. snake held
. by its tail
. pinched between
. fingers of arm extended
. whips around fangs uncoiled
. striking here biting again
. scything in circles lunging here and there
. flailing like a yellow pac-man gulping at air
. chasing the hand
. that taught it
. to circle
. lying at
. the core
. of the maze
. hungry
. for
. more
The scorching yellow has dim
and the cuckoos call out to each other.
parading above the paddy of gold
are grey tufts of warm and humid clouds
lunging onto the trees,
with crackles and flashes of silver light.
Boughs of ripe mangoes sway
marigolds and freesias cup all they get
quenching their thirst after a rigid summer’s reign.
Tapping on my roof
like a child playing drums on dinner plates
the pitter and patter goes on.
the earthy smell rise as weeds stretch and flowers yawn.
the season of rain
of nature’s music, of cold nights and
new blooms.
The season of mirth as woodsmoke
tangle with petrichor.
Rain like a true Knight
galloping around.
Contest Title: Long Shadows Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Deadline: Wednesday, October 29, 2025
Poem Title: The Surveyor of Dusk
Late Texas summer, wet heat and mosquitos,
running each evening, preparing for boot.
Past the few houses in my small country town,
past the people, past the sound,
running my past into the graveled ground.
The sun was low, a blood-red fruit in the sky,
casting my lunging shadow before me
on the dusty gravel finger of road.
I and my companion shadow strode
to Richland Creek where I would rest my load.
Each day I ran through the silent shadows,
alone and relishing my strength and youth,
pitting myself against my own best time,
enjoying the heat, sweat, and even the grime
of the dusty shadowed gravel road rime.
My shadow was joined in silent watch
one evening as I pushed my youthful endurance
by a heart-faced barn owl with glowing eyes
who brought a stutter to my steps
and a shock to my eyes.
Silently staring with shadow of his own,
his golden eyes still keep me company
in dreams and shadow memory
reminding me of a youth so temporary.
Soft is the call of the night
She whispers to me in the rustle
of leaves ‘neath an ancient breeze
For time runs headlong into the chasm
~ lunging at moments already passed
If ever we needed to ventilate,
it is now…the thickening tragedy
of lies have become too heavy
for the respiration of living truth…
Indeed…the dire situation
has reached lunging capacity
and the alveoli of reality
are sparking gut-wrenching
diarrheic retribution…
Breathe people…breathe…
check the yellowing mane…
strings of manipulation pulling
thin loose-lips of a sinking ship…
Breathe people…breathe…
the corona of truth shines
its bright light of truth…glowing
around the dark moon of deceit
of Americanism’s tragic turn…
Be mindful… people …scapegoats
come and go…in God, we must trust…
rather than loaning our sacred lives
to ill-fated government iniquities…
As believers—in the Lenten resurrection—
let us be about the business of resuscitation
of our beloved dying nation—yes …ours—built
by the blood-brick masonry of our Ancestors…
If I could reach within myself and pull out my soul
a freed spirit on which wings grow
soaring high and pierce the blue sky
into the universe fly
the cosmos rhythm and rhyme
old and new as time
where whatever was or will be
eyes open for me to see
Star steps I walk upon
witness the birth of dawn
and dive into the abyss
a-washed in dusk's mist
twirl into the void
grasp the ladder with joy
ascend with wings unfurl
into the creation of worlds
Heaven could this be
I fall to my knees
and bow into eternal light
my soul glows forever bright
Paradise knowing all
I begin to fall
my wings fold and fail
into bottomless hell
with dark souls lunging for me
blue flames all I see
eyes closed in fetal position
swirling without direction
My screams make me awake
was it a dream or an escape
mortal man forsake
Star steps cannot take
is it meant to be
in the garden an apple falls from the tree.
In this town or nation of ours I felt that one house
is a palace at least globalization raises such fact
that sometimes tis nationalism and patriotism?.
I did not mean the other houses felt most or water
that is why blue or dimness lunging
however just like politics the door is better.
Scottish dog sits on his Celtic mama’s lap
Barking, growling, and lunging at every sap
Who dares to try to court his mama, Miss LaBlap.
You’ll never get married, says her Grandpa Rap.
That may be says his granddaughter, who likes to clap.
But I need my doggie, he keeps suiters from annoying me during my nap.
You are the only woman I know who likes being single said Grandma Rap.
Scottish dog began growling at her too, and lunged at her lap.
The dogs were barking up their lungs
Lunging at the door, as if there were murderers in the yard
I said to my husband “maybe we should not answer the door.”
No one tells that man what to do. He went marching out.
Nothing out there, he told me.
The dogs went running out to chase someone we could not see.
“spirit people,” my husband and I both agreed.
We see this at least once a day.
Always wondering if they ever catch the culprit.
Stuffed heads on imposing walls
beady glass eyes, glare.
The house is stuffed with horns,
tusks, fangs, and jowls.
Many a taxidermic glower,
gazes down,
with a moth-farmed visage.
Slaughtered beast
hang heavily from high mounts.
Teddy Roosevelt’s elephant gun
leans against a hollow elephant foot.
On gaslit nights
light gleams upon eyeless tigers.
He ‘bagged’ them all - a manly trait,
(historical context is everything),
truly, great men often display,
their overstuffed ego’s.
Later, Teddy Bears make amends,
as best they can.
Often, It is said,
that these wood-paneled veneers’
echo yet, with the lion's roar,
the panthers rage,
and the rhino's blind charge –
their spirits lunging once more,
toward their now, out-of-date
fate.
Sylphs, Fairies, Imps, Sprites
Moonlighting on the dark side
Bitstreaming the Night
Ology fractured
Today's Client, a new breed
That's the business
Mushrooming sales, sniffs
Crystal, clear intent
To manufacture
-oting with money
At the Poles, even my wife
There's Aurora now
Lunging from darkness
Retro grade it forward, Ho
Think plunges work well
Everything's for sale
Well, Specially People, Hell
Got a few right here
Ever since Biden
Been no need for deception
Magic, fade to black
That's a rap people
Cut it, print it, Sell it high
I miss the old days
Video stores, love
Obeying Constitutions
Common decency
This is the best of times
materially
This is the worst of times
spiritually
We live like Kings
never satisfied
The more we acquire
the more we desire
Our souls obsessed
with glittering doo-dads
Lunging wildly ~
FOMO on the latest fads
The roundest, orangest, nicest pumpkin I find
In a farmer's field ten miles from town.
Uncarved and free from ghoul's design
with unsaid prayers, I set my pumpkin down.
I set it down in grass in front of a stone.
A granite stone turned in perfect square.
Light's changing now to a dimmer tone.
My tears fall from my empty eyes that stare.
They stare as time passes quickly before my eyes.
The rotting fruit has caved on all four sides.
Hence, heraldic symbol dies
To become slime above where love resides.
Globe spatters, sending forth white pearly seeds
with matted threads. Could this be human brain?
Lunging forth, I trip on rocks and weeds.
My legs move, but I can make no gain.
I look to see what caused my foot to trip.
I see a granite stone much like the same
as my Love's, it ends with letters RIP.
and, 'bove is' -Wife of- and - Oh No - my name.
Shore lights buttress the sky's
vaulted dark and shed
a solemn hush along
the river's reach.
Set upon a calm,
fishing boats drift
the night towing lines
of vicious hooks.
Below them, the sediments
of lifetimes lay in secreted
scores cast in a language
lost to the ear. In the quiet
of evenings you can almost
hear the river breathe.
Something rises to speak,
falling silent as if an affliction
has made what
dwells there, mute.
In the distance, small fish
splash the surface pursued
by predators lunging up
from deep below. Then everything
chokes to a quiet.
The river flows on
and on, sealing in mud
the sad chorus
of unspoken sounds.
pathways unjust
lunging lusting
each thrust soul’s doom
02-January-2023
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.