Long At leisure Poems
Long At leisure Poems. Below are the most popular long At leisure by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long At leisure poems by poem length and keyword.
Humpty Dumpty had no yolk
As oft implied to younger folk.
This hatched idea in oviform
Should never have become the norm.
And so, before it is too late
I mean to set the record straight.
For Humpty was a tortoise bold
With hankerings to break the mould.
‘Why should it be?’ he’d often sigh
‘That we chelonians cannot fly?’
With lofty thoughts, aerodynamic
He climbed the wall – no sign of panic.
His oak-leaf wings in ten-fold ply
Assured success in his mind’s eye
But birds in flight looked on in dread
Knowing too well what lay ahead!
It's great to hold high aspirations
But best to know one’s limitations!
Now Humpty is content to roam
At leisure in his mobile home.
THE MYSTERY OF HUMPTY DUMPTY CONTEST
05/07/18
what made her unworthy of love
was it because she couldn't live up to your ideal
that she lost her appeal?
You lived for the surreal
now too numb to feel
Tell me, what was the deal?
what made her fall from grace
was it sun spots on her face
her flannel instead of lace
her slower than youthful pace?
Was that why she lost
her pedestaled place?
Do you look at her and see
something other than beauty?
Is she flabby instead of firm
militant instead of meek
the lurid side of lovely
tell me!
what could it be?
when did she go
from pleasure treasure
to discarded at leisure
What was the measure
of your detestable displeasure?
let's me be clear:
"love is in the eye of the beholder"
Here's a tap on your shoulder
instead of a fist in your face
I won't add to the disgrace
yet your problem prevails
it's in the details:
you're beholder beholden
to your own foolish fantasy
of what your woman should be
what you can't see
is just what makes others all agree:
SHE'S A Bountiful BEAUTY!
Her body and soul
every part of the whole
exquisitely enhanced
by the years and by chance
she deserves desire's delirious dotage
not apathetic apathy
Can't you see?
maybe....
maybe you are the one
not deserving to decree
her worth, her esteem
she's gone now
go dream
scream
try to serve up a scheme
to love her up to extreme
She won't fall again!
that is true!
You see, dear
The problem, the problem
is
YOU!
Eileen Manassian
In the ripened wheat field, they safely gather together,
those poetic birds of a feather where peace now exists
No nimbus clouds overhead, threatening stormy weather
and no more blustery thunder roaring in bigoted trysts
It's now a pleasant oasis where comments are safe to drink
No camel riders disturbing the calm like a pack of marauders
Serenity is palpable without the rude disruption and the stink
of instigators trying to elicit a response... provoking prodders
Crows no longer take wing there with loud raucous caws
since the scarecrow lost his cool and had a total meltdown
To the sound of trills, there's no sight of sharpened claws
It's peaceful in the field these days. No one wears a frown.
It's a sanctuary of sorts where no weapons are allowed
and calm is the river that gently flows beneath the bridge
where subversives waylaid unsuspecting ones in a crowd
That kind of ill behavior is not missed, not even a smidge
We've all heard about the changes that would come along
Now, that time has finally arrived to be enjoyed at leisure
The site is more pleasant without the same old singsong
Sincere comments often given and taken in equal measure
It may not meet the qualifications to be a Garden of Eden
but as an In-A-Gadda-Da-Vidah? Perhaps it would qualify
since there are no pens used to cause anyone's bleedin'
and no one has been bitten or stung by an Iron Butterfly
2nd place
“birds care not for whom they sing” – Silent One
The Sun cares not for whom it rises;
Wind cares not for whom it blows!
Stars care not for whom they shine;
Rivers care not for whom they flow!
Trees care not for whom they bear fruit;
Flowers care not for whom they bloom!
In giving alone, they find their pleasure;
Our wisdom lies in enjoying them at leisure!
While giving birth to their children,
Do mothers expect anything in return?
Do agreements and contracts hold good,
For performing our duties naturally well?
Doing things and expecting something
from others, lands you in big trouble!
Expectations, like mirages, are illusions;
The harder you try to reach them,
The longer they move away from you!!
To be free from the bondage of karma,
Act without desire for the fruits of action!
This is what every religion does tell us!!
My cycling shoes of two and one year are on their last legs.
Stretched, discoloured, looking the worse for wear, with
sole departing from the body; their days are numbered.
The time is nigh for a parting of our ways.
They have served me well
Locked together , secured to pedal.
Turn after turn, countless revolutions,
Never ending kilometres, oe're hill and dale
Through winter splashed puddles
And sweaty socked summer days.
Sometimes cruising at leisure,
Or often pushing at pace
Never missing a beat, reliable as a trusted friend.
But, despite all of this they will be dumped.
Consigned to the waste bin, labelled as , useless,
No longer fit for purpose.
Dangerous, and an accident waiting to happen.
Your time is up.
There will be no breaking news announcing their demise,
Flags lowered to half mast, or, days of mourning
Decreed by a solemn address to the nation.
Schools will not be closed, or major events postponed
As a mark of respect.
They will be gone and quickly forgotten.
But, wait, its never to late to have a change of heart.
Clear a space on a shelf where other bits and bobs of
tools and parts that are seldom if ever used happily reside.
And there they can rest in peace , maybe only to be discovered,
In a future time long after I've departed this wonderful world.
When someone will say,
'They belonged to him, he who loved to ride his bike.
We cannot throw them out , those old cycling shoes.'
AH, TO COMMENT
Ah, to comment on the soup
too hot, too cold, too new, too old,
too “Hallmarkian”.
To praise – or not - their efforts,
to offer support - if not advice,
correction, critique.
To encourage – or not
the meandering meaninglessness
of the short form.
To observe – GPS like -
offering corrections
in recalculating tone.
To view, through glasses
different than those
of pen.
To voice our conviction
that poetry is
what we say it is.
Ah, to taste the soup
to sip at leisure –
life’s spiced flavors.
To stop and smell
the roses - and the rot,
to shout “Vive la difference!”
To thank them for their words,
their poetry, their praise,
for being poets.
John G. Lawless
8/17/2014
just the same ring
with a round of row zees
awash manicured lawns
with generic grass seed
that doth spring
to life with synthesized,
(yet deadly) chemicals meant
to guarantee wrest
ting control might and subdue
so nature forced
to become nsync from in vest
ment plot purchase
as proving grounds to test
a money bagged well paid
laborer at leisure time
sprawled asleep in comfy hammock
a much needed self deserved rest
whereat successful proof
evinces "American dream"
no matter quest
necessitates becoming linkedin
with fast paced lifestyle
attendant ulcer inducing "pest"
keeping up appearances,
where younglings nest
scolding woe begotten kith
if flawless grounds get messed
by clod hopping kids and/or smart pets
upsetting calculus figuring formula
determining trigonometric
landscaping tangential
to maintaining perfectly
squared off turf especially lest
the neighbors cease becoming hospitable
and stop offering gold plated invitations
to such honorable humble guest.
" Birds care not for whom they sing " - Silent One.
Birds care not for whom they sing,
but sing free in zest and zing,
whistles calling mates to bring
too close in the season Spring.
Poets care not for whom they write :
Emotive urges excite.
Dreams and facts always fight,
but feelings give appetite.
Songs of birds : spontaneous ,
in cheers, simultaneous.
and sometimes monotonous,
also in cadence, joyous.
Poem sprouts from poet's heart
Sweet tweets on the bird’s part.
Both are fluent from the start
and enchantment to exert.
Poems composed by poet
with no expectation yet,
whether to appreciate
or rejection be the fate.
Birds sing frolic in pleasure
Songs : Their inherent treasures.
Bird’s song : delightful desires,
also they sing at leisure.
Sustained by the frequent spring showers
Adorned by rosettes of dark green
They burst into dense yellow flowers
The florets parading their sheen.
They sway to sensations of pleasure
The rhythmic allure of the breeze
Then rest in the evening at leisure,
Appear every day to increase.
But soon comes the time for reversal
The petals are destined to dry,
Then globules of seeds for dispersal
To nature’s intentions comply.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
This poem merits to win for the simple reason that
dandelions are ill-treated and spoken of badly by
many people, little realizing the beauty and good points
which they have to share with us.
Placed 3rd in Richard Lamoureux's contest
© 12th April 2019
"I'm not a Grinch, but would rather see an inch of
new growth on a tree then to fell it down to please me."
~ by poet
Quite earnestly, I would decree
it unjust to cut down a tree
then simply toss it as debris
It saddens me It saddens me
Trim it with ornaments and light
Praise its beauty every night
But it's dying, not from a blight
I feel contrite I feel contrite
They're glorified, as tradition
But trees don't give us permission
So, we are... in supposition
A mortician A mortician
Flocked with snow, their needles die
Drooping branches will certify
Christmas trees, humans crucify
When death is nigh When death is nigh
Trees place oxygen in our air
Replenishing what we can't spare
Everyone should be made aware
Does it seem fair Does it seem fair
We destroy them for our pleasure
Enjoying moments at leisure
They do more good than we measure
Nature's treasure Nature's treasure