Long Whirligig Poems
Long Whirligig Poems. Below are the most popular long Whirligig by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Whirligig poems by poem length and keyword.
bird’s beak
in stirring melody arouse
silver wassail of chimes
breathlessly bound
to bough
to bow
at angst of wind
reverence of two feet
bird’s claws clinging to the true branch
unbound
bird’s praise
of appraisal as Autumn leaves
red and golden linger
whirligig and
arise
surly
and duly tossed
to the cold cruel surface
where children wait to kick and stomp
throw wings
God sees
impervious backbone of leaves
for it’s all in Fall’s fun
the breakdown of
compost
the trees
do not despair
wings pet the bark whilst the
losing of proverbial hair
color
inward
greening has knowledge of Springtime
the songbirds practicing
their sunshine tunes
its boon
i’m on Georgia turf, the land
of bless your heart, pretense
of the titillation of heat.
scurries the sun; moon
damp on clothesline.
burrowing bunny ears with
chocolate undergrowth.
seeds just float away —
Spring ants on ready
for full on assault -
red, black, small, sweet
snacks, eyeing the path
up the drain, backpacks
with chemical-scent
prepared to fill the queen’s orders.
moss suspended in animation -
vibrant hues imbued
with mosquito larvae.
oh what joy when Hotlanta dries
and we run smack
into the thugs
that arise from corners of
their nests.
just in time for Easter
bless our Southern hearts
with beasts that beat us
to the melted bunny feast,
branches that grow
overnight — a highway
for the squirrels. eyes
will be on pretty petals
that overblossom —
the poet soaks
in flooded rose
and jonquil reservoir.
flowery words swim
in the concentrated puddle
along with whirligig-ladybugs.
oh what fun, a slippery-slide
into a momentous hatch —
let me explain: a floodgate;
the Assyrian army.
3/5/2020
“How-do-you-do?” the seminal leaves of Autumn wave.
“When would you like to fly away?” prickles the gust.
Maternal-oak holds on tight as one birdy takes flight.
The gust will have none of this ballyhoo, knowing
what he must do, calls for fingernails-on-chalkboard rain,
for the bad-wolf-wind, for lightning, insane.
“Toodle-loo,” says each spiderling-leaf, parachuting to earth.
They make such a scene; whirligig and wandering,
each drenched in colloquial colors, memorable, forsaken.
Each one in turn catches a potential eye even as it lands
in puddles, whirling and twirling, a final splash. They mourn
as blends of orange, yellow and red bleed into the stream.
Undignified, decomposing, going under, all poetry spent,
dwarfing and drifting; washed away down the drain.
Spring regeneration haphazardly avoids loose-leaf goosebumps.
curlicues perhaps
the Catholic nun
wouldn’t let me engage
in penmanship shape
“shape up, sit straight!!”
yet the ancients
would whirligig
with their featherings
fill up the page
with their zorro-like signature
tap-tap-tap
the teacher’s brought me back
to life, to engage
in this ((yawn)) bor…ing
admonish the swording
don’t let me squander her time
keep in step with the four wall attack
windows of daydreams grow black
march march march
in two straight Madeline-s
the feather tickles my digits
my mind metamorphic
the rhymes fantastic
tap-tap-tap
this time near my ear
the fearsome whip
that steers me
into correction
dear nun’s satisfaction
i’ll get an A
in penmanship
but conduct -
can’t shut me up
Quote: Do you ever wonder why we build castles in the air? Perhaps, it's to soften the blow of a harsh world that never seems to slide nor adjust to our individual expectations.
Ever since I was a little girl the blooming fields
and goldenrods of nature held me captive in a spell
Heartbeat moments of grace sifted through me
at the most unexpected moments
leaving transient gifts, in a playground full of magic !
A young impressionable child was I, held captive
by the Holiest of things here and far beyond !
***
I remember the Angels fanning their wings
turning my weightless body into feathers
in a field full of daisies and floating castles in the air.
It was in a carousel ride full of flying horseys,
then one day I asked the Angels to take me home,
"Let go child " was all they said, and then they flew away
leaving me sitting there, me and my childhood whirligig !
Today...
Let me swirl, let me sway,
I want to whirl my cares away.
Stand by...
Let me float, let me fly,
I want to forget how to cry.
Don't stare...
Let me dance, let me dare,
I want to romance with the air.
Joyride...
Let me groove, let me glide,
I want to move that samba stride.
Soft blush...
Let me reel, let me rush,
I want to feel your gentle brush.
Stroke me...
Let me spin a trot spree,
I want to grin through this boogie.
Alive...
Let me jig, let me jive,
I'm on a whirligig waltz drive.
09.24.17
Based on the painting "She dances in beauty"
by Anna Razumovskaya
What’s It Like?
First:
A strand of hair finer than silk in the Emperor’s robe blows across her face the very end catching in the corner of her mouth. She fills my field of vision her eyes looking full at me, there, a question therein: What’s it like?
Then:
Tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Yes, that dark spot in the iris, windswept black eyebrows thick and meaningful. Freckles (what an odd word).
Some superlatives:
She’s the orange and fire red of Oklahoma sunsets, Snake River waterfall mist, Palouse rolling richness, maple leaves drifting on the Guadalupe, warm butterscotch on vanilla ice cream clouds sweeping up the valley rain is sure to fall or is it tears? No matter.
Of another order:
The closet’s darkness she is blood on the hunter’s hands, desert dirt devil and twisted mesquite and rose thorns, hand tremors a finger on the trigger, harsh words spoken in anger; she can be cruel.
But then:
The whirligig dance at lake’s edge, white lotus above black water, the cicada wing I saw just this morning, her face so close to mine I can feel her skin’s moisture. I see most clearly that fine strand of hair.
And still the question: What’s it like?
Pine needles falling, I should think, koi blowing bubbles, a mother calling a hand on my shoulder the slightest touch whispers turn around see me. I won’t tell you lies; it hurts, that ache that arc that pain her fair hair’s autumn auburn blended sweetly with black water and her white dress, memories at the tip of mind, the spangled, star-struck twist and turn, dodge and dance of cold constellations.
That’s what it’s like.
In people’s front yards
(That is, if they’re allowed),
They can have a display
Which will make them feel proud.
Some have flowers and banners
Or bushes and hedges
Or humorous statues
Lined up on the edges.
A spinner or whirligig
Might add some fun
Or a sculpture or wind sock
When not overdone.
Now, my personal taste
May be different from yours,
But some people have yards
No one ever ignores
For they’re filled with such tchotchkes
They make my head swim;
Yet although my opinion
Of this might be dim
To those owners, such plenty
Brings joy and such pride
It’s a wonder they ever
Come in from outside.
Feel the air wide open
her arms crave carefree days
hips sway swivel left and right
electricity in momentum
a whirligig of laughter
she can feel the swoosh of her skirt
is she alone she can tell
the air’s scented their breaths hold
clues…her body listens quiets
at his approach they move
apart together
having learned to avoid
control her palms rise
and gyrate with the oxygenated current
she has no idea
how slender and graceful
her form appears in the wall mirror
petite soles arch
and she dares tippy toes
now her sisters
narrow the gap shadow
her agile movement
her eyes open or closed
matter only to her audience
her eyes are pretty they stare
into the past and the future
blinded by an unseen light
dancing dewy delight
*prose was six lines when posted.
STOLE HER HEART TOO
A golden feather, shaped like a heart - the point like a prima donna’s ballet toes. Spoiled feather fell from forever into mortal hands. The giant screamed, stomped at his loss. The whirligig like the lamellae of a music box. Falling from seventh heaven alongside the corkscrew tree. Jack, deliriously descending, on his way to visit his procured harp, plucked from the giant’s brother. The fair lass in silver slippers hugs the feather, agrees to kiss Jack’s stupid lips.
8/31/2019
Writing Challenge 4, August 2019 - Six Lines
Sponsor, Dear Heart- Wiishkobi Ode