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.
How small we were sitting in the backseat of that mammoth car. We were dwarfed on the giant sofa-like bench waiting like a great amusement ride about to start. While we waited we explored our new surroundings. The lining inside the cavernous car was short-hair and smooth and as we ran our small hands across the surface, it felt like a young boy’s scalp after his first summer haircut. It was grey, the color of an elephant toy that had been won by our uncle last year at the fourth of july carnival. We explored the shiny chrome ashtrays. You could see your reflection in them like a mirror and we wondered if the owner used them to shave in the mornings as his chauffeur drove him to work. They were spring-loaded and snapped viciously at our little fingers. They smelled of foul ash and stale gum. There were large cranks with polished brown knobs, handles that controlled the windows. Turning them took all our strength like cranking the hand pump for water in the kitchen at Grandmas house on the farm. There were baby windows beside the big ones and they closed with little widget clips, swiveling inward so you could control the direction and amount of air that rushed in when the car was in motion. Too small to see outside, we sat dwarfed in the backseat watching the tops of trees go by and playing with a doll and a green plastic soldier. The doll was homemade from an old sock. The soldier, alone, separated from an army of plastic soldiers that came in a bag we could not afford. He was found, as most toys were, in the gutter or on the schoolyard, abandoned by the more affluent children. Small, simple toys that would not be missed from a rich kids over-stuffed closet. We knew we had to be quiet, for to make noise would be to draw attention that would come in the form of punishment. A slap on the bare thigh of a young boy in shorts or a young girl in a dress would leave a red welt for hours. The ride always seemed so very long that soon our patience would give out and a bump in the road would trigger a tidal wave of emotions; a push escalating to a shove, a pinch and then a shout. The crested wave would end in a crashing roar with a parents’ curse, a stinging slap, and a whimpering cry. Only puddles remaining, tide pools composed of wet pants and tears.
Squalidness—Squabbling squeamishly;
Scrutinizing stigmatized scandalization, substantially scarce
Sprightliness...skeptically surrendering
Shamefully—Scolded sardonically;
Snarling splenetically, severing sensibility, scowlingly simmering
Strenuously...sought survival
Sparring—Sinister sisters;
Seductively swiveling soreness, sarcastically snared, swirling
Storms...sporadically striking
Slowly—Sacrificing stories;
Scorching slanderous subversiveness, suffering suffocation
Senselessly...smoldering serendipity
Sinfully—Silent stranger;
Sneaking skillfully staring
Presumptuously—Pursuing pretentiousness;
Promises protruding pithiness,
Potential problems...penetrating
Frantically—Forsaken fantasizes foresee;
Different Man Flourishing...
Suspiciously—Supplication solicited;
Subjectively settling, storms subdue, spontaneously subsiding
Surprisingly...sanctuaries submerged
Sobriety—Soaked scathingly;
Staleness spun savagely, strangely straying, sprung
Scourging...southern spiral
Suddenly—Solitude strangling;
Shallow significants seedily surrounds scrupulousness, slumbering
Spitefulness...shunning sympathy
Systematically—Struggling swiftly;
Skulking shadows slithering, seized sanity, seething
Stragglers scrapping...smuggling
Supposedly—Soberness swarming;
Sunrises selectively swerving, sunsets scattering
Emotionally—Erraticism encouraged;
Enduring essential enemies,
Equivocal excursions...escalating
Hereupon—Heretics hushed hereafter;
Different Man Henceforth...
Relentlessly—Reaping ramifications;
Remorsefully relapsing regrettably, resentful realization recognizing
Reflection...refusing reality
Condescendingly—Condemning contradictions;
Cautiously concealing contortions, conducting contrived conniptions
Conscientiously...capricious consciousness
Arrogantly—Acquiring awareness;
Ignorantly ignoring ideologies, deceitful dramatic disagreements
Transpire...transitioning transgressions
Occasionally—Ostracizing occurs;
Overthinking orchestrates overreactions, obsessively obtaining optimization
Brazenly—Begged, blindingly became;
Different Man Behindhand...
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
My soul
is in purgatory,
settling in fading tunes
of suppressed silence,
swerving perpetually
amongst
smoky quartz silhouettes;
swiveling through
the
dimmed dungeon
to unraveling shadows
of yesterday’s destruction,
moving in s l o w motion~
rejoicing invisible
rainbow glows
in limitless devotion,
fugitively
resenting the shifting
season of faith~
I question the
treacherous torrents,
through
unorchestrated symphonies…
where do the tides of jealousy
crash and hide to grieve,
over untouched waves,
when it has washed
away compelling
wishes
lost in perfect storms?
For, sometimes,
when trembling
skies bleed black pearls,
upon these aching lungs,
I think of every
nameless ghost
that emanates
familiar fragrances:
convincing
my naive mind,
there’s no evil
even in darkness.
Although I’ve
seen tints of
turning leaves conversing
with tantalizing tears,
whilst this volcanic
heart is ransacked
and ruined,
d a n c i n g away from fears,
forging meaningless scribes,
in fragmented fortunes,
left as debris along the
forgotten fields of
rambling roses drenched
in remorseful rain.
And I stand in the
eye of cataclysmic cyclones~
exhaling the exhaustion,
as the wolf moon calls me,
above million
mourning mountains
in musical misery.
Yet, when cosmic curtains
sequinned with
scarlet sapphires
of midnight skies
drizzle drops
of hibiscus heaven onto the
pages of my poetic haven,
I sketch stars in the shape
of magical w i n g s..
across cursed horizons,
to soothe my
troubled thoughts:
as it’s all in my head,
the
demonic devils dressed
in dragonfly
dust to deceive me,
unaware of how
I’ve been
blindfolded by
the brutal lies
I’ve told myself
in alienated expressions,
that the normal
can never neutralize.
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
I live on the frozen tundra where cold winds blow
I'm never bothered by the amount of ice and snow
The thickness of my feathers are deep at my chest
like a downy insulated coat that's better than a vest.
I'm busy keeping watch over my two mated hens
who sit on the nests we've built on mounded dens.
I've eleven mouths to feed, all screaming for food
at night I'm quite busy searching the neighborhood.
My golden eyes are keen so I can see best in the dark
When I dive for a morsel I never miss my targeted mark.
I hear something scampering beneath the blanket of snow.
It's a scurrying little mouse. Be right back, I have to go.
Another snack for my babies, newly out of their shells.
They think they have to eat when their stomach compels.
Now that it's quiet, I'll perch on a branch up in this tree
and keep a watch out for predators who want to eat me.
Hunting is much easier because my fur coat is purest white.
I blend in just perfectly with the snow by day and at night.
I can turn my head in any direction by swiveling it around
Until my prey approaches, I'm good at not making a sound.
A fox is creeping in from the North, hoping for some action
but my sharp talons will chase him away, to my satisfaction.
Excuse me for a moment, but I see an approaching artic hare,
a hardy meal for the chicks, my mates will chew to prepare.
There are humans living near by, in a log cabin over the hill
they leave meat out for me when they make a fresh kill.
I've no reason to fear them because they never hunt for owl.
I love living in this frigid climate where I'm free to fly and prowl.
__________________________________________________
January 31st, 2016 Owl Personification Contest by Eve Roper
Sudden, as a bolt from the blue,
Came down a humming bird, tantalizing
Skimming down and darting up
As an ever revolving top
It reeled round and round
Before it alighted on a drooping flower;
That hung from a bending branch
In a corner of my front yard garden
It precariously clung on to it
Like a small pendent on a chain
A sight so cool, now so rare
That lighted up my dull spirits!
Once they showed themselves up
On almost every sunny day
Promptly after the monsoon rains
When the plants en mass in resplendent bloom
Oh! How I love this tiny bird
Not larger than a bumble bee
Dressed in a cloak of green and black
Flitting round on fluttering wings
It literally dances and pirouettes in the air
Before descending down closer to its target
Swirling, gliding n’ moving back and forth
As if unsure of what it should do
Finally with a terrific jerk and swiveling move
It hovers close to hanging blooms
Balancing itself sans any support
And draws out nectar with its long needle bill
When the zephyrs carry a sweet scent
It flits from flower to flower
And having enjoyed the ambrosial treat
It flies back, well satiated like a darting arrow
My eyes fail to capture its lightning move
As it goes whizzing through the lambent air
Quickly disappearing like a mote of soot
Losing itself in the vast expanse of the blue
Being less than an ounce of fat
So light, sleek and well streamlined
It travels faster than the speed of light.
In a fleeting dash, moving out of sight
Can any other bird rival it in agility?
Or vie with it in its simple grace?
How cute, this spirit of ‘disembodied joy’
This winged diminutive denizen of the sky!
,
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.
LITTLE WINGS
“No,” and they meant it. The dizzy seat
almost threw the 8 year old. He was swiveling
‘round and around and around, starting
to look green, ready to fly, free fall. Slip
of balance to the ground would have stopped
this silliness. So I had to save this big kid
with firmness and kindness. Had him sit
on the prop once more showing him how easy
he could have slipped off his solo merry-go-round.
“No,” one propped at the top with listless feet.
Vigor not wasted on swings, slides, hide n seek.
“Yes,” taking them by the hands, we walk to the bridge,
locate the side path to the sidling creek. Recent rain
filled its body. “Yes,” the oldest balances on a stretch
of log reaching into the water. I must let the future
middle-schooler stretch himself, but only so far,
for if he falls in this grandma with an arthritic leg
might find herself in an uncomfortable situation.
“Yes,” the youngest can cup his hands into the water,
stir it with small sticks…skip stones across its surface.
“No,” to creeping out onto the log with his brother.
Grandma knows there’s more potential for this guy
to fall in, and this grandma has no desire to go fishing.
Fine men in the making, tasting of life. Letting go,
little by little, sloughing away the silliness —
with grander and gratefulness,
as Grandma loves the antics and abandon
of their soaring souls. Love is swinging, sliding,
listening to the beating of heartfelt wings.
6/23/2021
are you with me, you drowsy pen?…this world is a
freakin’ distorted place. we are scribbling
like mites in pillow fights: dirty nails we have become ,
contagious as micro germs trying to make
sense of all the fake reality clinging to sleek fuzz,
pizzaz and all that jazz… ‘cmon, we are all fragile.
we’re all gonna die. so why be drugged by
penning a Lindsay Lohan kind of intoxication?
look at you, ink! swiveling like whims of tipsy lines.
far too many blots on your made-up tip…
geez, those pop culture digs scanning cosmo hours
with whisky gulps of idle entertainment, you know,
the scratch of feeble hands sucking materialistic
greed. do you think you’re rotten smart in hurried
thoughts of instant gratification? this is for real, for real.
and listen up: have you written about the will of
a spirit for true love of self, of flowers and others?
nope, not the kind you feel when intoxicated phrases
are riddled with booze shots… life goes on, every second,
every written word. there's something
unspeakably beautiful about it all...if only you and i
can share the flow of some kind of wonder without greed.
you’re wasted! pik-bam-boom, take my alcoholic
breaths to the top; see that there is no before or after.
just one rare, pure “ now” moment: damn it’s for real, for real…
our lives are a good freakin’ thing, isn’t it? hey, you’re dozing off !
©
by nette onclaud
for Elliott Bowe’s Drink Drunken Pen