Short Barreling Poems
Short Barreling Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Barreling by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Barreling by length and keyword.
Just like the sea won't let the waves escape
but reels them back in again and again
to frothy, crested peaks,
so goes the man, who bitterness keeps.
A barreling undercurrent, tumultuous pull
which drags you back under, long-winded until
you don't know the sky from the water...
Form:
thunder
ferocious, frightful
crashing, reverberating, raging
rumble, rainstorm, strike, flash
streaking, hurtling, barreling
atmospheric, dangerous
lightning
Date created: 04/17/2022
it's wrong
to want to kill
your muse?
drown it
like an unwanted
puppy
bury it deep, somewhere
in the desert
where essences rot, decomposing
the way they left your soul
dry
arid dusting with the tumbleweed
wherever the wind decides to move you
then SMACK, stuck on the grill of a semi
barreling on through
Written May 25, 2016
There's coal in the air
Dust in their lungs
I'm left pondering
All that I've done
As a hazy cloud surrounds
The storm comes barreling
Engulfing this town I'm in
But as the son of a coal miner's daughter
I'm too far removed
From this rugged life that I'm
Supposed to be living
It's hard to get out of the barrel.
It's slippery around the edges
and people are happy to see you fall back in.
— Robert Downey, Jr.
BARRELING OUT OF COVID-19
Spectacle of the tsunami plateau —
then the rushing waterfall
4/2/2020
Thunderbolt, thunderclap!
Tonight, somewhere above the overcast sky,
the gods hold an open bowling tournament;
the earth shudders, then violently trembles
as gigantic balls crash, roll and roar overhead,
barreling noisily down titanic bowling alleys,
exploding, blasting away at colossal tenpins!
Thunderclap, thunderbolt!
riding the shoulder, standing
right with the movement
is my boy lil Wooly Dog
surfing waves on the rocking chair
coming in from the back
he holds his paws in place
as if pawing into the whitewash
getting ready to settle in
then barreling into the blanket
where it is cool and calm
with a nice breeze blowing over
he closes his eyes for a nap
full of emotion, i come barreling sea,to set course, pass wave, releasing its inner- path you have stolid upon me, a daring catch,that eludes dramatically, revealed hunger, to its devouring taste, I bare touch, of loves true limitations, to share my life, with every breath, you breath beyond the waking hour, because I walk the line, that lead me to you, your heart, I love, forever....
Grapes on the vine are heavy with flavor
Fruit fragrance softly blowing through the air
The harvest is near, then we may savor
Picking swollen orbs until vine is bare
From flower to ripened handle with care
Pressing, barreling, and aging takes years
Fine wine takes its time, to that I say, “Cheers!”
Written by: Shani Fassbender
For Dr. Ram Mehta's Contest: Rhyme Royal
RAIN
Burly, barreling, bellowing, blowing
Floating, fleeting, flying high
Slowing sailing, slipping, slumbering
Painting pictures in the sky
Rumbling, roaring, raining droplets
flying, faintly falling down
daintly, delicately, deftly descending
lightly lighting on the ground
Teeny, tiny, tender flowers
Happy, healthy, home is dust
growing, glowing, glaring colors
mining moisture midst the crust
.
Thunderbolt!
Thunderclap!
Tonight,
somewhere above
the overcast sky,
the gods hold
an open bowling
tournament.
The earth
shudders, then
violently trembles
as gigantic balls
crash, roll and roar
overhead,
barreling noisily
down titanic
bowling alleys,
exploding, blasting
away at colossal
tenpins!
Thunderclap!
Thunderbolt!
.
(this happened a week ago Friday to a fellow teacher and friend
of mine named Phyllis. I thought it was quite a story and she
got on the tv news in Utah)
Late
night as
her husband
drove them through an
intersection, there
came barreling at them
a drunk with his truck lights off!
He ripped off their car’s front end at
the point where their feet touched the floorboard.
In one sliced second, Phyllis missed sure death.
In the cold mid-winter gales
you dare not hoist those mastif sails
the winds are brisk and far too cold
barreling restless taunts from days of old.
Come in to the harbor safe
where the lighthouse greets you in its wake
and should the light be dulled and grayed
let me help you find your way.
Slip in gently thru the darkened night
cautious and guided by my heart light.
Eve Roper contest Lighthouse 12/20/18
The limbs had the raw strength.
They were learning
to walk on the water.
The silver axe
will hack off the neck
after the daunting recovery.
In gestational surrogacy,
you don’t want
the incisors.
To kill a wanderer,
you need a howling-
wind, fledged.
A shoebox contains
the handprints of a skeleton
and liquid eyes.
The hunger has a blue
desire. A savage bite
will bring out the space.
Satish Verma
He drew pictures,
She wrote poems.
Yet, somehow they fit.
For she wrote what he couldn't say
And
His hands added the beauty she couldn't see.
Yet in a way it was a love story
Worse than Romeo & Juliet.
You can't force somebody to speak beauty.
You can't force somebody to see beauty.
Joined together barreling down a track with
No rails.
A beautiful disaster waiting to implode.
Beautiful deaths colliding on a
Black canvas.
He keeps airborne, skimming over the grass
defying a specific gravity
of joy or fear.
He hurtles into a tunnel of space ahead.
The land accommodates his passage -
gives way.
A walleyed rapture, a blind bounding
the sky rolls over his whiskers
aiding the hares leaping heart.
He escapes the eye
barreling into nowhere until gone.
A waving grass
ripples into stillness once more,
reclaims the moment
the hare had just fled from.
Earphones on and nothing playing
Music barreling in a dusty brain
Phones ringing and no one answering
Your voice was always assuming
That darkness, ever blooming
Set me free that day out in the wild
Hot, sierra brown mounds picking up trash
Empty gas station cheap as a rat
I threw my cell into the dust
The only thing with personality
The wind wouldn't carry your voice
And neither would I
And the ground assumed nothing
That is a beauty I have too long failed to appreciate
THE CLOCK
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
I Quietly Watch the Second Hand Sweep
Never Varies, a Full Minute it Will Keep
Its an Easy Pace as it Starts its Run
Barreling Through the Number One
Speeds up a Bit as You Can See
Cruises Right past Number Three
Really Moving Taking a Headlong Dive
Slides past Four, Rounds the Corner at Five
Begins to Slow as it Nicks Six
Now Starts an Uphill Climb
Slows the Pace Til Reaching Nine
The Endless Task Never to Shelve
Minute Later We Arrive at Twelve