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.
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:
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?!
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.
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?
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.
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.
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
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
(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
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.