Long Swing Poems
Long Swing Poems. Below are the most popular long Swing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Swing poems by poem length and keyword.
The endless Forest is showcasing,
The beauty of Nature ,so satisfying.
Green and green everything,
Where life is the most happening .
Nature’s harmony on its whole swing,
As if all have got virtual wings.
So soothing and life defining,
Nature itself is rehearsing .
To witness this is amazing,
Proposition of life is redefining.
Negativity is quickly receding,
Positivity is strongly magnifying.
Yes nature is still self-sustaining,
If we are not interfering .
Let me be a part of this learning,
It secretly touches my soul’s lining.
Nature and its divine dealing,
Always promotes self-healing.
What is beauty to me?
Beauty is the walk of a woman in heels
The swing and sway of her hips
The subtle uncertainty of her steps
The vulnerability in her eyes
As she feels all the staring eyes
Devouring her beauty
There is nothing more charming
Than the little girl look in her eyes
As she enjoys the attention
But at the same time is uncomfortable
In the role of a seductress
What is beauty to me?
The sweet woman smell as she approaches
Nothing in the whole world
Either natural or manufactured
Can even come close to equaling
This ravishing potion that says love
In no uncertain terms, the message comes through
Loud and clear without a word being spoken
As males of the species
We are uncontrollably under her spell
What is beauty to me?
Woman!
Act Eight, Chapter One. Part Three
Part of a grander play.
A house in conflict.
We are mere players
on this vast infinite stage.
Nothing is accomplished
Nothing is compromised
Fire of infernos n creation intertwined
Struggle for the soul of an innocent child,
the house rocks.
With the kindred of the damned
For what is at stake,
the soul of my little girl.
Her smile fading from memory.
A Holy War is waged.
Jihad!
The lines are drawn in the sand,
In blood, in time
The plans are conspired upon,
priest gather like a rooks
full of murderous cold books.
Heaven's own Holy Judgment.
Their cloaks flapping in the wind
like black wings.
Crucifixes swing...
The doctors, generals
and captains of industry
buy time with their technology
and very little understanding.
Pages from holy grimoire flutter,
fly into the night.
My child crises
I feel a piece of me withering…
My eyes blur in tears with rage
and
I scream,
WHY!
My must my little girl die.
I feel her suffering.
As that sinister black thing is grinning…...
III of III
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
morning light slants gold
through venetian blinds, slow as honey.
summer stretches its limbs,
yawns across the porch swing,
and time dissolves like sugar in iced tea.
hubby’s hand in mine—dry warmth,
the rustle of leaves underfoot,
a conspiracy of squirrels.
the woods don’t care about our plans,
and that’s the gift~
nowhere to be but here,
no clock but the sun filtering down.
December arrives wrapped in laughter,
a tangle of mismatched chairs,
too many forks, not enough plates.
someone always burns the rolls.
the carols rise anyway~
off-key, overlapping,
a chaos of joy sharp as pine needles.
blank pages are kinder
than mirrors.
They never judge~
only wait.
My pen bleeds
stories, coffee stains, and
ink smudges like bruises
I’m proud to carry.
the wind howls its complaints,
rattles the windowpanes.
I let it.
the mug warms my palms,
steam curling into the air
like a ghost of comfort.
The cocoa is too sweet.
I drink it anyway.
Empowered women young
So glamorous as their clothes swing.
A glimpse of them gives men a boost
Not to lose their zest.
The young women of Delhi.
Most modern to down to earth Desi!
Punjabi, Marathi, Madarasi, Gujarati, Bengali, North East!
And all mixed Desi!
Dwindling their silicon bosoms
Twinkling their cultured eyebrows.
The will to live a life
Not just exist in the male strife.
In the city of multitude
Being a capital of a million attitude.
Many in pants,
Many in chudidhars*.
Provoking the young of men.
The angels of the city mad!
Where are you moving with phones mobile?
Your movements make the hearts of many a man mobile.
Oh! Always calling or getting called.
The wonder machine (mobile) wonders
For being blessed to be between your ears and lips
While doing the service to the lips.
Oh! Beauties!
You deserve a crusader prize.
For surviving the crowded Blue lines
Cowardice teasers beelines
Bossing over bosses at office.
Dictating men at houses
Surviving the age-old vices
Attending to brothers, parents, in-laws and out laws
Still striving for reservation laws
Thirty three percent** would set free many more
Will it set the men free of their sore?
* Women’s wear
**Government proposes to grant 30% reservation to women in the Parliament & also
in jobs.
A radiant star was born one day,
Amidst salary challenges, hardship's sway,
Her parents toiled, their sweat and tears,
To forge a brighter future, calm all fears.
Like phoenix rising, she emerged anew,
Her choices bold, as if the world pursued,
Her watchword, determination, shone so bright,
Guiding her through life's turbulent, darkest night.
Risk-taking's lessons, though bitter, she did learn,
And from each scar, her strength did yearn,
Her work ethic, a symphony of might,
Diligence, dedication, beauty, shining bright.
Her name, a benediction, prayer, and creed,
A testament to her essence, noble deed,
As celestial choirs sing in celebration high,
May heaven's gates swing wide, her prayers reply.
May answers come, and greatness be her guide,
Empowering her soul, her heart's deepest tide,
For Blessing, a star that shines so bold,
A radiant light, that never will grow old.
And in her heart, a fire burns so free, igniting a soul that's unstoppable, wild, and carefree!
With every step, she paves her own way,
Through trials and tribulations, she'll face the day,
Unbroken, unbowed, her spirit will soar,
A true warrior, rising, forever more.
CHILDREN OF THE WINTER GARDEN
Snowdrop pokes her little face
Up through the winter snows;
First she comes before the Crocus
First she is to go.
Dainty Daphne dressed in white
Such fragrance spreading from her flowers;
January’s child surely knows
She lifts the heart through frigid hours.
Red Amaryllis steals the show,
Dramatic thespian we remember;
Performing under many names,
Takes her bows in December.
Cyclamen blooms at Valentine’s Day
In red or pink or white;
Reminds us of our friendship ways
A valentine delight.
Bleeding Heart, a name so sad
Doesn’t this bother you, just a tad?
Valentine blossoms on a string
In the woodlands rides on a swing.
Winter Carolina Jasmine
Stretches out upon the fence;
Brightest yellow trumpet flowers -
Fragrance like sweet incense.
Holly wears a cape of green
Bright red berries with a glossy sheen;
Celebrates in the winter scene
Doesn’t want to look so mean!
Courageous Crocus in the cold
You laugh at snow with glee;
Dressed in your gown of colors bold,
Such a cheerful child to see.
Paper Whites coaxed to grow
When calendar pages turn to December;
Pure white flowers seem to glow
As gifts for friends we remember.
LEADING VIOLIN
The maiden's euphoric fugue
The arrogant stretched notes of the violin plague
Lightening and softening rough edges mark
Blues and browns duet with the sways
of thick auburn hair and round voluptuous behind. . .
What message she wants to rain?
What joy she wants to fire?
Or is it wrath she wants to spill?
Her libretto casts a paint of dullness around
yet, it resurrects her curves to swing...
Bareback moans a prudent chaste appeal
Vibrato runs along the brush of Sotskova
________________________________________
Inspired by: "LEADING VIOLIN" painting of Lena Sotskova
8:07pm, January 16,2015
In the sandbox of my memory
reasons come and go
Castles worn in corners scorned
left without a moat
Granulated laughter
idle unreleased
Waiting for a last return
covered over deep
The jungle gym sits dormant
a mass of rusted links
One ring missing ladder gone
the rope swing short and kinked
The teeter totter frozen
its pivot rusted tight
The sliding board a one-way trip
fading into night
The sandbox of my memory
where feelings go to die
My childhood friends whose echo’s rend
timeless bye and bye
Still one last voice is buried
deep within the grains
The one I shunted until now
—calling out my name
(The New Room: August, 2022)
I was not in the mood for fishing
though i brought all the gear and
Settled into my comfortable mode
Of tranquil bliss by the edge of the pool
But you being the older wiser trout
Stirred the stillness of the pool
Your proud fin cutting the surface
Like a sharpened tool waning and listing
Your tail following as you flung yourself
Like a trapeze artist with an invisible swing
The tree branches hung low overhead
Like a circus tent and i with a front rose seats
Watched in awe and surprise
As if every fish scale glittering in the sun
Was a diamond and with your final splash
As you arched your torso and disappeared
Beneath the blanket of water I cried
Tears of joy of love tears of joy of loss
And tears of joy of being serenaded by
A voiceless wise old trout