Long Unwary Poems
Long Unwary Poems. Below are the most popular long Unwary by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unwary poems by poem length and keyword.
I have a large muscular strong body frame
roam relaxed in the wilderness of thicket,
excel as a hunter of the wild animal blood,
once I set the preys as goal I hound them.
Labeled as the king of beasts, even then,
I don’t know why they call me a cat.
With masculine mane I crown my head
that seduces the lissome lioness in my den.
I like to lie with the cubs in shade of tree,
and lumber leisurely in the grassland,
can run the fastest under darkness cover,
strive hard to kill when we are hungry.
Follow stealthily the unwary alluring kill,
I can outrun the fastest fleshy gazelle.
Lunge like a lance at its slender neck,
and pin the prey down for a hearty meal.
In the mist shrouding mystically
the journey’s penultimate mile
at the fringe of the fading pasture
of the un-blossomed future obscure
in the twilight hour transient
the sunset swansong resonates
for the forlorn life silently spent
and becoming silhouetted still
against the shrinking skyline of lost luster
seeing the last sparkle of the dying day.
The twirling threads of turmoil
entwined in seamless motif
with the passing clouds of passion
surging through the sensuous storm
to the unwary horizon dark
halcyon once with splendorous hues
tinting the chameleon transformation
on the convoluted yearning canvas ablaze
as from its burning rememrance remnant
the abandoned ashes fly away.
The shards of the splintered hope
in the swirling squall of relentless agony
afloat on the melancholic waves
of melted fervor flowing in the stream of tears
the remaining rays of sanguinity
survive still in the final flashes
of the sinking sun not yet morbid
fabricating the last lattice latent
of the tapestry of dream
swathing the panorama of the promising life.
Title 2/ BAIT
Quote: Better to shun the bait than struggle in the snare. William Blake
The transiting sun shines on you deceptively,
spreads shifting spectrum in chameleon sky,
the masked faces designed by innate ingenious craft,
walk you baited on the golden garden’s blind pathway.
In the deluding dim night of deceptive dreams,
their footfall is unheard in trance of tranquility.
Their sneaky eyes probe to capture you to consume,
as the masks melt in the misleading depth of darkness.
In the fatal desolate domain of feral fright,
under the ebony sky on the gloomy ground,
the conniving creatures of night creep unsuspected,
stalks the unwary prey, you can’t escape the hunt.
With the desiccated life in forlorn desert,
you chase the misleading mirages of deceit,
while you’re seduced by their delusive enticement,
your heart breaks in the debris of false temptation.
The alluring animals slither in illusive wilds,
cast the designed bait with bated breath.
The cunning artists perform perfectly, a masquerade,
unmasked, they morph into prowling predator devils.
With arcane acumen of despicable trickster,
as silhouettes of menace they covertly crawl
into the quiet quintessence of your existential euphoria,
suck seraphic ambrosia from the sanctum of your soul.
The turning time’s deceiving show goes on and on,
prevailing spotlights shine on veiled visage of fraud.
Finding a fake place to survive in the archive of pretension,
you turn into antique lure in the museum of masked faces.
Cyrus...
President of the country,
not like any that came before.
Or... Like any that will follow.
Standing in the gap between the flood,
and the waters of eternity,
threatening to consume the weak,
kill the innocent,
and feast on the unwary.
The man was voted in by the people,
but clearly printed in the word,
his name; a Trumpet... of His Coming!
Your hand Sir, held high,
a pen, sword, a law to be made,
a few to be broken,
that should have never...
been written at all.
Blessings on you, your family,
all those that serve the righteous
cause of the Lord's plan.
The military might of Moses,
winning by the hand of GOD...
against the chariots of Pharaoh.
No obstacle before you, beside you, or...
behind you, will pull you down,
as you hold Israel high!
God's blessed land...
God's blessed people!
Killing off the minions of darkness,
in sweeping storms of truth.
Draining the alligators,
the crocodiles, and tiny slimy sucker fish...
from the swamps of our country,
in order to prepare better fields of green.
A glory to God on the highest!
Prayers to you, Sir.
Prayers to your family.
You hug our flag in your arms,
like you hold something dear.
There is no fear left in the land,
only the echoing sound(s)...
of the Horn,
the Horn of Jubilee!
There are few places now
where life can find respite
on hot summer days.
Shady spaces are contested
real estate beneath trees
and in the shallow waters under
a bridge where countless
plump, pink jellyfish congregate
to hide from the heat.
Thousands gather, pulsing
in the warm brine. They look
like brains that have escaped
from skulls, their severed
spinal cords now lethal
clumps of thread hanging down
to entangle the unwary.
The species is thriving
in the warming waters.
These jellyfish have no eyes
to see ahead. To them,
all is now by nudge
and touch. No thoughts
of consequence or compassion
trouble their gelatinous will,
no desire to share
halts their inexorable spread.
To them there is only
an unquestionable need.
They have infiltrated our space,
children of our kind,
servants to a common greed.
Trudging on the indolent deserted pathway
the fragile footprints collapse in the sands of time,
the cadence of music dissolves in mirage,
life’s unsung tunes fade away in sorrow.
In the trembling spine of the parched shadows
hungry predators burrow harrowing holes,
as the desolateness sucks within the hollow
in the insane depth of the sordid souls.
They walk addicted on the squalid quicksand
as gripping as the demons of sin could ever be,
sink in the destined depth of abhorrent abyss,
wrapped in the despicable layers of disdain.
The lancets of evil slash the moral essence
where they try for long in vain to never dig
the grave for the souls slain by the stab of sin,
for they never drown contrite in the sea of shame.
In the depth of darkness, opaque and dense,
the ground doesn’t hear the footfall of silence.
Burning sets of piercing eyes hover and stare
at the static secrets of the still mystique air.
In the stillness profound and intense,
the twilight of the dying day fades in the distance.
The animals of the night prowl and stalk
the haunted before they can hide in the dark.
In the wilds the nightriders move and create
the animals in them in the darkest of space,
turn into marauders deadly and noxious,
shaping the sinister creatures of menace.
Beneath the sheath of secret silence,
grimy spirits of the evil shadows creep,
float on the unwary brink of the onyx night,
dip into the still depth to drink the ambrosia of soul.
In the evil niche of the murky mind,
the nightriders morph into daunting devils.
The animals of the dark carry the ominous desire,
seek the contrived space in seamless darkness
to take the lives even if they cry for freedom.
In the quietude of the serene silver moonshine
with my footprints in the shadow of their stride
my aloneness walks me in the destined track,
I’ll follow with fortitude till the end of my time
when my soul will be engraved in the shadow of silence.
The heart of night, where gravity prevails;
A force unseen, yet felt in trembling bones;
Awake, where time folds in upon itself;
A silent hunger, swallowing unwary stars.
No light escapes the shadow’s grasp;
The singularity, dense, unmeasured, deep.
A true enigma, the cosmos’ fatal wound;
Around its edge, a spiral dance of dust;
Bright rage of atoms caught, yet never freed;
An endless whirlpool—aching, cold, and vast;
Where space and fate entwine in a mystery.
What lies beyond the rim, no mind ever knows;
Horizons closed to dreams or mere mortal eyes;
The laws of nature loosened, warped, and bent;
Where even light must bow and lose its way.
Yet in this dark, creation finds its place;
The birth of stars, the death of ancient suns;
All time compressed to echoes, beats, and sighs;
A story written, the Universe’s book of the dead.
Cosmic Death Poetry Contest
2/2/2026
Sponsored by: Seth Pina
my friend,
beacon, bright ...
how you have bewitched my years,
dancing on the wall of my room since my first memory,
a warm sweep of security and steadiness,
never failing - ever true ...
blinking me to sleep each night like a prayer -
"I'm here! - I watch! - You're safe!"
I wonder ...
are you really a warning?
Or do you wink your sparkling eye
only to taunt the unwary prey at sea?
Schooners, barques, cutters, and frigates,
wagging their masts like bony fingers,
admonishing you for your questionable intent.
How many have fallen for your treachery in ages past,
turned to driftwood and terror by your crimped and craggy skirt?
Not even Neptune's raging ire can affect your flicker,
for you have stood, steadfast and bold,
through the wickedest of gales ...
splitting the beastly billows with dire disregard,
and turning the tempest's tides
to naught but foam and spray.
But your days are numbered, old friend,
the world spins far too fast these days for your kind ...
your lights being snuffed by digits and dials,
and the indifference of technology.
But I shall remember you ...
your pulse will live on in my mind,
and in the hearts of all those who knew you -
all those who survived for your sake ...
and numbered your glinting gaze.
you ...
are my moon
(whisper me, coolly)
wan and pale as porcelain
milky moll - `china doll ...
dancing the sky like a Ginza geisha
stars tickling your toes
prettily petulant, and perfectly ...
imperfect
my moon ...
(whisper me, wondrous)
warm ... lemon drop on my tongue
teasing me to your fire
feral fool ...
I, the unwary prey - the Mandarin moth
charmed by your glisten
listen - do my wings flutter ...
or my heart?
moon ...
(whisper my name)
round and radiant - red as a cranberry
tart, sweet, luscious-lipped
dipped fruit, forbidden ...
peek-a-boo clouds of mixing emotions
stormy weather sighs
soft flesh pressed to softer ...
your kiss
my moon ...
(whispering madness)
beryl blue sadness and distant as dreams
obscured by brume and illusion
erotic suffusion ...
you pull on my blood like tidal bore
gibbous or gone
your glow is my utter apogee ...
affectation, pure
you ...
are my moon
(whisper your wishes)
I am magic, bathed in your pearly enchantments
face turned, or commanding my heavens
you are ever true ...
hues and moods in multitudes
all meant to melt me
to drip like honeyed passion ...
when you ...
whisper.
* This is a free verse form I invented called “LUNACRITICA” - I hope you enjoyed it! *
At the fringe
of the twilight zone
the dwindling day
flushes halcyon horizon
with cinnabar sequins,
the sunset splendor
spins celestial strands
in the formless film
of cadenced cloud,
turning to cosmic violin,
r e v e r b e r a t i n g …
In the misty milepost
overtly ordained
at the finite fringe
of penultimate pathway
at nebulous periphery
of future obscure,
the twilight tune
resounds the requiem
for the forlorn being,
silhouetted still
against sundown skyline
of transient radiance,
discerning destined
in the cauldron of time
the final flash
of the demolished day,
d e c e a s i n g….
The twirling tapestry
of tempestuous suffering,
interlaced inherently
with the chalcedony clouds
of smarting storm,
ravages the unwary horizon,
transiently tranquil once,
marks the chameleon shift
of the concealed colors
of dormant desires
on the convoluted canvas,
lacerates the last corner
of the frail fresco
of the mystified mind,
c r u m b l i n g….
The deformed shards
of the splintered sky
swirl in squally pathos,
roll on the dismal waves
of curled-up desolate cloud,
the remnant patina
of sunflower sanguinity
still sparkle
in the departing flashes
of the sinking sun,
drowning the montage
of derelict memory,
compose the latent melody
of the unsung dreams
with the fossilized life’s
fading facsimile,
sequestered in spectral sonata
of sunset swansong,
r e s o n a t i n g ….