Long Thickly Poems
Long Thickly Poems. Below are the most popular long Thickly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Thickly poems by poem length and keyword.
Would I, a young boy, ever tire
of bike-riding on those streets, tree-lined,
whose leaves in fall have turned to fire,
as summer days, unhurried and kind,
give way to Autumn and plans much higher,
to enrich my growing child’s mind?
Fix a flat on my Stingray bike? I don’t mind!
I’d gladly fix a rusty, rubber tire,
or do a task or chore of any kind;
but no, I won’t go back to school’s hell fire,
and write on a paper, thinly lined,
and forget my kite, to drift, e’er higher.
Yet, my grade level must also grow higher,
and I must cultivate and feed my mind,
and forget the lazy days and rope swing tire.
I hope my teacher this year will be kind.
In time, I’ll feel inside, the burning fire,
to scan shelves of books, thickly lined.
So, I and the other children gamely lined
up, outside class, as the sun rose higher.
Inside: “Annette would you much mind,
if I sit next to you. My feet are quick to tire?
Thank you, you are so very kind”,
I said and saw a glint of laughter or of fire.
Indeed, it was not books that lit my fire
as my heart fell, hook and sinker, lined.
It makes me wonder if teachers ever tire
of watching a crushing child lose his mind
as they guide toward aspirations, higher,
of the scholastic, educational kind.
So, here’s my thanks to teachers of every kind,
and to the everlasting fire
to convey knowledge with faces, lined,
aiming always, forever higher,
to guide and develop a child’s mind -
persevering heroes that never tire.
Tree swing tire, your time, too, will come, in kind.
Green lined streets will replace those on fire
when the sun is higher, and summer returns to mind.
I’m ready for a little artwork, baby,
so could you grab for me a shovel and
a pail? Let’s head down to the seashore. Maybe
you’ll lay your body for me on the sand?
I need some sand with grains of silt and clay -
a little dirty - just like “sexy you!”
Such grains (when mixed with water) lock and stay!
With sand like that, there’s so much I can do.
I’ll blend it with some water from the sea
to make a castle. YOU will be the base,
I’ll thickly spread that mixture wantonly
along your body – stopping at your face. . .
No crashing waves will sweep away my art.
My castle will have barely got a start.
posted by Andrea Dietrich, 5/7/2012
Now For PD's Second Chance Contest
Maleficent was frankly and nefariously magnificent
Evil to her very bones, she had gigantic evil stones.
No one else would blatantly maim and kill.
The way she did, with happy thrill.
Hunting down whoever wronged her, was deadly Maleficent.
Smacking them down left and write, killing as she went.
She was not invited to the castle for the baby’s christening.
Brought herself in from the bowels of hell, devils hands listening,
She wanted the ugly newborn to die, and she was determined to help.
She made it her mission to give her a gift that had everyone all atwitter.
She searched for her for sixteen years, with her trusty crow Dead Kelp.
Those ugly faeries infuriated her, she called them Pip, Pop and Pitter.
Maleficent had many killing ways, but her favorite was the wheel.
Here was how her evil mind worked, this is pretty much the deal.
The princess would prick her finger and fall down hard and dead.
Her face would turn green and ugly, and her eyes would roll back in her head.
Those flipping faeries stole her wish, converting it to something better.
So damned mad, she was ready to kill them too, she sent them a mean letter.
The spinning wheel trick did not work as well as Maleficent had hoped.
The stupid princess did fall down though. Looked like she’d been doped.
Castle slept for a hundred years, but one day Maleficent woke up quickly.
A handsome prince on horseback was chopping down the vines so thickly.
She turned into her most evil self, a dragon with third-degree fire.
He met her at every turn, was frankly endowed with super power desire.
I am sad to say he killed Maleficent, and Dead Kelp Crow, her pet too.
This is how these crazy fairy tales always end, so what could poor M do?
Fleeting light streams through the broken window pane.
Flickering, as the only movement trying to bring life in vain.
The stillness is dense and dust lays thickly as all is grey.
The old house utters the softest moan, resisting evident decay.
There is an aura of shame, that it has been discovered this way,
Yet a distinct welcoming can be felt, its coupled with dismay.
The peeling paper on the walls, its former charm subsided,
The floorboards dry and cracked, beliefs of safety are misguided.
A yearning can be felt, a plea to resurrect it to its former glory.
Neglect has cruelly buried many a wonderful forgotten story.
The old house stands defiant against the storms the wind and flood.
One hundred years ago it was built with sweat, tears and even blood.
From its eaves and rafters to its foundations, it was built with pride.
A murmur comes from each empty room, heard faintly from deep inside.
Tears of its soul are felt. Whispers “rescue and restore me” it implores.
Gone are the wonderful stories, as the oncoming bulldozer roars.
On glossy pages generally reserved for stars of stage and screen
golden calves lounging casually on cushioned chaises, deities of decadence
sunlight streamed in black and white through filthy, filmy windows
as flies converged in the corners crawling over themselves in a frantic frenzy
I could hear their communal buzzing echoing in my ears
facing my own fears for my future
forcing myself to read past the first paragraph
Another photo followed, captured on the same sort of camera as the famous
The bathroom of the apartment one level below
black slime soaking through the ceiling, oozing down the walls like ectoplasm
congealing on the cold tiles, dripping in the sink
I could smell it in the ink
the sour, sickly sweet, pungently putrid scent of a slaughterhouse
The identity of the source of the gore from above
gleaned from the contents of his wallet
removed from his back pocket as he lay face down on the floor
by the thickly gloved hand of a man in a moon suit
He had been drawn to the city decades before searching for fame
to see his name on marquees
hoping his face would soon grace the covers of magazines
like the one I was currently reading
His neighbors knew nothing of him
describing their fellow dweller within the walls of the run down slum
as a silent ghost
rarely seen but for a moment before vanishing behind his door
as if he had condemned himself to solitary confinement for his failures
In the end no next of kin could be found
His ashes collected in a tin container sat on a shelf
in the city morgue for a year
before being dumped in a hole dug in the ground by a stranger with a spade
in a corner of a neglected cemetery
along with all the others who had died alone
unclaimed, unmourned, unrenowned
-
I transformed Iowa’s meadows and forests overnight
Changing her children’s delight at first snow to fear of the cold
Gloating and laughing, I introduced some to frost bite.
What did I care if their pinky toes fell off?
That’s enough, my husband said.
What did he know? I whirled away, flicking him with ice.
I was not finished for I did not want to merely be a blizzard.
I wanted to be the worst snow blizzard in Iowa’s history.
I slickened their streets with the blackest of invisible ice.
I allowed icicles to drip from the roofs of their houses.
Their snow was piling up now, in five foot snow drifts.
Was I finished? My husband asked me. Ha!
I swirled up my snow and shot a snowball into his eye.
My winds picked up speed; I was on a roll.
I tossed snow so thickly in the air that the drivers could not see.
The freeways and schools were closed.
I waited all day long for the radio to say worst snowstorm in history.
Little did I know it would take about two years before I heard this.
In the meantime I kept things snowy, icy, and impassible.
Reveling in my power. Oh, I took down the power lines too. A fantastic time!
Why don't we discard the mask, let all the stage props fall?
The answer, whispered through shadows, is found in our sunlight-forgotten guise.
The true color has washed away in the rains of days, so that we no longer recognize who is,
The figure now wearing our face, lost within the deceptive, layered veil.
From the first moment, when innocence played upon our dexterous, nimble fingers,
The mask clung to our skin, grew with us, roots burrowed deep into our veins.
It transformed into a second façade, nearly forgetting the original countenance,
We've identified with the role, into its gentle silver chalice we poured our spirit.
We have wrapped ourselves in the banners of characters, taking on thickly drawn contours,
Elaborate shells that muffle the sound of the sea, the voice of our true self.
Behind this crafted wall, the solitary 'I' incessantly questions, tirelessly grinds:
"What was my former being, where is the chain that linked past, present and forever?"
Thus, we become acclaimed actors in a play we no longer know how to finish,
Where each fault, longing, laughter implies a scene masterfully depicted.
In this perpetual theater we act, sending echoes of applause into void chambers,
On stage, we perish and revive, in the wings we forget the mask that once served as our collateral.
As we lose ourselves behind this façade, the ancient beast of light gradually extinguishes,
Offering only a flash when one gazes into the deep waters of unfocused eyes.
We have become the dwelling of roles which we change as easily as the leaves of days thinned calendar,
We continually wash in the river of forgetfulness, solidifying into steadfast and mute characters.
Behind this zealously painted wall with its numerous layers,
Lurks the enchantment of relinquishing, the chalice of courage to be simple and undefined by realms.
But if we peel away, layer by layer, thought by thought, the mask off the face of eternity,
Perhaps we will glimpse what we once were - a barren soul, yet full of its own essences and sap.
2
Bourne loosely through the chill gusts,
Disordered fragments of summer's life go hurried by,
Harried to their last resting places
Into piles of brittle, browning drifts
Scattered on stiffening ground.
A cold sun, coursing ever more briefly
Across these hard, blue-white skies,
Presides above a sleeping landscape steeped in dying hues,
The last fanfare of the greens of life
Draining now into starkness
As nature sheds her flesh and slows
To pose in cold stillness between her cycles
Of life and death,
Waiting, now Winter's uncertain, barren bride.
In the house where the anger rang against the walls
Red thoughts of their minds have burnt away
To leave behind that sour feeling
That sinks to sorrow
Now pride has stepped in to break the bridges
Of charity they might have built back to one another.
Between them those virtues which bind us all together,
The formalities and incidents
The long parade of small things that make up a shared life,
Go on together as always, in smooth procession day to day
The image of harmony exists,
Though not its substance.
They know from this the weight of awkward silences
Falling between them now and again
Dropping like stones into the deepening pools
Of unspoken discontents forming in their hearts;
Ripples of sadness climbing in widening rings
To skim the surfaces of their speech
As breezes blown down through the sapphire sky
Tear the detritus of summer's corpse from its enfeebled moorings;
Fling the bits of yesterday's blazing beauty
Into pell-mell drifts against foundations, sills,
As spark-scattered frosts gather more thickly
With every lengthening night.
I remember when Alexander of Macaedon
approached me in Siwa as a supplicant soldier,
he was so young yet so wet with war blood
32 years old and the most powerful king on the planet,
Alex entered my chamber unarmed and unassuming
he was rather like a boy unbruised by fear,
everything in the world was at his command
but there were questions that he alone could not conquer,
he did indeed ask me, about his family tree
whether he descended rightly, from godly seed,
I arose from my seer's seat
my silken green and gold gown
hugging my body thickly off the shoulders,
stepping down deftly to meet his rare eyes,
we stood face to face
like two fires fuelled by eachother's breaths,
I told him to give me his hand
to which he did
because he knew to trust me,
I unsheathed a tiny dagger
that I kept against my stomach
and sliced his fingertip remorselessly
we smiled at one another,
gripping his hand tightly
I brang his finger to my mouth
as the blood dribbled quickly down to both our hands,
the taste made me close my eyes
I was in instant ecstasy,
I knew now what he thought he knew,
and I told him he was not the first nor the last
that another king shall come in the future
whom will complete the Holy Kingdom...
J.A.B.
"Otherness, the dichotemy dissected"
The facial surface
stitched tight
photosynthesis pares
celluloid divisions
their inquisition solitary
and thickly wading
shallow and elementary
the dichotomy mercilessly
shaved whittle thin
by others’ strangeness
the primary magnified
in situ perfectly imperfect
petri dissected
through the windows
sunlight slices and shapes
the hidden embedded dark derision
into something
entirely other
encoded with true meaning
The facial surface
stitched tight
photosynthesis pares
celluloid divisions
their inquisition solitary
and thickly wading
shallow and elementary
the dichotomy mercilessly
shaved whittle thin
by others’ strangeness
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)