Short Honeycombed Poems
Short Honeycombed Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Honeycombed by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Honeycombed by length and keyword.
a tranquil meadow
dons a velvet lupine cloak...
bees swarm in dark clouds
vast fields honeycombed
with flora and rabbit holes...
hawks swoop down for prey
By Carrie Richards......For Russell Sivey's Contest: Two Worlds Colliding
venture past steep clay hills to situate the honeycombed vale
with hands swaying beneath green satin cloaks in our banana patch
fingers yellow varnished by a tropical sun will set sail
bunches bound for markets in towns we've known, before monkey gangs snatch
HOLLYWOOD DREAMER...
Mesmeric pursuits consumed
all his energies:
leaving him only frustrations
to nourish his mangled pride.
Magic dreams
that once fueled his being
slowly decayed
into infectious nightmares:
leaving him to loathe
the coming of each dawn.
Each dawn gradually revealing
naked realities of eroded dreams:
Hollywood's honeycombed
hollow hopes.
Honeycombed crocks, like patterns
On an old quilt
Start and pause without reason
Long dandied extravagant Peacocks
Strut below airships rising above
Pale blue seas…dust has no taste
Light reflects off shadows of rouge
Rubbed rough by tears
Only today matters.... white caps roiling
Over loyalty, held for centuries,
Never released,
………never released
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I unloved you for years.
We became friends in a dream - in your dream.
My actual life, awake or sleeping,
loved the way we plundered the flesh
of a hundred shared passions, the way we exchanged erotica
like unisex garments.
I am honeycombed, riddled by all those unloved times,
yet I love them, and you now. We were ghosts
in blind eyes, obsessed with crippling raptures.
Love was a promenade roadkill, now its specter binds me
to old love songs never sung.
I had become less watchful
in this honeycombed body,
blind behind a thousand windows;
windows boarded up, abandoned,
not disused but closed off,
the way a hive becomes blind
one window at a time.
It is the slow drowning of long winter
that opens fusty shutters.
for now is the 'becoming' time,
a time for the winching resurrection
of awakening trees,
of honey-suckling days.
I have windows and behind each one
there is a lively hum and light,
and golden eyes polished bright.