Long Throes Poems
Long Throes Poems. Below are the most popular long Throes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Throes poems by poem length and keyword.
i mistake the divine
as i tend
to worship your tune
let the music define
and then rend
what is left of me
tilt your neck against mine
do pretend
i'm all yours to wound
it's your touch on my spine
that may bend
all reality
rest the world
vacillate through the wires
and i'll spend
an aeon or two
harmonizing the ire
to augment
the trills properly
in staccato desire
your movements
cleanly cutting through
when you're truly inspired
you suspend
my breath entirely
and god heard
with such a gentle stroke
play your hands
on my throat
i'm a slave to the bow
fingers dance
cold and slow
with a grip on the scroll
trace the strands
carve the notes
an octave down or so
lay entranced
in my throes
the pegs turn
deftly scale through the length
of everything i am
when i'm your instrument; rosin-drenched strings
severed and bled
an insanity's musings
the echoes resonate within a dream
within my head
your sonata is playing
and when the music fades
will i still wake
or just be left
humming
Form:
Looking down at her in the casket,
I recall the days her lissome body
swayed like a willow upon the stage.
How she loved ballet,
especially the ballet called Swan Lake.
Also, how she loved the Lord!
Then the cancer came.
She was so young. Even in the throes of it,
like Job of old, she would simply not
besmirch the name of God.
How graceful she was even in death,
for she was in agony until the very end.
I respectully observe her in celestial repose.
She is still a dancing swan whose soul no one can pinion.
To the firmament she has taken flight.
Her sojourn on this earth was brief,
yet her faith and courage live on
in the hearts of those of us who loved her and always will
forevermore
May 29, 2018 for John Hamilton's Eight Word Challenge-4 Poetry Contest
Augustus’ favorite heaven…
A pumpkin twilight sky with a daub of purple
Dash of rose pink, wafting across the sleepy sky
Perchance an angel has been painting?
Happenstance being what she is,
My heart flutters with unannounced joy
Wiping a dank day from my memory,
Soothing my heart. Archangel Michael whispers a gentleness I needed.
An act of folly has held me hostage
In the throes of the throes of my most unhappy self.
But this twilight sky, sent at exactly the right time
Is soothing my spirit in heavenly ways…..delighting me so.
Written: February 2, 2019 Contest: 8 Word Challenge - Bardenesque
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Rigs are quiet now,
slumbering spires of steel
so cold - yet bread for many men.
Children may cry for the world's want of energy.
Towers of glass are empty now,
monuments to a better time,
of exploration, excitement, and excess,
when the world grew.
The eyes of good people are red-rimmed now,
as disbelief screams in a silent vacuum.
The only life left is the endless cycle of pumpjacks
and the hum of compressors
teasing their worthless treasures
from the dark bosom of the earth.
Everything is broken now, burned and blackened,
confused and cancerous.
Industry sleeps, but our age is not over.
Shifting now in death-throes and embers,
the black phoenix shall rise once more.
31 March 2020
Written for Coronavirus COVID-19 Cash Prize Poetry Contest sponsored by Team PoetrySoup
She came charging down on me with her full weight.
I wanted to be invisible, but it did not happen.
I was gripped tightly in the throes of death.
She was tearing me apart, in pieces
Unconcerned with my screams.
I was quiet now, smeary, a bloody mess.
A carcass in pieces. I watched horrified.
Worried about what my Cub Scout troop would see in the morning.
Never try to outrun a grizzly, my dad had always said.
I knew I was supposed to drop down and play dead,
but who can do that? My grandmother put her arm on my shoulder.
You have seen enough, she said.
We headed toward the light.
Life rustled like a dry leaf in the wasteland
The firmament of promise and hope clouded
For the shards of the splintered love
Pierced to pinion and bleed my heart.
With the mind in the throes of despair
I wandered across the placid plateaus
And the high hills in search of a place for sojourn.
I found one in a hamlet perched on the green valley
Where the clouds melted in the sunrise colors
On your face painting a portrait of celestial beauty.
People said you’re a girl of loose character
An outcast, you became a disowned object
They all decided to denounce and besmirch
But in your lissome body and innocent smile
I discovered in you the flair of the fallen angel
For you gave my broken heart
The solace of love it needed.
In my desolate days of agony and turmoil
I found a niche to repose in your divine arms.
May 26, 2018.
VIDEO: On YouTube Above.
A Temporary Ripple
I arose
to the throes
of sea and rocks unrest,
All the crashing,
brilliant splashing,
made my words, cease to exist,
Faraway,
doodles Monet,
has no tact, to all of the test.
For all that I have known,
And for all that I have seen,
Makes me believe in a greater world artist,
As the sky stretches,
and the sea matches,
there are distinguishable caresses,
Far or near,
I can hear,
whispers made by clouds or crest,
Deep or shallow,
dark or glow,
natural freedoms go unsurpassed,
Sea falls, then rise,
light flees dark skies,
for the original exchange are being refreshed,
A silent ponder,
absorbing wonders,
am I to be, more or less,
Behold it too,
all this be true,
I crossed a hole along my quest,
Now I am one,
of tons, and tons,
As destined masters, are we hard pressed,
For in all this glory,
therein, is my story,
Throughout our history, our misery and our success,
We're watch wanderers on a timepiece's face.
Chronological commuters, pilgrims of space.
Ticking transporters, at slow or fast race.
Travelers of time, present now past, our constant case.
Perpetual people of pause and power pushes the pendulum pace.
In the shadow of the moon we are the hope of the Earth that we will look for other worlds outside our home base.
I am here with all of the rest.
Happy to be as part of the best.
On planet Earth, as one of its GUEST!
2019 May 04
*1st Place*
A Brian Strand RHYME ME
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2021 August 14
The Great Wave Off Kanagawa
Morning, and the fishers put out to sea
with joy and farewells to their families,
unaware that today they would meet with fate
and fight for their lives against a rogue wave.
“Bend your backs to the wind, row and repel,
vain Kanagawa; reprieve yourselves!”
spewed, in a boast, the Kami Tsunami
amid the background of Mount Fuji.
Fear seized their hearts, and terror blazed in their eyes;
their hands bled, and their muscles groaned in agony.
They who boldly bragged were cowards in the throes
as the boats were tossed on the vast ocean.
Frothed with rage, the tempest would not relent,
incensed that they take, without recompense,
the bounty of its trove with gluttony,
as if deemed chosen to exploit it with greed.
The challenge met and defeat imminent;
victory, though sweet, claims countless victims.
In disbelief, they maintained their postures
as the wave splinters the wooden structures.
The end is near. “All is lost!” or so they thought;
on their knees, one by one, they made peace with God.
And in this, their last hour, they in despair
prayed that the storm abate and so were spared.
***
Note:
Although the wave in Katsushika Hokusai’s (1760–1849) woodblock print “The Great Wave off Kanagawa” (circa 1826/33) is often portrayed and described as a tsunami, it’s debatable whether it was the way in which Hokusai meant it to be interpreted. The waves in his famous work of art can be referred to as “okinami” (great offshore waves).
Some people found it quite galling when chicken little warned that the sky was falling. Was our government truly unaware, like goldilocks as she entered the home of the bears? The U.S. is now in the pandemic's throes, oh where is our "king's" pinnochio nose? Citizens now afraid to leave their homes, like Rapunzel in her tower, isolated, alone. While our president waffles pretending to be tough, acting like a troll in billy goat's gruff. Now widespread unemployment and famine in our land. The federal government seems to lack a viable plan.
In the three little pigs, as I recall, one piglet built his home of mostly straw. The wolf came and blew it down, leaving nothing at all. Another piglet worked hard, not seeking a "quick fix" and built his home of sturdy bricks. No matter how forcefully the wolf blew and tried, his home remained intact with this piglet inside.
I don't recall reading in the preamble that American lives should be a gamble? How many more will die, clearly nobody knows but one things for certain, our emperor has no clothes!!
On ocean bowride below gentle titans peep
ghost ships of the Pacific hunt and chase -
where great barnacled seafarers of the deep
beneath the waves its blue waters grace.
Old sea tales of killing lance and spear tip
tell of the dying struggle of the flurry -
once more mighty hulks of beast and ship
haunt the dark shadows of the undersea.
Let no harpoon pierce your skin,
no flense cut and slice,
not body or fin.
Let no kill sound its death throes,
and may long
live the shout of “thar she blows!”
Far and yon an old boneyard whaling station
fluking bulls and cows circle the perilled pod,
and breach and dive in fabled echolocation
the bones of Ahab and wreck of the Pequod.
Still ghost ships old hunting grounds scout
that mystic echo whalesong far reaching,
and still cavernous mouths unmade to shout
trap by moon and tide on remote beaching.
Let no harpoon pierce your skin,
no flense cut and slice,
not body or fin.
Let no kill sound its death throes,
and may long
live the shout of “thar she blows!”
Written: July 1992