Long Urbane Poems
Long Urbane Poems. Below are the most popular long Urbane by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Urbane poems by poem length and keyword.
The First Time
A brooding forest illuminated by a wishful recitation,
Errantly proffered, for woodland creature's, to savor,
A humble soul, who is slow in the course of courting,
A supportive procedure, of airy words to practice by.
Nimble eyes brashly grazed the overworn paper,
Promising to thoughts sake, of multiple repeats,
Apprehensive importuned by that thawing hour,
As the momentous occurrence, developed itself.
Yon floweret holds neath dangling mistletoe,
Her fervent fragrance burst to exude scents,
Ventured out eagerly entice the staled nose,
Urbane sweet-smelling embrace a new year.
The sweet nothings poured first from his lips,
To tendered labyrinths to absorb and exist in,
The elder minds remember and youth fickles,
Naught this brave budding cause for he begs.
So he gathers the courage to submissiveness,
With both hands behind his back and yield . . .
. . . fingers crossed, he leans in towards her too,
favors a kiss to be in-kind, she willfully responds.
. . . two as one . . . for the first time.
2020 January 17
What Are Your Wishes
*7th Place*
Second Chances N-A Poems From My Contests Only Part I
~~Chantelle Anne Cooke
*2nd Place*
Writing Prompt - Take the Dagger Out
~~Constance La France
A special treat as a tyke was a trip to the candy store,
Pressing my nose to the glass eyeing tasty candies galore!
With pennies in hand trying to make a profound decision,
The candy-man becoming impatient with my youthful indecision!
Gracious me! All those marvelous delicacies in cartons and jars!
Jelly beans, lollipops, gum drops and heaps of chocolate bars;
Taffy, licorice, all-day suckers and jaw breakers too.
So much to choose from - what was a poor boy to do!
When I became a teenager and somewhat more urbane,
I forsook lollipops, horehound and the childish candy cane!
I much preferred heartier fare to sate my greedy sweet tooth,
Like Mounds, Pay Day, Milky Way and the good old Baby Ruth!
Now as I near the autumn of life's wild and treacherous tour,
I have a taste for more exotic sweets as I become more mature.
Truffles, pralines, penuche, bon bons and luscious divinity;
Almond roca and turkish delight - I could go on to infinity!
I researched the history of candy and here is what I found.
Cave persons discovered honey and consumed it by the pound!
Others concocted candied honey mixing in a bit of fruits and nuts.
History aside, I don't care - I relish candy no ifs, ands or buts!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Blinded by vanity
a king has no hope, only a pugilistic mind.
He speaks his urbane opinions carelessly
berating all others; he leaves their broken hearts behind.
Since he himself has no hope, he crushes the hopes of those he thinks of pusillanimously.
Such a waste, their hopes will never be refined.
This king, contrary to many other kings, was not thought of as volatile.
Not a soul, would I expect to be surprised,
In fact, they expected no other fact; they said he deserved credit through death upon exile.
Atop their graves, written on the tombstone, are words that penetrate so deep into you that you can hear their thoughts, which were not so much compromised.
All the while, the king is enclosed in his vanity.
Forevermore with a crown atop his grave
Along with the few remnants of his dignity
In addition to the veridical words
“A king, not so much, but a mortal man whose vanity couldn't save.”
I assure you, vanity is the bane
of this tragedy, so avoid it at all costs, for it will not diminish but will instead only exacerbate the pain.
written last year after Maya Angelou"s death-
Men wonder wherein my charm lies-
I'm not good looking or athletic in size-
I try to tell the guys,
But some think I'm telling lies.
I say to them,
It's how I carry myself-
Honesty in my eyes,
Politeness in my talk,
Gentleness in my actions,
Conviction in my walk.
I'm a gentleman
Extraordinaire-
Extraordinary man,
That's me!
I walk into a room,
And smile at those around-
I greet each one with cheer,
And soon the girls surround.
I don't brag or shout-
It's not me I talk about.
To the guys, I say,
It's how I carry myself-
Not egotistical, but proud,
Not meek, but not too loud-
Just old-fashioned gentility,
Ladies first, then me.
I'm a gentleman
Extraordinaire-
Extraordinary man,
That's me!
My secret lies within-
I'm neat, don't cheat,
Don't lie, steal or swear,
And always try to be fair-
But it's more than that I say to them.
It's life that I embrace-
It's how I carry myself-
Urbane,
With grace,
Never trying to disgrace-
I'm a gentleman
Extraordinaire-
Extraordinary man,
That's me!
Curling crests cassessing coastlines
backwash bumping beach breakers.
screeching Seagulls squark and scream
mocking maritime merrymakers.
Burning boogers brave blisterd backs
scorched surfers seek shoreline shade,
urbane under umpteen umberellas,
peacocks posed in a parasol parade.
Drifting dunes delight deserted
lovers, languorously lounging, lazily
craving comfort, coveting cool currents.
Hellishly humid, heat hovers hazily.
Spirited siblings, spades spanking
bucket bottoms, bulid
carefully carved chimerical castles,
infantile fantasies fulfilled.
Exposing exiled exoskeletons
turning tide tickles toes,
sun sinks slowly seaward
disclosing dusk's descending doze.
one need not be cosmopolitan nor urbane
but like me just a common and simple fellow
whom this bumpkin t'would never be called vain
doing his level best to ride the gravy train
voicing sentiments in league like an ordinary swain
recounting how those forebears occupied a royal reign
composing this, that or the other anonymous quatrain
perhaps even adorning an irish pen name like o'shane
just one humble poet whose verse one might call plain
reaching to win the heart of this paramour in the main
taking an idyllic stroll along lover's lane
taking in silent subtle musings like some citizen kane
this common joe holding hands with his ordinary jane.
Soon after nibbling pumpkin pie,
I felt terribly amiss,
where death be not proud
did scythe lance me
never came to bring
bliss, well nigh,
thus hour writhing with torturous pain
awoke wish to lie with permanent rigor
mortis supine without an intestate
for meager pose Hessions this guy
attests, which scarce material goods,
one would immediately espy
little stock dis
due dill ling dad doth not deign
deliberately displaying no deny
ill asper being non
materialistic, not wanting aye asseverate
next of kin burden
some task to decry.
As per thee above mentioned
immediate grippe of jabbing
abdominal agony did not wane
for extended period of time,
which sudden devout
praying Holy Scott twas in vane
where that this ordinarily
spry body of mine
sought zilch ambition
tubby vaunted or urbane,
but these lovely bag of bones
felt fragile as if
one to many fruit loops taken
on Ozzy Osborne's ): crazy train
plagued with waves
of gastrointestinal agony
i.e. severe cramps dizziness
nauseousness, and re
pulsed with aversion
to air, don, or trumpet
a swan song, sans of this aged jilted
(once shy twice burned)
once besotted handsome swain
hobbled thus unable to ride
my high horse weathering a bodily reign
of terror reducing me to hash out,
this ridiculous juvenile refrain.
“Sir, Sir, why are you smiling, so happy and glad,
If you do not mind to answer my simple query,
Please teach me how to be urbane and merry,
I am so tired to be labeled as gauche or mad:
It is so scary to look at the moon and feel sad!
The days are so long and the nights too dreary
The comedies too silly, the dramas too eerie,
Who would guess that a Romantic soul is bad?”
“But my dear friend, there is no secret at all,
No mystery in the rainbow for you to find
Unless you look inside your own good mind:
I have just answered a surprising phone call:
It was not Calypso or a holy archangel above,
No, it was just the voice of the woman I love.”
Gonifs and gossips revisited
since originally being crafted
approximately half dozen
dirty deeds done dirt cheap years ago...
Abound and lurk
within every nook and cranny
analogous to some annoying pest
harmless though one reside here,
when off his meds goes berserk
here at Highland Manor Apartments.
They snatch and snitch packages -
meant for other than themselves -
think Grinch who stole Christmas
plus snoop, i.e. eavesdrop
big Dumbo ears as listening devices
(batteries not required)
or serve as rumor mongers
to don self importance
and trumpet "FAKE NEWS."
We (yours truly and his misses)
dwelled at aforementioned residence
July first 2025 will be eight years,
and no sooner did both of us set foot
on premises than hearsay
immediately promulgated
(metaphorically swirled about our heads),
and passed like greased lightning
thru the robust grapevine
purportedly wife of mine
brought in live snakes.
Oddly and interestingly enough though,
I never actually never heard nor saw
a fellow resident
talk (or whisper in hushed tones)
about me outright.
Rather than badmouth other feisty folks,
which leaves unpleasant virtual
aftertaste described as phooey zook,
thus comeuppance to reprobate recipients
I activate viz cluck
king silly reasonable rhyme,
(so keeps head up
for urbane adverse city slicker
you better watch out
(...better not shout...) just duck
and run for cover cuz poet took
effluvia enroute spouted by word huck
stir, he avoids naming
(chatterboxes whose lives
so devoid of meaning,
they figuratively kickstart tittle-tattle),
who vocally ramp up
some juicy tidbit with any luck
taking page from former president playbook
letting their lips uncontrollably run a-muck
totally oblivious to credibility factor being a schmuck
buzzfeed initial kernel of truth and truck
outrageous zingers suitable for National Enquirer,
tragicomical, cuz mistruths
courtesy tenants exhibit chutzpah to pluck
farfetched outright lies and innuendos
rolling of tongues of then occupants such as:
"Bible Thumper/Holy Roller,"
"Bingo/ Phat Cathy,""Crooked Old Man,"
"Curvy Girl/Thunder Thighs," "Frumpty Dumpty
"Mush/Smash Mouth, "Snaggletooth,"
"The Bodyguard," "The Fossil," "The Schvartze,"
"Winkle," and last but not leased "Zha Zha”.
Give me fruit flies, mice
and/or roaches any day,
or give me death!
It’s hard to quantify experiences, but to coin someone else's
original phrase, ‘you know it when you feel it.’
Now that I’m living in Paris, at my Grandmère’s 76-room ‘hôtel particulier,’ I find myself on the itchy edge of wealth, influence and power and while I don’t consider myself necessarily of that class, I’m certainly exposed to attempts to drag me into it.
Many afternoons, as I come home wearied by classes and braced for hours of study, there are these silver trays with little white, gold embossed envelopes (invitations), casually placed where they’re unavoidable, and it’s not unusual to find that one of the CMs has laid out a dress for me and a suit for Peter - though we seldom attend these events.
I find myself vociferously defending my schedule (for the thousandth time) - and I’ve only been in school three weeks: “Grandmère, I’m in med-school, I have homework.”
Let’s wax freeversely of the upper-class (as if I belonged)..
In elegant but confined houses
where lives unfold in drawing rooms
and the inhabitants are sharp and snobbish.
They struggle against social and erotic constraints -
frustrations essential to the drama and pathos of wealth.
Let the rabble be messily heterogeneous
and agenda-set “inclusivity.” It’s nothing to us.
It hardly foregrounds harmony or authenticity.
Civilized people are more reticent and buttoned-up.
it’s sexier and more romantic, to drive toward marriage,
where lovers work to deserve each other,
and individuals integrate into couples.
Failing this urbane integration, love degenerates
into solipsist libertinism and eventually, these
sad outcasts catch their deaths - apart and alone.
.
.
Songs for this:
Am I the Same Girl? by Swing Out Sister
It Hasn't Happened Yet by William Shatner
.
.
hôtel particulier = a grand urban townhouse (mansion) in Paris or other city.
76-rooms - 37 of those are bathrooms - do those count as rooms?
CM = chambermaid (I think Grandmère employs 12 domestic servants).