Long Whitewash Poems
Long Whitewash Poems. Below are the most popular long Whitewash by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Whitewash poems by poem length and keyword.
A frosty whitewash, whirling winter snow
smoothly shrouds a secret silent slumber.
Skies all awake, flying mosaics of row
music chirps cavort the sunset amber.
Gelid air turfs, chilled in birds of wonder
gliding through miles, unknown lands asunder.
Crackling wings flutter, snuggling in romance.
Distant forage calls, "Move till Sun is back".
Searching lakes and meadows, looks not askance.
Soaring high they perch, steer and gear in stack.
Feet tucked in wings, they roost in adhoc shack.
Coats, scarves, gloves, plummets an echelon track.
Cardinals and Bluejays, plump with fork tails.
Martins, Owls, Robins, in chorus engage.
Lens of cameras spy, beaks, wings and scales.
Moulting leafless trees, flamboys in plumage.
Willow, alder, birch, dark eyed Juncos stage.
Seeds and nuts in tree crevices, cold assuage.
Hope surviving Life....as Twitter migrates
Mystical Winter........ Marathon Flyways.
Dated 17th December 2018
submitted to Gregory R Barden's Strength thru Adversity contest.
HOW THE POEM HELPED ME GROW
As a beginner to the world of poetry, I always thought that sonnets were something very very difficult only to written by people as talented as Shakespeare. This was my first attempt to write a sonnet. For one whole week, I read all details about migratory birds, and almost gained an encyclopedia of knowledge. First time i realized how difficult it was to limit your thoughts to syllables and lines, and I struggled for another week to find and use correct words, counting syllables. The poem didn't get placed, but it gave me lot of confidence to attempt writing other forms of poems.
This poem was originally submitted to Winter Wonderland Poetry Contest
Urban Sonnet form ABABBB, CDCDDD, EFEFFF, GG
Poetrysoup Syllable counter- 10 syllable each line.
Sponsor Emile Pinet
My dog is giving the sky
a meticulous tongue lolling.
Half way through the walk he dips
his pink lapper into a muddy puddle
then continues to paint the sky
to his liking,
'his liking' being
those odiferous bits of tainted earth
he uncovers with his wet nose.
I can see his work is having effect.
Just above our heads
the air has thickened, yellowing clouds
gather in a mellifluous miasma.
The heavens are ready to piss.
Internally we are both sunny,
it's just that his sense of art,
and its expression
is different from mine.
Dogshat and daffodils
and the world
always adding suitable hues
to balance the two.
Nature, like a Michael Angelo
always face up
building a sky-bridge
between them both.
Nevertheless, later today
I'll come back here with a ladder
and a bucket of whitewash.
A return to Normalcy
As night comes, all are at ease
We return to slumber
In the electric comfort
Of artificiality that is our lives
We revel in the false sense of our own
Modern conveniences
We forget the thin veil between
Our electric life, truth of nature’s brutality
Of our existence, we believe we are
Immune to the real world, harsher realities
Till only a loss of electric life or death, finite
Our comfort zone is rot, lost, and won
Something jars us back to reality
Of the world so frail
So it goes for everything n anyone
We are wrapped in ourselves
We are ignorant of the truth, in flesh
We hid in the comfort of our arrogance
We whitewash our history
We tell ourselves one thing
We miss direct our attention
With glamour, illusions, n media broadcasts
Peel back the thin layer of civility
See the bones of mortality
The flesh of humanity
The blood of our souls, vanity
We are primal and dangerous
Everything foretold, lost
We are comforted by our excesses
We fear what we cannot hold
And believe all we are sold
As we turn in for a much-needed reprieve
A needed night's rest, we are in our woolen
Wilds and slumber in our hypocrisy.
Maybe I seek meaning in the press of sympathetic eyes
Maybe within me resides a cancerous longing to shatter into a million tiny pieces
Maybe I will finally matter once tragedy razes the last vestiges of normalcy
Maybe I am a broken creature in a broken world, desperate to feel anything
I am an insomniac in the moonless night, plotting the end of my universe
I am a flightless bird careening from the top of a skyscraper
I am a suicidal survival guide to the purgatory of my own mind
I am what I've been made, a pale, pathetic being stillborn from the ashes of society
If I but had the courage to run eastward toward the dawn
If I could whitewash the blackened, soot-stained edges of my soul
If I had a blind man's courage, a dancer's grace, a mourner's strength
If sunrise brought resurrection from the death in darkness
So I wait, watching the wolves that prowl on the edges of my consciousness
So I dream, of flame and pain, of death and doom, of rain and sorrow
So I watch as life brushes past me, a stranger in the parkinglot
So I live, awaiting the devastation I know will befall me
Remembering once again childhood days
When mother would on warm days let fire die
Maybe she would stop me from my fun play
We would go for that afternoon walk__sigh
Down long road to the branch across the way
With our small pails probably once held lard
Back then everything was fried in that day
We would look for vein of whitewash real hard
After gathering the whitewash head home
Where mother would clean around fireplace hearth
She would remove ashes; set the soft tone
For our home, on her hands_ knees clean no mirth
She would then whitewash the hearth inside rim
Glistening clean white, adding wood stoke fire
It would crackle send tiny sparks to swim
Briefly in air like stars of night aspire
Gathering around the fire family time
News, stories, tall tales; safe and warm no doubt
Gradually fire would die into bed climb
Fear would come for daddy would say lights out
So where do we begin
The din of Indian chagrin
Subcontinent cardinal sin
Forgot how to play spin
Incontinent rot no Ashwin
Saffas got under their skin!
So no Mo Shami or Ishant Sharma
Double whammy now not so jammy
What about Obama calmer karma
Back from Kolpak leader of pack
Is it Heaven or E17 got a stack
Right armer & mockney charmer
Winning grinning skinning spinning attack
Slaying & flaying while playing Simon Says
Avenge those tears from 10 years ago..revenge
Wicket farmer yep cheers Essex’s Mr Harmer
Remember Temba inspired fired the ember
First place won the race for the WTC mace
Dream team scheme everyone a member
And even without their gilded pace ace
No KG Rabada in the Saffa Jaffa Gaffer speed larder
Need 2 metre maneater Marco like Rafa to try harder
Latest greatest tyro narco pyro in the stellar fella Armada
Sneaky hoarder Marco Polo or cheeky marauder Hans Solo
Tip top tourer run scorer tall all thriller no filler..Torquemada
Raw pure southpaw land of the other hand flotilla of Jansen
Saffa’s new slick quick pillar..serial killer like Charles Manson
Let’s end where we did begin..Indian cupboard is rather bare
One savvy Ravi left.. bereft one pace pair with flair through the air
No Ashwin through thick & thin.. slipped on banana skin of spin
Another bish bash bosh whitewash after that Kiwi yippee nirvana
Can still hear the din within of that chagrin at the mandarins sins
Ire..greats retire entire empire on funeral pyre fire - Sinara it's Manana!
Bay Area Nigh December
A tryst on a San Francisco trolley
that exhibits penchant amidst a glance,
for 'tis wintry time launch all, too jolly
save two turtledoves, culled cooed romance
left in steep devotion, neglects folly.
Atone solemn occasions ere chapel
doors left open, soul worshippers pass stained
glass multicolored figurines, dapple
its windows amidst Christmasy lights, trained
eyes in wonder, gulp an adam's apple.
Snowflakes patterned distinctly, blankets bare
grounds painstakingly, changing verdant green
to an achromatic dressed whitewash wear,
rotating perspective picturesque scene
consistent seasons shift that we now fare.
The Golden Gate bridge, waning its glit of
citrus rising, squirting into blind eyes
forced to shades, now visibly shone 'twas love
delicate trace of your countenance guise
as it chalks a blackboard wrote from above.
2020 November 14
*8th Place*
Quintain-Sicilian
~~Emile Pinet
So what do you think of democracy?
I think it rhymes well enough
With unheralded Greek aristocracy
Democracy is a Greek bluff
Opinions differ on how to
Correctly spell the name
Clysphenes, some say, and others argue
Cleisthenes, they go, what a shame
We are clashing on most every problem
Problems grow, then again they disperse
Rulers decide should I live more nobly
Will it be for better or worse?
The best way to whitewash a tyranny
Is to make everyone responsible
This task Clysphenes did brilliantly
With the illusion of right it is possible
To support someone who don’t know
If them voters alive or dead
You just vote and they count up the show
The winner may be good or bad
Means nothing what person you are
You vote doesn’t count anymore
Go to astrologist ask where’s your star
In the constellation of war
You've been given responsibility
For those whom you didn't trust
But it’s over, your protest activity
Matters less than a pile of dust
That's the trick of Clysphenes
Feel guilty for your inability
For what you couldn't do regardless
But you’re burdened with liability
I remember a Texan James Haritas
He was a man of bright wits
He said let me tell you a thing about us
"Beware of Greeks giving gifts".
Winged Lessons
by Odin Roark
Sitting astride his backpack,
A roadside nomadic looked up from his book.
The sun oppressing,
The sand distressing,
The bird noise progressing.
“From where came your right
To straddle fence wire and incessantly complain
With pompous cawing at a resting traveler,
As if he didn’t belong?
Who made you judge and jury for speeding cars
Trying to avoid your missile-like whitewash
As they chase setting suns
And see me only as a roadside shadow?
What do you know of windblown highway ditches as nightly shelter,
Or roadside memorials of white-cross remembrances,
All kinds of lives suddenly stopped?
Rather than making all that commotion,
Wouldn’t you be better off listening a little more,
Enjoying the fluttering quiet of those beautiful black-opal wings,
As you swoop in on sign posts and rusted-out abandoned cars?
What’s with your nasty disposition, anyway?
And why aren’t you carrying on like the raven you are,
Instead of the your noisy lessor specie, the crow?
Oh never mind.
Just shove off.
Let me have some peace
While I work through Poe’s take on your gnarly purpose.
Better still, just shut up and listen.”
‘And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!’
“See what I mean…
Maybe this Poe fella is trying to explain
Neither one of us is gonna live forever,
So…”
We looked at the world through rose-colored glasses,
sped through the night under blue moons,
parked in cars and gave boys the green light.
Explored gray areas, dreamed of golden boys,
painted the town red and got caught red-handed.
We saw adult freedoms and were green with envy,
we experienced blackouts (I’m talkin’ to you 151 rum),
swam in black water alone and talked to strangers,
told little white lies, yet somehow, we didn’t die young.
I think of college students as dyed-in-the-wool adults.
The grass always looked greener on the adult side,
and we’re tickled pink not to be infantilized any more.
We’ll show the world our true colors
and pass college with flying colors.
Life won't be handed to us on silver platters,
we’ll get white collar jobs.
Of course, as adults, we’ll have to deal with red tape,
and we can’t be yellow-bellied or try to whitewash things.
We’ll stay out of the red or sing the blues.
We’ll stay off the yellow lines, seek golden opportunities,
attend black tie events, obey the golden rule, avoid pink slips,
support our men in blue and look for silver linings.
Adulthood sounds exhausting.
On the positive side, I’m told adults practice safe sex.
Practice means what it’s always meant - right?
Is that why adults go to bed so early?
Besides, as adults, we won’t be kept in the dark anymore,
and we’ll get to chase rainbows!