Long Ungloved Poems
Long Ungloved Poems. Below are the most popular long Ungloved by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ungloved poems by poem length and keyword.
To arms to arms, she cries this soul carefree
as she advances the words fly from her quill,
with her wit she poses a counter-riposte
lancing ripening spoils so they can spill.
All rancor fell before her bold advance
her laughter lightens his sour temperament.
Ma oui, the Mistress invited him to dance,
"engarde," she winks, then lunges with consent.
Ungloved, they dance across the pearl white page,
each double entendre brings a dampening blow
not circumspect, but with aplomb she stages
a mutual downfall while they were all aglow.
The finer points of nibs and quill, be damned
what matters most was the Mistress got her man.
Inspired By Giorgio Veneto's Riposte
On the day of the Lord the human shall fear,
A terrifying god whom will Christians duly Peer,
The dead shall live again - the Christian tear,
A monopolising Christianity that cannot hear.
With, or without, all people are flatly, truly loved,
Without malice or tub, to jingle coyly ungloved,
Whatever the decade, decision, rubbed, tugged,
A transcendental god shall ring these beloved.
Talking clouds blown by earth’s graphic might,
Pose for the distant, scathed by a distinct light:
Enemies rise n’ fall as if tugging the dark night,
Offsetting the juggernaut of the ready birthrite.
A thought for people, bound, wet in eye-glare,
Principles, claims and chains won’t be the fare;
Nothing will work except behaviour and blare,
To suggest an ascent coloured by another wear.
All people are of inherent and fully equal worth,
God dies again for the decliner’s identity of birth,
Inside - not as proactive, with his mobile hearth,
A blacklist deceives those fleeing their childbirth.
Dominique Webb
The tractor kept its course, row after row;
I spied your worn, green cap pulled fast and low.
The gulls swept down, their daily meal was laid
And as they rose, their wings shot silver rays.
I walked out to the field, your lunch in hand;
For nature set the time to work the land
And farmer’s hours are not observed in towns.
I waited ‘til you stopped and mounted down.
Your eyes were faded blue and sparkling kind;
You paused and placed one hand on top of mine,
Then hands ungloved, you took the pan of food
And smiled, then said my girl, my girl so good.
We sat beside the tractor, finding shade
And shared the simple lunch my grandma made;
While overhead the gulls swooped in the sky,
We sat in rest and comfort side by side.
Then once again you mounted to your task;
You’d let me ride along, if I’d but ask.
I’d stand behind you, swaying with the land
And prayed to God this moment would not end.
Spire insight of silence
Swotch and bind, conspiracy of mind
Conspire and self-protrude
Mindless matter of maddened hatter
Borne gall of uncongruent bladder
Reign wettened confections'n faux pas
Pram embedded bedding of public propaganda
And poised for prose 'dulted diaper thrown an' broiled'n a gutter
Homely homelessness in wake of deft arms
Freshened refreshener and wetted choke
Chugged and driven doomed deliverance
Cut of word 'cross and lost'n devious drivings of work
Ticking tenor left fear to render
These haps to fall through ungloved metal and measly meak meal, and
Coarse feel along rift ridged riverbays
Swept upon eons of words spurred affray
Sully gusts, and worry t'encrust
And collect the lost worker from astray.
The snow was drifting drifting drifting – white
like pearls of whispers falling on my cheek.
The stars were fairies’ wands. They were so bright
that looking up at them, we did not speak.
We stood outside my house, and soon you’d go.
Pines twined with blinking lights were everywhere
around my yard. We wore no hats, and so
small flakes of snow were glittering our hair.
We laughed at that! Your ungloved hand in mine
was all the warmth I needed in the cold.
You pulled me close. Oh, winter most divine
with my new love. I sensed you growing bold.
Beneath a full moon’s glow – just you and I -
A taste of Xmas was our kiss goodbye.
Dec. 19, 2020 for Emile Pinet's Winter Poetry Contest
Nov 26, 2021 for "X" Contest, New or Old Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
One's Shadowless Moment
That which we embrace
That which we shun
That which we serve
Assimilation
Man's strange bedfellow
Remaining often long in the wings
Allowing shadow-light to become constant
Inviting ghost-like impressions
Enjoin one's timeless opacity of reason
Edification reveals
Experience rejecting idleness
Determined to share
Clover-rich bounty
Free of any fear
Sagacity being void of threat
As predators ignorant
Discover wisdom unconquerable
Sageness
Prepares its ungloved hands
To wave its alert
Ready to allow
Hidden time to luminesce
Discernment
Cautious to act
Knowing empirical reality
Must first pass through
Emotion's unreliability
Patiently pauses
White hot focus holds sway
Peripheral resistance wanes
Fractions
Equations
Formulae satiated
Acceptance invites convergence
Consciousness
Once in asylum
No longer struggling to be
Stands naked at last
Heart and mind fused
Light embodying darkness
Like the ever-forming oneness
Of sunrise comprising sunset
Birth ripening awaited death
It seems some are smitten
with long-fingered gloves,
while others have love
for warm woolen mittens.
Like puppies and kittens,
cute gifts from above,
you’ll give ‘em a shove
when fingers get bitten.
A gloved finger’s fat,
not very precise.
Ungloved? Bad advice ~
frost bites like a cat!
But a mitten’s a club,
a stump of a hand,
a digit remand,
a prehensile nub.
No, I say what’s finer,
much better than both,
A techno-outgrowth:
thermal silk glove liners!
The gloves can get peeled;
those mittens can too.
Fingers don’t turn blue
with liners as shields.
----------
for the Of What Use Are Gloves Poetry Contest
sponsored by John Lawless
written on 12/19/22
Silver haired sage with a golden tongue
Sixty years of wisdom has been gained
Today's the day his praises are sung
Body and mind have been fully trained
He sees the planet in his own way
Sixty years of wisdom has been gained
Living with purpose able to play
Passion is the special gift he gives
He sees the planet in his own way
He chooses simple in the way he lives
People more important than anything
Passion is the special gift he gives
Happy Birthday together we sing
Everyone has their time to be loved
People more important than anything
Heart that's open a hand ungloved
Silver haired sage with a golden tongue
Everyone has their time to be loved
Today's the day his praises are sung
Dedicated to my friend Armand Delisle
Evening turns to mime -
you emerge from its cameo artistry,
your dark unraveled hair cajoles
in a lamp shaded theater.
Moments clash together.
A denuding madness is ungloved,
a palpable heat mauls.
Long into the cleaving night
unsheathed and reckless,
flesh sings its serpentine songs,
waterfalls plunge into unleashed rapids,
hard ridden gestures
disown all gentle speech.
After the blood blushed tangle,
a listless languor.
We listen to the footloose night
as it slips into velvet slippers,
we ride the tide of a waning moonglow,
our hands shadow play,
mimicking the gossip of bare walls.
Andrew Morton was a dreamer, and had been one for quite some time,
Just as language had to dream awhile, before it'd learnt how to rhyme.
Andy often felt like a wishing well, for he had such hopes and dreams;
Like one caught between a midnight maybe, and the red sunrise theme!
He lived in the house that he was born, and it was a house that he loved,
In agate hours of someday; like a handshake with the future, ungloved.
His friends also felt the future was faceted, and held shades of promise;
Like fragrant flowers, moonlit, or sangria butterflies, asleep in calmness.
Flowers and fancy clouds, trended the pink fad, as feeling family visited;
In final days of fleet spring, when loitering on the green, was prohibited.
Andy lived in the house of yearning, like the good old days, lost forever;
Or saffron sun, which rises only for today, as garnet birds, sing altogether.
Silky were starry nights of yellow moon, in a soft, scented breeze sector.
On the street of fluttering surrender. Lovely nature could not be better!
Andrew's nice neighbors were old friends. Some had grown up together;
In the joyous, white noise of youth, making looking back, such pleasure!
'Safari sunset' blooms opened in winter, in contrast to 'snow in summer';
The first, deep red, burgundy, and wine-red, and the latter an ivory stunner!
'Silver lace' blooms made gowns for the moon, as 'star magnolias' sparkled;
And 'sweet woodruff' scented blue shade, when breeze blew, unmarshaled.
Andrew realized that his life had no direction, for wishes were not enough;
And that he needed definitive goals and plans, as wishes alone, are just fluff!
For it's the things you do as you're wishing, that can make them come true;
So, his studies grew more earnest, like earnest dawn, very violet, all through!
This big change in Andrew, marked the last stage of growing up, suddenly;
As summer matures to the eyes of gladness, before latter colors, turn funky.
'If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
If turnips were watches, I'd wear one by my side.
If "ifs" and "ands" were pots and pans,
There'd be no work for tinkers' hands.'