Long Ague Poems
Long Ague Poems. Below are the most popular long Ague by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ague poems by poem length and keyword.
Frenzied anguish precipitated Matt chew
Scott Harris, with
unrelenting, unescapable,
and unbearable despair, grew
wing by leaps and bounds,
which fraught gloom didst hew
mindset equalled nought
(Gordian knot) i.e.
zero ambition tubby
alive, and concomitantly
brought if only you knew,
wrought unbearable toxic brew
to pinpoint the exact clue
how being penniless I do
attest, this compounded zilch money
agonized by quite
a stack - more'n a few
monthly bills past due,
thus aye rue
min hated, the least loo
pee, and most painless
final solution of this Jew
wish atheist, (these
utterances absolutely true),
no "FAKE king," trump
petting, yawping foam
minted psychosomatic ague,
whereat mine mental state hue
mon gust lee off kilter,
with hum moo
zing thoughts of
palm lee strangling myself,
(or hiring sum
handsome fist responder to slew),
me the way - no
cho king) till I go
totally tubularly blue
in the face, em
barking on undo
wobble decision, said permanent
exodus from life,
this scribe dost view
as last saving grace,
this self woo
man eye zing,
(nada so amazing),
ye might poo poo
such drastic desperation,
non heroic measures stew
pa head and er ration
hubble grim foray
exacerbated predisposition
to panic/ anxiety attacks,
the alluring temptation
hi with Andy Lee drew
to bid bid adieu
to hard scrabble existence,
and in summer re: goo
winter becoming cremated powder,
(with urn nest to dog -
un woof hoot
table Sirius ness), wharf few
if any tsuris -
(Yiddish for aggravation),
NO ash lee zero distress,
would upend resting
in a bajillion pieces.
they would dice many a chive
by management me from da dive
apartments in hatfield in close proximity
to the bloody sorry fate
oof a von nee gutt
thar slaughter house five.
mine eyes saw gore
and remained fixated
orbital fixture
of poor creatures in a daze
sans reaction averting gaze
away from disgusting entrails
visible picture amidst the maze
of chutes and ladders
stepping on select
foursquare did raise
or lower (similar to an elevator)
but movable blocks
also went cross ways
oh, anyway, this reply
written by me - scott math u
passable poet tree - at most true
this email far ye to rue
these twisted sister strands
of pearl jammed zz topped
chromosomal strands being did hew
who only to five feet and ten inches grew
crafts, finesses,
indulges love of language
to prose from fingers flew
and writes poems
cawing all r e'en juiced
one angry emu
leaving her/his presents
custom made doo doo
per comprising a motley crue
of a family - pearl jammed color ague.
please rsvp asap via text
to me scott matthews my chosen ac/dc label
i.e. pleasure like rubbing against sable
create r hard woo n intimate scorpion fable
unless ja noah under me ma jib rush
like inxs o ruck kiss in tower o babe bull
by texting if willing, ready, eager and able
froom - - scotts matthew
who lives way off the mainline -
juiced about a few dirty dozen dancing deeds
done dirt cheap miles west of philadelphia,
and some ten miles east of king o prussia
pennsylvania who imagines your sultry skin
silkily soft as a lynx, pussy cat
rubbing against ma leg under da table.
Sent from my iPhone 456789
Robert Frost...A Reflection
No matter corporeal essence
of Robert Frost bid adieu
from temporal plain approximately
five and fifty plus years ague,
his rediscovered spiritual
omnipresence suffuses anew
mine gnarly feeble exegesis
denounce-able, deplorable,
and despicable hue
Morris legacy of Robert Frost, who
nonetheless (auld choke king aside)
doth rank as irreproachable amidst
pantheon of deceased
great poets, you
would agree, unless familiarity
already yar aware
how the New England vantage point
(approximately three quarters
of a century) in the past
his (WMGK) magic doth blare
infusing and injecting
a much needed cheer
full dose of dare...
ring ling lee, (I spout
je nais sais quois)
in my attempt
to be poetically debonair
(the only French known to me)
in an effort to endear
homage Robert Frost,
he whose flair
with words defy accolades
and brilliance doth glare
with blinding profundity here
to fore lamentable, impossible, and
feeble attempt to emulate,
a immortal one man brand
amidst pantheon of
August American poets,
the depth of,
his writings doth expand
lovingly justifiably ineluctably
historically gently fanned
this nonpareil poetic king,
whose status grand
which feeble, ignoble,
and laughable attempted hand
(spurred by facilitator
at "All Poetry" website) island
did this impossibly
elusive task, thus admit
admission aye feel duff feet head
to write letting words flit
to and fro, hither and yon,
that bind like true grit
with that esprit
de corps cerebral impact
that doth gently hit
ice suppose said task
would be a breeze to an Innit
where he/she,
would immediately synchronize
unlike myself, who whiz
not up to this task,
as yukon up prize
thy dog gone ruff hewn effort -
no (Chuck Norris) lies
attested as wretched - to by
any gallivanting guys
hence aye desperately axis allies!
Musings on the façade of Seville Cathedral
How patiently they suffer, these old saints!
Their sandstone features, crumbled, vague,
some noses gone (some medieval ague,
or Time's cruel drip?) they offer no complaints.
Stranded seven centuries on this reef,
they bake, and wait resignedly, begowned,
for bell-tower shade slowly to inch around.
Do bas-reliefs experience relief?
This church was once a mosque. In point of fact,
the holy ancient venerable Gothic pile
(and here one struggles to suppress a smile)
has relatively recently been sacked,
and only lately put to Christian use.
These saintly faces, preternaturally mild -
do they still fret? Or are they reconciled
to slow decay, as hand or ear works loose?
And do they savour time as you or I,
observing how, below them in the street,
perukes give way to pony-tails and pleats?
Or do, for them, Septembers flicker by
like squandered seconds? Do they muse on Fate
and Destiny? What if my youth has gone?
What if this woman keeps me hanging on?
They also serve who only stand and wait.
Each cherished memory of mine...cause iz woe
Analogous to unique ventifact for shore
and seven years ago,
where time and tide faintly roar
within noggin o'this common Joe
reviewing silent film unreleased,
unpopular, unimpressive tour
de force if technology existed
to broadcast and show
projected on big screen only
to elicit chore
tills whereby rotten tomatoes
lobbed accompanied by dough
less bro (i.e. an alter ego equally hoar
rubble at lifelong accomplishments), though
woke to awareness, whence
twilight years sped more
bajillion times faster than greased
lightning, when final adieu
will tide dully be high water mark
luke king point blank at poor
etch heave mints mostly
abysmally, equally,
pathetically barely drew
stick figures upon tabula rasa
mostly feeble scratches galore
looking at you
unknown reader, now
doddering, hobbling, loafing... ignore
rant of untold opportunities
(long fostered barnacle clad) view
wing gamut of healthy risk taking
avoidance in name of war
re: ness against challenging,
testing, upending... true
and tried loathsome
overstayed welcome, a deplore
hubble basket case squirreled
within bedroom, who
suffered rabid exhortations, objections,
ultimatums... told to shovel ordure
lack of gainful employment
beset courtesy a slew
of psychological mailer daemons
case closed by parental cloture
countless decades ague
reduced present fulfillment score
indelible bitterness toward
self confident self I never knew
afraid of doppelganger to
central processing unit silly con wayfair core.
Available options stand the bile as they make the will bent
Massachusetts may be best for the holiday to be spent
But the rod of its weather may hit the comfort of its rent
Indecision, glorified from knowledge’s available dent
Vague is their understanding to a result from what they meant
Abstract control and power, making the priest eat meat in lent
Light, maybe heavy, not knowing where the definition went
Eight out of twenty, in idea makes contribution absent
No end point, as in midway, the anger of shortcoming vent
Thought or decision, on many roads, leading to no tent
A ghostly shade of white that cloaks the ground
Of contoured guesswork and ominous mound
With flecks of skyward flakes tossed by the storm
That frost the gray, obscure the day and change its form
Observed within to look beyond a misted window pane
Into bitter extremities of ague and blaine
A snowbound silence that inhibits the soul
And uncertain depth that impedes all goals
Struggling iconic beauty that stealthily grows
Haphazardly drifting across the moors
Confining rugged scene of whitened dune
Snowbound and shackled this afternoon
To gaze and sit and reflect and ponder
The greenery beneath the shroud out yonder
Silly wisps of her raven hair flutter
In the winds of the long-short corridor of summer;
They snivel with the whims of cosseted sots,
Sinking in the futile harmony of winking beasts.
Pretty whiskers, soft with the ague of age, and lean
From frazzled grey.
A halo of white cotton crowns her fine dome, revealing little.
She paints the inky images of Al Hirschfeld —
Among whited, slit, black smuts needed for art’s emphases.
The greens of the season, lush and dreamy,
Stand witness before us two —I, limping hard
From the roasting east; she, from the broad
Corners of a lean north.
We meet at the navel of the earth.
She posts a reflection of a travelling zealot, dragged
By rains and heated sods.
She must have been weary with prayers and demented,
Silent laments, for her eyes bored into the fragile
Energy sifting itself from the raw power of NOW.
I follow her silent drama —less words and impaling stares.
Time stands still in all rural dumbness, with the checking hush of
The sacristy on wartimes.
Quiet reigns with the immortal grace of planarians.
A pound of silence sells with strident gavel-sound,
Hammered thickly on the floating beam of an unstinting market.
“Be healed”, she clamours,
Her long, bony fingers running up to her sinciput,
And quickly down to her chest.
Her voice is frozen —embalmed for life.
As she trudges on, words of the paternoster grease her tight
Lips, streaming with ease, like digitized lyrics, to my listening ears.
Amen!
I wish I had David’s lyre!
And in the well-worn ache
of turning mourning,
there are no more tears-
for all is beauty-lathed
misery, held unswathed,
without fearing to uptake
hope's new sculpted shape.
A changeling exchanged
while flailing naked
in it's abyssal state.
And wholeness excises, to demean
only fruitless shoots, now seen
to sow what has no further meaning.
And in the ague
of restless morning's
fitful, nude, new break
from dim, unsculptured yaw-
fretful feet leave
dark, wet indents in dew.
Old soul trails beneath gift's gape-
heaven's gate, just ajar,
seeps, speaks healing wreathed
in Love- the writhing heart agape.
And thr dry-cried throat
too friction ground to speak,
slakes it's thirst on dew-
Heaven's assuage tempers, cools.
And in eyes' age
of blinding burnings-
forceful, rude muckrake,
there are no more proud airs.
For eyelids pasted shut, caked
in self- molded clay's despair,
felt insightful incision
draw sharp truth's decision deft-
knavish knots excised, reveal
man's Sculptor knows justly how
to grave His image.
And seeing is only believing,
when believing is cleft open
to high insight's slice and sculpt
understood, read, spoken.
02/12/2017
Dreaded heat wave (with slow-dancing heat haze)
Pronounces the guilt of aging Karma
And a climate so underrated rages in anger
Absolute reign of terror begins with the rising
Sun where the East is flung further North,
Unrecognisable
I tremble from the horrors of daylight,
Bemoaning the crusts of decaying barks,
Where nightmares, in broad daylight, dig into
The hallowed crevices of expired epiphanies
There’s ague on the sinciputs of infants,
Upon which a heath burns slowly with the
Severity of slow-passing time.
Summer has gone berserk.
Every breath is torture.
Kooks and ratbags —with their ragbags —antsy, but loud,
Picture scenes of cerebral disharmony
We sweat rivulets from the spines of charged forges —
Goos that trap gnats and flies atop mountains of
Fright.
Bars host drinking pilgrimages.
Oh, watering holes spring forth like onions
On the breath of running spring!
I assure you.
Longnecks perspire heavily with the chills of refrigerated
Glamour, beads of sweat raining down the frazzled
Gullets of glass and tipplers.
Barms puke profusely in the heated grace,
Bubbles rising and falling alongside temperatures
That freeze around their own fragile calendars.
The clocks tick slowly, like in an abandoned castle with wisteria,
Overgrown, burnt and ruined.