Long Swiveling Poems
Long Swiveling Poems. Below are the most popular long Swiveling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Swiveling poems by poem length and keyword.
It was dark...
I was on board
A running mind off the long board
A sleeping mind across the board
A winning mind over a long sword...
I saw children around me
Abducted, crying before me
Crippled, reaching out for me
Worn and disheartened, following me...
On the very same train I'm locked up
Children of innocent faces blotched
Can't imagine how we've all packed up
Can't see any window or door unlatched...
Children of ages five to nine with grime
Teens and adults aged twelve to nineteen
Befuddled and unnourished by torments of time
Soft bodies, bruised and mashed like gelatin...
I started walking inside the cursed train
Children, one by one, followed in pain
Following me like melted candles in chains
Growing up inside the unlitted train that drains...
Then slowly the runaway train stopping and halted.
As I reached the end of the runaway train
Faces of shamed lives wired with strain
An open door swiveling as wind blows the train
A new hope flashing at blown away-train...
Parents longing outside the train are in glisten
Each prisoner of runaway train freed
Me, watching the victims of the stricken
Redeemed and relieved of hearts that bleed...
I woke up... t'was just a dream!
In the pristine jade landscape
the terrain rolls undulating...
the panorama of pristine cadence,
on its entrenched earthen cradle
shaped for a serene lake…
sublimely supine sparkling,
the sapphire crystal face looks up
toward the cerulean sky...
mesmerized.
The gliding southern zephyr
whispers an enticing melody
to the dancing ripples…
intensely passionate concentric rhythm,
sliding on the slithering shadows of trees,
lining the contours of the lapping shore...
adorned.
The wavering lotus leaves float
on the vibration of pulsating fervor,
the full bloom scarlet flush of flower
makes the collage of a fiery tapestry
with the feathers of flaming flamingos,
their ballerina legs wading
the emerald waters in avian grace,
their supple napes swiveling
in arty show of aquatic ballet...
surreal.
In the hypnotic gleam of the setting sun
I watch the lacustrine opera…
enthralled.
What can I say but hats off to you
The top of mine to the tip of my shoe
A tap of a cane with twist of a wrist
On a roll as you stroll to top of the list
A nod of the brim and knot of your tie
Adjusted in coy with shadowed right eye
Toe pointed down to rap on the ground
Clickety clack and tappety sound
A twirl followed swirl tweak of a curl
Harmonies afloat resounding in plural
Red velvet swung away in a swoosh
Whisk onto stage in a whistle and whoosh
Toe tapping cane cracking swiveling moves
Cap tipping feet flipping clapping approves
Set the stage with your ways and away we go
Flaunting this jaunty cascade of a show
Imploring a roaring of standing to say
Hats off to you and enjoy the bouquet
It’s a chill and rainy Saturday night in New Haven - it’s Superbowl eve! My roommates Leong, Anna and Lisa and I were playing a game of Upwards - it’s a scrabble-like word game and we’re all strangely super competitive.
My phone went “dunk!” A happy ‘Water jug’ sound messages make when they're from one of my favorites. The message was from Charles. He was at the front gate with a package that came to the house where Charles and Mrs. Charles live (about 600 yards from the dorm). He passed me the package through the bars at the main gate, “Thanks,” I said, “ga-night,” and he was gone.
Back in my room, I ripped the box open like Christmas morning. The word game could wait - this package was from Paris. The light beige, Jacquemus, ‘Les Ballerines mary-jane pumps’ I’d ordered (forever ago) had arrived and they fit like soft leather gloves.
“Ooo! Glampse!” Lisa pronounced.
“Aren’t they?” I agreed, swiveling my hooves to show them off in the full length mirror.
When I rejoined the Upwards game, talk had shifted to tomorrow's Superbowl.
“I read yesterday that Taylor’s on her way (to the Superbowl)!” Leong declared.
“I like that she likes the NFL now,” I said.
“A lot of people hate her for it,” Anna countered.
“She was on camera twice, for 11 seconds total, in a 3-1/2 hour long game. If that upsets you, you’re bringing a lot of your own baggage to the plot.” I updogged.
Leong wants to order vegan “wings” for the SuperBowl.
“What, exactly, are those?” I asked, apprehensively.
“You’re the girl who talked me into trying buffalo-frog-legs in Paris? Ney?” Leong enquired, sarcastically.
“Yeah,” I admitted, guiltily, “but they were delicious,” I said in self defense.
I’m picking the Chiefs 30-20 over the niners.
.
.
glampse = glamorous
In bejeweled jade landscape
the topaz terrain rolls
as wondrous waves,
undulates with
sculpted panorama
of captivating cadence,
entrenches in earthen frame
the sprawling shape
of a placid lake,
sublimely sparkling,
the shining sapphire face
looking up entranced
toward the cerulean sky,
spread serene on
boundless blankness.
The southern zephyr
whispers enticing melody
to the rhapsodic ripples,
rolling aquatic rhythm,
intensely passionate,
stretching in seraphic span
of self-centric array,
sliding on slithering shadows
of the dancing trees,
lining the contorted contours
of the splashing shore,
emerald adorned.
Malachite lotus leaves
float flamboyant
with pulsating fervor,
the ruby flush
of full bloom
makes the collage
of fiery fresco
with fanning feathers
of flaming flamingos,
their ballerina legs wading
the lazuline waters
in avian grace,
supple napes swiveling
in charismatic concerto
of aquatic ballet,
rapturous recital
performed unruffled
in hypnotic gleam
of the setting sun,
chromatic spectrum
composes the sonata
for lacustrine opera.
Fall is the most beautiful time of the year for me, with its blushing
Apples and fruitful trees dressed in zesty rubious healthy leaves with
Luminous fruit hanging off its stems, like galas, granny smiths, and fuji
Leaves of multi colored sunburnt shades of yellow, gold and brown
Inside the orchard, ladders, bushels, straw hats and farmer pant- grins
No better place to be then underneath an Autumn tree when every
Golden leaf shimmer-shimmies before swiveling down at your feet
Leaves that dance and shuffle-shake before landing in your hands
Earthing to the ground covering you with giant leafy dry crispy limbs
Arrest the night, stop the moon, hold the stars, its time to listen to the
Voices of the night, the falling leaves have their sorrowful story to tell
Ease into their season with a quiet soul. Help them say goodbye to the
Summer. After all it is the season of Autumn, a time for falling leaves.
September 27, 2021
Spring's alluring flowers with succulent juices rill
Perfumed dander from scented strands doth spill
Sweet aroma into the parched atmosphere to distill
Twirling Daisies, Buttercups the fawning meadows frill
Swiveling Dandelions in field's pleated fabric congeal
Caressing Violets 'neath the woody ridges kneel
Fondling Honeysuckles cloak fencerows in dale and hill
Baited bees insatiably the sugary orifices drill
A virile syrup from savory serum to mill
Vintage, solar-fired incense; with wanderlust carefree
minds fill
Olfactory ducts incite, turning the hormonal wheel
Vernal Lover's the intoxicating fumes freely swill
Aphrodisiac tonic to harden each paramour's quill
Fragrant pheromones stimulating maidens' mating zeal
Let me describe to you...my face, how I look
Taken from my photo...on the face of my book
I have one crooked eye brow...the one on the right
It grew back that way...when I shaved it one night
The wrinkles in my eyes...are spread like a bare tree
As for hair, I've got some...and that's cool by me
The bridge on my nose...and to your accord
Looks like to me...to be straight as a board
Twas a hole in my left ear...now fully closed
Back when, I wore an earring...when I wore wholly clothes
My chin swiveled slightly...'cause I'm chewing on gum
In the depth of my cleft...there's a scratch from my thumb
A rough scruffy face...from a two day old beard
WHAT! There's a tag on my neck...now that's a bit weird
I just noticed it now...while observing my cleft
It's sticking out below it...an inch to the left
There's a scar on my lip...below my mustache
That I got while fishing...an accidental knife slash
My face as a whole...narrow, and thin
Been out in the rays...got a tan on my skin
Ugly, I am, nah...but some might think so
Their heads must be big...eh, what do they know
Handsome, am I...not to sound bold
A good looking man, from my wives...I've been told
The whites in my eyes...all blood shot and red
From staying up late writing...when I should be in bed
Good-Night!
Okay, this isn't completely true. The photo wasn't from my book, it's me now. I don't have one crooked eyebrow, I have two. I'm NOT cool with having just SOME hair. The bridge on my nose is slightly crooked. The hole in my ear is on my right side, my chin is swiveling, but not from chewing gum. I have no cleft, the scar on my lip was no accident. I have no tan, it's winter. I am not ugly, I am handsome (lol) My eyes are blood shot, but not from being tired. And it's 8:00 I'll be up for hours.
Besides that, everything else is one hundred percent true!
The Metaphor Of Your Face Poetry Contest
Sponsor: John Lawless
11-22-2019
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dIoleidZAiQ
Miles away from home where the sun is on fire with yesterdays dreams
an Indian sari gown of silk and bead arrives bending the wind to its will
warm rain and saffron tinted skies caress gold eyelids and irises of old
Miles away from home the strings of my guitar recall Indian streams
and warm walks on the beach. A faint song clings to her ghostly figure
like a lyrical refrain, while a fading light begins to lose its shine ....
August smiles still simmer on my mind , I was a young man in love
with a Princess who cradled my heart to the rocking motion of the moon;
She took me to Saffron Hill, then flowered me with poetry, oh what a thrill
to be so close to the sun and not to burn from the throws of her quill ...
Miles away from home I felt the power of her light and then she was gone,
like the monsoon rains of India, she disappeared in September leaving me
to strum my sitar in a Cincinnati bar, watching neon lights light up,
I told it to old Fred , but he just smiled at me and handed me
a saving thread , "Son, you'll always have your memories"
and then, he handed me another Sangria, the color of her swiveling dress
August 3, 2020
That Day In ‘73
That day in ‘73 was as clear and pristine as glass ice,
Torched by a brace of smitten souls falling in love.
There was no lush music to be heard in this duet,
No swiveling rhythms or conga lines for the long dance,
Nay, these two lovers found quiet shade and a fantasy,
Parked intimately beneath a black walnut tree in August.
I saw the sun peeking at us through rustling green leaves.
You and I made constant eye contact and talked
Incessantly in the dallying breeze as the hours
Strutted forward like a striking drum beating silence.
Our eyes and mouths salivated with each salty utterance.
You talked with a Texas drawl showing white lusty teeth
As you sat cross legged showing bare brown gams,
Slender and shining as polished chrome on a new statue.
Who could have known then it would end up a naked failure,
A meteoric plunge from utter infatuation to the deep abyss of
Dysfunctional love, strangled by fiascos of precision and symmetry,
Of heightened expectations canceled in the sweating darkness,
The inability of breaching the sweetened walls, the ripe walls,
Of this nineteen year old mansion hidden below the tracks, with
This well-shaped Saturday night walking around with nothing on.
That day in ’06 was as cold and overcast as icy black dirt,
Casting a pall of paralyzing grief the size of a granite temple;
There was subdued string music emanating from a boom box,
As the mother and her living sisters stepped up to see the body,
The sunken tan face that once spoke with a sultry Texas drawl,
Once lay naked in the breast-kissing darkness with eyes staring up;
Now the shining statue sleeps with Cancer there, being kissed again.