Long Swaggers Poems
Long Swaggers Poems. Below are the most popular long Swaggers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Swaggers poems by poem length and keyword.
After a breathtaking day, watching skaters perform on ice;
Returning to the bus station on a cold, dark, January night,
Paulette, happily reflects on a day she will not forget.
Awaiting her parents arrival, under the empirical clock,
A seedy man swaggers toward her,
His crooked nose tilted on his face,
His clenched fist opens, offering candy, feigning kindness,
"Take it, Take it, come with me"...
The hands of the clock stopped, with the pounding
Of Paulette's 10 year old heart.
For: "Paulette - 1" Poetry Contest
Date: 11/18/21
Sponsor: Julia Ward
He touches me in the early dawn
Hours before the chickens start to
Peck the rich, toasted earth around
Their pen, clucking with enthusiasm
For the tassels of rich emerald lawn
Coming away with them as they peck
Relentlessly with a fervor that dances
Merrily to the tune of cackling, fussing
Peppered with crows from the rooster’s
Fertility gloating, he swaggers, preening
Sensing the way his heart will mourn
On the days the hen sits on her almond
Shaped eggs, awaiting the time when
There will be new life tapping its way
Through the tough shells to be trained
By the hen to feed, bath and seek
Refuge, as I chase out the lines
Of his hands against my breast in the
Morning, while we embrace, caressing
Sighing, whispering, just before the light
Shines down from the sky to warm my
Thighs and trace a glimmer of hope
Along the edge of the silent night
August 20, 2020
This dirty little diner is the soul of the community.
Serving brackish coffee and dirty honey buns.
To moon-dusted customers on their morning run.
Location, location, location always trumps quality.
The place is packed with twitchy blue-collar rats.
The sniffling cook swaggers in with a greasy bandana.
Pops an egg's yellow cap with his long, dirty finger.
I know some of the patrons saw it, yet they linger.
As far as I can see,
the intestines of the ancient coffee machine
seem impossible to scrub and thoroughly clean.
The blue mooners don't seem to mind the grime or sweaty eggs.
All night and day they keep gurgling up from gutter and grate.
To slurp cuisine that may not wear an expiration date.
My turn, I place what I perceive to be the cleanest order.
A small glass of O.J. a humble bagel with cream cheese.
I slide coyly off to the side like an undercover spy.
With visions of dirty over-easy greasing my queasy mind.
I've seen more than enough horror and get cold feet.
Like a yellow-lipped roach, I scurry for the door.
Fleeing the blue moon with little guilt, without grime or grease.
Romance in Nature is filled with dancing and singing, and a little color.
~ Poet
A sprightly creature shares my home.
Little beige gecko, oft times green,
regards my porch as if his own.
Many hours he may be seen
from railing to roof, and in between.
My porch, his favored retreat,
filled with ferns and jasmine yellow,
provides his shelter, idyllic and neat.
He loses his temperament mellow
when time to challenge another fellow.
At mating time, he struts proudly.
Neck swollen, throbbing ruby from red,
he swaggers and performs loudly.
Prancing around without dread,
he becomes the male he sees in his head.
Ah! The Golden Years of Hollywood
And those old black and white movies
Some were cinematic disasters
But some you could call quite groovy
Even now, my heart skips a beat
When one appears on the late night screen
I choke up a bit seeing John Wayne
As he swaggers in and out of the scene
Today with its technology and trickery
We don't know if people are real
Or made up computer animation dudes
To me, it seems way too surreal
Take me back to the Spaghetti Westerns
The gangster films of Cagney and Bogart
The Three Stooges, Abbott and Costello
Loved them all, that was cinematic art
The stunning sensuality of Ingrid Bergman
The glamour of a young Liz Taylor
The bombshell beauty of Marilyn Monroe
Bardot, Betty Grable and more
The newsreels, the cartoons, the travelogues
And the giant blockbusters of the time
Sure was a lot for twenty-five cents
Plus popcorn and a drink for a dime
Ah! The Golden Years of Hollywood
Great musicals like “Singing In The Rain”
“An American In Paris” with Gene Kelly
Sure wish I could go back there again
© Jack Ellison 2014
Ah! The Golden Years of Hollywood
And those old black and white movies
Some were cinematic disasters
But some you could call quite groovy
Even now, my heart skips a beat
When one appears on the late night screen
I choke up a bit seeing John Wayne
As he swaggers in and out of the scene
Today with its technology and trickery
We don't know if people are real
Or made up computer animation dudes
To me, it seems way too surreal
Take me back to the Spaghetti Westerns
The gangster films of Cagney and Bogart
The Three Stooges, Abbott and Costello
Loved them all, that was cinematic art
The stunning sensuality of Ingrid Bergman
The glamour of a young Elizabeth Taylor
The bombshell beauty of Marilyn Monroe
Bardot, Betty Grable and more
The newsreels, the cartoons, the travelogues
And the giant blockbusters of the time
Sure was a lot for twenty-five cents
Plus popcorn and a drink for a dime
Ah! The Golden Years of Hollywood
Great musicals like “Singing In The Rain”
“An American In Paris” with Gene Kelly
Sure wish I could go back there again
THE UNICORN
Ever seen a more beautiful sight?
She is drowning into the wind
All sail set,
Triple tangled,
Purple pearl gears,
Glittering glassy artilleries,
Unrivalled weaponry.
Isn't she a beauty
She's got the wind behind.
Look at the velocity she's setting,
Barely noticing the Barbados.
With a grip of urn full of rum
And the finest of tobacco
The hearts of the sail's set
For the audacity of hope.
The red pennant,
The blood line's cold
And every sea captain
Looks upon that flag
For he knows he faces a fight to death
And then he saw her,
As an apparition mounting from the dead.
The sea rose in it watery execution.
But I was told sea lion don't flee
From the wavers watery wonders.
Instead, he staggers not but swaggers on
Until they sail past the North Pole
And trodden upon the sands of Sahara.
VickWizzy
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright ©2014.
The trees crowd in along the broken trail,
sunlight tries to push through, but mostly fails,
straight trunks spread out and obscure distant gaze,
there’s eyes out there, watching, afraid they’re prey.
Ahead a break grows larger with each step,
cerulean against the forest depth,
the summit rock cresting half of the peak,
this vantage sought by many weary feet.
Red squirrels chitter and dash as I emerge,
I want to shout, but I restrain the urge,
swellings of peaks spread out like tapestries,
their secrets hid beneath the endless trees,
a slash of gray where earth cuts through in stone,
Mother Nature is lost without her bones,
then rips of blue, a ribbon swaggers slow
to wild ponds saved by being remote,
marsh meadows near sometimes reveal a moose,
but today only mallards are in view.
Beyond this lies a scar, a bigger lake,
fringed by cabins and docks, stretching out straight,
above it all vultures fly on the breeze,
their slow circles effortless and lazy,
to think such birds get this view every day…
Who knows if again I will pass this way.
For Miranda Hawley's Dance Of...Contest
Cleared from mistakes past ,he greets love reclaimed
His ardor fierce as dreams untethered swing.
Moments of anger, jealousy now tamed:
Again, night's rhapsodies begin to
sing.
His woman alights, dressed in bridal
lace...
Her lover honoring a misty glance
Petal- kissed within their own world's
embrace
Where flamed waltz glides...on dips of shadow- dance.
And male fingers cascade down through her
waist
Bronzed hands tracing her every hourglass curve,
Enamored by swaggers of season's wait;
No other movement , their footsteps could swerve.
It would take whirls of lifetime to explain
This unrehearsed dance beneath moonlit rain.
John
Is 65 and a tall man
Dressed in a white suit and tie
With nice tennis shoes fuzzy socks
And some hair plopped on top.
Mary is 24 with blond hair and a smile so fun
Her sweetness tosses like sugar
Across the party of every room
She enters.
Her contagious smile has been erased
Behind her virus mask
Yet still gloriously escapes
Through her crinkled blue eyes
Her heaving cheek bones and that guttural ha! laugh.
Down the aisle they walk together
Between all the seated people
Mary steadying John by the arm
Whispering to his agitated face
With the palm of her hand and several Kleenexes
His heavy weight leaning
Into her strength and beauty.
John
Lives comfortably in a nice house
Enjoys retiree health care and a full pension
For his immediate family
Until he dies.
Mary
Has no health care
No 401(k) vacation or sick time
Makes $12.50/hour
And lives in a little ground floor apartment
In the middle of the city with a cat.
She can’t help herself
Happy anyway.
He staggers
She swaggers.
The two reach John’s mother
Up front
Cloaked in a beautiful blue dress
Surrounded by candles and photographs
Her hands clenched around a bouquet of flowers
A half smile
No longer blocked by a mask
As she lies asleep in her coffin.
Mary holds John up by the waist
His mask hinged to his jaw and ears
While he makes muffled squeals
And pokes his mother’s body.
Mary turns him around
Draws him back to his pew
Everyone sitting six feet apart
Crying
More for John than his mother.
Mary takes it in stride
For she cleans his behind after accidents
Lifts him up from sidewalks after he’s fallen
Feeds him food from a spoon
Wipes his chin
And when he screams at the top of his lungs
She tries to remind him
The old comfort of his forgotten name
John John
But that never works
Yet when she says it’s Mary Mary
He sometimes recognizes something
Far away
And can quiet for her
There is no Medicare reimbursement for this
She
Alone as an angel
Drives home for the night
In a beat up car
Her magic performed
Poorer
But richer
Than what any CEO could ever imagine in space.