisine, cuisinart machinery.

I like the sunrise, how it presents itself in 
a theatrical opening credit,
the greeting anew, all be it-
the salutationed dew, sparkling,
chirping song-ward, music impending- 
foreshadowed-Mother's teet 
sending milk in perfect flow,
"in a brilliance of only One who is in the know". 
A verse spoken  long-words tokened in a windswept mansions of Holy dimensions-vowed.
In patterned tale cameowed mosaic chord 
of harmonic scale to tell, the sunset to bow.
the grandeur of a days production, 
setting silhouette cast and an amen 
and again by the moon to watchover as sentinel 
who keeps watch for,
in the promise of dawn,
in wait, stagelight
drawing ready 
to perform from- behind the curtain again.
Aint It Funny How It Is.
art
Form: Rhyme

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