Long Apoplectic Poems
Long Apoplectic Poems. Below are the most popular long Apoplectic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Apoplectic poems by poem length and keyword.
Stow away the congeries of aches
overtly attenuating the life-force
Joints grinding bones as growing muscles waked
Oft, stomping like an apoplectic horse...
Under strained newness, a glum disposition
reeked nervousness, clamping a chest distraught
No diversity, glared their position
Such eyes that stabbed, could snap a breath taut...
Of schooling, what silent complacency!
Jailers with fingertip-busting dusters
or canes that cracked and smacked decency
Umber-burned bruises on smartened clusters...
Raking nails scratch to assuage a mind
New migraines need compulsory unwinds…
(4/23/21 For 'Aches Prompt' contest hosted by Constance La France)
Oftimes I'm asked; “What drives you, Bro, to generate such verse,
the bulk of which is awful and the balance, frankly, worse?”
The dark side of reality fueled each chilling ode by Poe,
For Macaulay, Roman heroes made his inkwell overflow.
Ernest Thayer waxed apoplectic when his baseball team fell flat,
and thusways primed he penned the rhyme called “Casey at the Bat”.
Such things as these inspire me not, as time has surely proved.
Sunrise, sunset, and sand and surf all leave me quite unmoved.
All of natures grandeurs no rhyme from me will spawn.
An hour of bliss, a baby’s kiss at best provokes a yawn.
One sight only stirs my muse and brings my blood to boiling,
and renders versifying a great pleasure, not a toiling,
and flings wide creative floodgates that before were tightly shut.
Nothing fans my rhyming flames like Kim Kardashians’ butt!
You may keep the rings of Saturn! No opus will they launch!
But I’ll darken reams of paper re the joys of Kimmies’ haunch.
While some bards wax euphoric at the lunar glow in June,
I pen my rhymes more clearly by the light of KayKay's moon.
She's so sexy!
She's so cute!
I love her steatopygean glute!
Pass my cam! I gotta shoot!
A picture of it,
O yes I love it!
I love that butt.
Call me a mutt!
(Perhaps in rutt)
But I love that titanic,
Oceanic,
and yet uniquely Kardashianic!
Butt!
Like water from a ruptured dam the flood of verse pours forth,
inspired by a southern view of Ms. Kardashian, heading north.
another primaveral day dawning upon me
as i linger stir-crazy in the moments unfolding
in apoplectic thoughts within my mind
while watching the carelessness of others
my moue tightly tucked beneath my mask
hides my silent screams for more distance
famished it seems the world has become
beneath the burden of these bare shelves
one could feel starved of more than food
as they buckle to their knees in prayer
feeling like children to a lesser God
in this turbulence that has consumed us
we grasp the need to feel a closeness
a perigee to a fullness to fulfill the emptiness
yet we feel nothing as this greater distance remains
all we have is the hypermnesia of past moments
breaking through the darkness of mind
as we close our eyes just to see a glimmer of light
in hopes that tomorrow breaks these chains
that weigh us down in heart and mind alike
April 7, 2020
‘Taties and carrots and onions
All have their own natural skin
So why do most of the suppliers
Use plastic bags to pack them in,
Either the fragile brittle type
That bursts all over the floor
Or the stretchy greasy oily sort
That resist for evermore,
Evading each attempt until
They grudgingly finally split
Just before the onset of
A near fatal apoplectic fit.
Meat is sold in indestructible packs
With film top supposedly able to peel
But unfortunately all seem to have
An equally indestructible seal.
The advent of plastic packaging
Has become one of the banes of life
Normally requiring heated resort
To hacking with scissors or knife.
Are they super human, these designers
Or is each just a malicious little rat
Extracting satisfaction from inventing
Such useless products as that
They say us oldies don’t recycle
They don’t seem to understand
In our younger days we didn’t
Contaminate many acres of land.
We took our own shopping bags
Used paper and glass to pack
Bought our milk in bottles
And sent all the empties back
If there is an after life I hope
It is made unavoidably obligatory
That every packaging designer
Suffer eons in purgatory,
And in the cause of justice those
Whose lives they’ve made so drear
Be allowed to sit and watch and,
Maybe, cheer and shout and jeer.
Woman, woman that I loved uncommonly
Several springs ago
When the weather was good and callow
When the wind whistled swiftly, low and slow
Oh! Woman, you were young, strong and sparkling
Darling, now you're deceased
Lying down and sleeping comatose on your back
Calm and motionless like the water
Of the paralyzed pond, staring at the sky
Eyes hermetically and conveniently closed
Where everything seems supernatural and artificial
I wonder and ponder where I'm diving
If it's an illusion, a nightmare or a dream
I don't feel good: I'm unbalanced and demented
I’m disappearing into the shadows
Where everything is dark and gloomy
Like my blood. I feel that my everything
Is gone and swept away by sadness
I'm drowning in a mercurial lake of inebriety
My God! Yes, I’m in pain indeed
I’ve lost the most beautiful mermaid.
Woman, woman, you were genial and lovely
The voluptuous gal that I loved so much
Do you remember? I frittered a lot of time
Revering you. I found myself on the slippery slope
I, too, will die like you
Woman, woman, heavy and ghastly is the cross
Where I am exposed today
The cold freezes me and the sun bakes me
I'm sad and devastated like wilted flowers
And you, apoplectic, silent and enshrined
I am suffering, weeping and dying too
I don't want to stay here anymore
My heart is weary, sorrowful and besieged
I am crying and suffering. My strength has left me
I am drowning in pain in the lake of boozing
I'm perishing too. I don't want to live anymore.
Woman, woman that I loved so much
We are no longer in springtime
But almost at the infancy of autumn
The bells are ringing and the children are banging
There is no rainbow in the sky
I am alone, in tears and very sorry
In the labyrinth of the necropolis
May the earth be infinitely light to you!
P.S. Translation of ‘Ode À Yseult’ by Hébert Logerie.
Copyright © September 2021, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
The sky is in an apoplectic quandary why tonight
Earth is entirely too old to be on solid holy ground
Atmospheres confuse the colors in the air with reason
There is nothing to be seen there anyway, it's freezing
At this moment nitrogen lakes bubble up on Saturn
Ice columns form circles mirrored around the moons
Orchestrated heavenly rings that hang on mystic hope
Nightfall follows the pontiff around the alter light
In the Vatican clouds orbit in his head as fixed
While he blesses all the planets, even Mars
In communion with the cosmic coma gift
He even forgives strange Venus for its misgivings
Spinning retrograde against the laws of physics
Eight other planets can't be wrong rotating right
Holy Spirit come to hold our hands and planets
Help us understand the plan, the orbital holy land
We could be finished if we miss it
The cosmic logic escapes us by the minute
Please fix it
Sometimes all you can do is rage,
rage against the machine, rage against humanity
rage against the way
decks get stacked and chips fall.
These are the times
for being apoplectic
if nothing else to purge oneself
of all the crap you have consumed.
And when your apoplexy passes
time to regroup with friends who hold you dear,
with dogs and plants,
and all the things that know how to take and take and take,
and then give you what you need.
The first lesson in life
is there are certainly others who love you.
The second is this life isn't fair
and never will be.
And the way this happens -
either by stroke of luck or curse -
is always beyond control.
But that doesn’t make it bad.
As difficult and unpleasant as it gets
it can always get worse.
And even when you feel you can’t take any more,
the thing to remember, that no matter how bad,
it can all be healed with a single breath.
(for Carol - 8/3/23)
And America became a culture in requiem,
cranky, fearful accustomed to the ambient muzak of decay.
A nation in retreat - uninformed, cowed, confused,
or sadly - too tired to care..
and thus..
The sons and daughters of liberty
prayed for a corrupt President
a tacky, loutish and apoplectic
leader of thieves
to bring hopelessness to the masses
to hide old crimes and invent new ones
demolish treasured symbols
or rename them in his own tacky honor
and put our freedoms and safeties on ICE
to turn markets into frontlines
erode the trust and affection of allies
openly steal from the poorest
and promote literal disease by eliminating vaccines
to eradicate the insured and the employed,
whimsically skew markets to chaos
and strain, past breaking, blind justice.
Ironically, said prayers, like fabled wishes
were answered and the people rushed,
as if running with scissors,
most trustingly, into his sticky arms.
.
.
Songs for this:
The End of the Innocence - Don Henley
Obladi Oblada - Serena Zee
.
.
Doesnt that clip of Trump and Epstein leering at young cheerleaders at a Mar-a-Lago party - with Ghislaine Maxwell right behind them - look more like the Zapruder film every day?
daweb.us/bg/Jeffrey.Epstein.Trump.mp4
It's the apocalypse of the antipoetic,
some are apoplectic, instead of apologetic,
this is no diplomatic 'dead poet's society',
but the anxiety results in notoriety,
increasing dubiety for word weaving variety.
The grammar police pursue like the four horsemen,
trying to silence my poetic garden's endorphins.
Pouring petrol upon my enchanted petals,
burning the rain, before sweet petrichor settles,
so onyx skies, thundering cries and lullabies,
slay my sentiments like premature butterflies.
Where is my dark angel friend to protect my quill,
before I double down on poetic forms against free will.
When creativity is silenced it's a suicide of speech,
a hypocritical rhetoric is not what hallowed halls teach.
Wizardry of words have no hoodoo or voodoo on your muse,
write about love's labyrinth, rage or life in a way you choose.
Beauty of poetry lies in the eye of the beholder,
poems that merge in harmony bring the rat race closer.
Outside the winds of illiteracy, words want to be free,
to release ink, until your heart's last stand - that's poetry!
Always polite she has done it again and again
Kind apologies in apoplectic reverberations
‘I am ever so sorry’ and never an honest lie
‘I promise mea culpa won’t happen again’
Regret is never far from her mindful tongue
‘My fault entirely just slipped out of my mouth’
‘Please forgive me my hurtful transgressions’
‘I beg you’ she lays prostrate before the crowd
Remonstrates with her own disagreements
Expostulates her lips into new held resolve
She used to be a passionate people pleaser
Self-talk might help to absolve further pardons
27th April 2019