Long Adjustable Poems
Long Adjustable Poems. Below are the most popular long Adjustable by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Adjustable poems by poem length and keyword.
Dead Sure About life
David J Walker
I am dead sure that
The only thing
to write about on the
Otherside
is life
What is there to talk about
That would compare to
perfection
What is there to anticipate in an eternity
that hasn’t already happened
With infinite tomorrows
How good can I feel with
unjuxtaposed sorrows
In a room with stained glass windows
That never open
My halo
Although adjustable
Never seems to fit the way it should
Mother says not to complain
I will get used to it
Father says he finally threw his away
And Nobody noticed
What is there to write about except life
And how often we failed at it
My husband and I
now own an adjustable bed.
It lifts about 90 degrees at the head
and 40 degrees at the foot.
An incredible invention except that
my husband likes it low, and I do not.
Our compromise isn’t to my liking!
Our mattress is California King -
72 inches wide and 84 inches long.
It provides roomy comfort for us and our pets,
yet without fail, my spouse
ends up sleeping on my side of the bed
facing me in the fetal position.
Opposites always, I sleep on my right side
and he sleeps on his left.
The cat, when it is there at all,
sleeps often at my feet.
Unequal is our bed’s positional balance
as I lie sometimes precariously on the edge
wishing for a separate bed – a queen size fit for me.
When my identical twin sister and I were about nine, there was a little brooklet
in our backyard. It started out kind of like a tiny stream of water in a marshy bit of grass way back down by the alley and the two double cottonwood trees.
My sister and I discovered the brooklet while wearing red shiny rain boots,
yellow plastic rain jackets, and matching yellow plastic hats that tied up under our chins. The rain outfits popular in the 60’s in small town Iowa. We delighted in stomping around in our little brook for several days. It was so much fun listening to the smack smack of the water as we tromped around in the muddy muck.
When the little brooklet began to disappear in May, we had a terrific idea. We got out some shovels, and widened her. We used the water hose to replenish her. We wanted to keep her always; we named her Singing River. She was the best present we had ever made for ourselves.
We spent another week or two stomping around in her muddy muck chanting “singing river” songs to her. But alas, in May, gardens are put into play in Iowa, so she was soon tilled up, and planted with peas, squash, radishes, beans, carrots, and two rows of flowers which our mother always insisted upon
planting. So a new game was on, and we re-named her “The Flower Garden of our Heart.” If anything, we were flexible and adjustable, and equally delighted in our new friend’s transformation. I often think of that back forty, and how much fun we had there.
Especially after Daddy built a tree house in the crook of one of those double cottonwood trees. I used to lug seven library books up there with a sandwich and a glass of Kool-aide, and I would not come down until my mother screamed my whole name ending with “Get in here IMMEDIATELY!” Seven books is the limit of books I could check out of the library every day. I was about ten at the time.
Creativity emerges with two wings,
One aids her flying.
The other like a sting,
That aids her on intuity piercing.
But she looses her wings,
Left with one but nothing.
Music pitch her tent on the mountain,
She travels from dale to fountain.
Her voice incurs pleasant thrills,
Set apart trees and rigid hills.
Boasting in pride she looses the melody to
sing,
And now can't again pleasant tunes ring.
Philosophy saunters in with pride,
He takes every eyes on ride,
Set rules that opens rigid hearts,
Locks back and erect on it a flat.
But a-day, religion comes in with haughty
humility,
And dashes apart his entity.
Statistics announces her emergence,
Heighten rules,awkward ideas and
reference.
Deceiving notions and deceptive beauty,
With relying and relaxing duties.
Bewitch with mean rules,earthens despise
her,
And death makes a league with her.
Sport sprays schemes and skilfulness,
He kindles in variant hearts readiness.
Sweeps along million souls in a glance,
And ushers them into ambiguos trance.
Twisted legs,muscle pulls,dislocations rings,
And Debate hijacks the mic. to sing.
Debate soars in the sky on her regalia-
seriousness,
Erecting hearts and grooming zealousness.
Ideas jerks around with her on the pitch,
Hands jams,swimming eyes made reach.
But because it's a game of win or loose,
Earthens retreats and gets adjustable laws
infuse.
But their is onething that thrives at last,
Yea,the immortality of art.
Come hail,come rain,come sunshine,
In autumn,winter and summer she did
shine.
Varying to creativity,music through debates,
Arts beauty governs the outward and the
innates.
Their is onething;
Immortality of
Art!
'Cos in heaven
She thrives;
Art!
The creator brings
Men together;
Art!
He create universe
In diverse;
Art!
He made paradise,
A-Lovely land;
Art!
Eternity to come,
Everlasting form;
Art!
All will exist and die,
But their is onething,
An indestructible thing;
'Immortality of
Art!'.
17:16:08:20:15
My chair is rated for eight hours of sitting,
optimal lumbar support, adjustable armrests,
as if comfort could compensate
for the slow calcification of dreams.
I've organised my inbox into folders:
Urgent, Important, Someday, Never.
Someday is where ambition goes to die
in increments too small to mourn.
The metrics are always watching:
response time, productivity score,
the gamification of my worth
reduced to numbers on a dashboard.
My coworker brings her lunch in containers.
Sunday's labor portioned into Tuesday's sustenance.
We are all preparing for a future
that looks exactly like today.
The motivational poster says
"You don't have to be great to start,
but you have to start to be great."
I've been starting for thirty-five years.
In meetings, we discuss synergy,
leverage, bandwidth, moving the needle.
These words mean nothing and everything,
a liturgy for the Department of staying employed.
I dream in spreadsheets now.
Columns of tasks that multiply like cells,
each one dividing into subtasks,
an infinite regression of doing.
The retirement calculator says
I can stop working at sixty
if the market cooperates,
if I don't get sick,
if the world doesn't end first.
But here's what they don't tell you
about trading time for money:
you can always make more money.
Time, once sold, is gone forever.
I close my laptop at 6.45pm
One hour fifteen minutes of unpaid overtime,
a tithe to the god of looking busy,
of being seen as dedicated.
Outside, the sun is setting
on a day I barely noticed.
Somewhere, people are living lives
that don't fit into outlook calendars.
Tomorrow I'll come back.
Log in, stand up, sync up, circle back.
The chair will remember the shape of my surrender.
The screen will glow its welcome.
And I will perform productivity
like a trained animal who's forgotten
there was ever any other way
to justify taking up space on earth.
The Smart, Bold Bride Who Doesn’t Ask for Permission
Society has a long list of expectations for a bride.
She should be soft, silent, adjustable, and “proper.”
She should behave a certain way, dress a certain way, and live her life within invisible boundaries drawn by others.
But times have changed.
And so has the bride.
Today’s bride can be smart, bold, and fiercely independent. She knows who she is and what she wants. She is not scared of judgment, whispers, or raised eyebrows. She understands that marriage does not mean the end of freedom—it is simply a new chapter of life.
She may smoke when her mind feels heavy.
She may drink passionately while celebrating her victories.
Not because she is careless—but because she owns her choices.
Her habits do not define her character.
Her confidence does.
She respects traditions but refuses to be chained by them. She values family, love, and commitment, yet she does not lose herself to please society. She believes that being a good partner does not require sacrificing individuality.
This bride does not ask for approval.
She does not apologize for being real.
She does not pretend to fit into a mold that was never made for her.
She is educated, emotionally aware, and mentally strong. She understands boundaries, consent, equality, and self-worth. She knows that a woman can be graceful and rebellious, loving and bold, soft and powerful—at the same time.
Let society talk.
Let labels fly.
Because a smart, bold bride knows one truth:
Living authentically is far more important than living acceptably.
She is not here to impress the world.
She is here to live—fully, freely, and fearlessly.
Dragon wrote to Santa one day;
he requested, of all things, a shiny
guitar and lessons so he could learn to play.
Christmas came and went with his guitar beneath the tree and a pile of cash to pay for his lessons.
So, off he flew to his teacher’s
place and he was gone quite awhile.
When he came home, his fingers wore bandages.
“What happened?” I asked him.
He replied, “I…I broke’em…” and he unwrapped one scaled digit;
“My claws, I broke’em on the guitar.
Will they come back?” he asked with dragon tears.
“I don’t know,” I replied; “Maybe; they will;
I mean people’s do.”
Again his eyes teared. “How can I play now?” he asked.
“We’ll find a way” I told him and off to the music store
I went for some adjustable finger picks.
Dragon was ecstatic as, I put them on and adjusted them to his size. The next lesson I bandaged his fretting hand; adding small bits of cotton balls to each finger and helped him put on his picks. Off he flew to his lesson. It worked beautifully and before long he was picking
like a pro.
One day he packed his bags and guitar for vacation, we thought. A week later we tuned into, “The Grand Old Opry” and there was dragon pick’in, grinn’in and sing’in right beside Ricky Skaggs!
We knew right then we’d lost another dragon to fame, but we really are proud of all of our dragons and occasionally, they all come home for visits. The whole neighborhood rings with music for hours.
It’s wonderful to look upon me,
exactly at the moment of my entry.
Stepping into the light to decide my fate _
Thinking of which bold move do I make.
Hmmm, Shall washing my face be of my first choice;
Then brush and gargle to freshen my breath and voice.
Or need I seat upon the fair thinking chair?
Cleanse the body spray freshener into the air.
Be mindful of the plight of the toilet brush.
Periodically reaching back to courtesy flush.
I could partake of that appealing waterfall.
With the adjustable faucet for short or tall.
Yawning loudly and extending my arms, yet not touch the shower tree.
No, it can’t be climbed, it’s just something to look at, something to see.
Mi Ban~o is designed not with a standard matching set.
Only of random bits and pieces of the best, we could get.
Twirling in the opened space atop my throw rug.
Appreciatively loving life_ arms folded in a hug.
W09202019
All leaders are enough capable
To remove problems analyzable;
They set few goals achievable,
And strive to solve snags tangle.
Ready to meet challenges triple
Without any hurry or hustle.
Calm in disasters are as a temple
Faith and hope run apprehensible
In them, and are always adjustable
With all – top to bottom in jostle.
Have rights and duties analyzable
Keep them at length allowable;
War! Can forever involve trouble
Ready to fight with vigour amusable.
Leadership is a quality - acquittal
For those in difficulty are adjustable.
Beating below belt not admirable
Kind yet hard like a steel, abominable
And sweet both lie in a leader capable.
Solidly soft, yet greatly defendable;
Rigid, tough but right in tight tousle.
Napoleon and Gandhi are available
With him to any problem tackle.
Modi’s tongue, Teresa’s struggle –
All are there in a leader capable.
My losing struggle with not so easy "chair"
buoyed me aloft beyond
outer limits of the twilight zone
where dark shadows
lurked along green acres
creating hee haw sounds.
Aforementioned adventure
occurred countless years ago,
nevertheless psychological
repercussions persist
to this April eighteenth
two thousand and twenty three.
I admit not to be
that personality type,
who takes seat
of the pants dare
devilish death defying acts,
but remains on the straight
and true, yet still quite aware,
a series of unfortunate events
may arise clear
out of the blue, no matter
the weather temperate,
moderate and fair
nonetheless, this rather innocuous
no sweat whim methought
to raise cushioned
"supposedly knob intending
for height adjustable"
comfortable office chair,
thus fingers toyed with
this, that, or another lever
(envision finger pointing
under padding for rear),
thus nonchalantly, I blindly
jiggled one hand size pedal
appurtenance after another,
when lo and behold
whew ohhh....nooo...,
whoo ahh, way up into
the rarefied atmosphere,
yours truly did unexpectedly
vertically set sail
way past the timberline,
then OUCH each ear
snapped, crackled, and
popped, then suddenly
this chap buoyed aloft,
went temporarily deaf, oh no...,
now get this aside being
unable to hear
the sun at high altitude
creating blinding glare,
meanwhile propulsive
thrust sent me career
ring at light speed, whereat
at the least one shiver
ran down my spine
raising each small hair,
but the biggest fright
arose upon just missing
(by the skin of my teeth),
hence reason I wear dentures
colliding into a Lear
jet, no doubt the pilot,
(and motley crue) near
lee went berserk (indicated by
the dramatically erratic flight pattern),
which did appear
to shrink in size mere
lee, the rapid transit,
which wind shear
felt like a bajillion
pounds per square
inch of pressure tear
ring, pushing, and pulling
my body in all directions
pirouetting me like
a whirling dervish
spinning ever farther
distant from Earth
by many a light year!