Long Attempting Poems
Long Attempting Poems. Below are the most popular long Attempting by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Attempting poems by poem length and keyword.
Our prez is now Donald J Trump
Who has promised to clean out the sump
Well he's certainly no wussy
When groping a pussy
What more to expect from a gump?
In charge of the Vice, Michael Pence
Said some things that embrace little sense,
"Global warming's a myth"
But's now taking the fifth
In attempting to straddle the fence
We all recall general Flynn
Put in charge of security spin
A trained atomiser
No more Trump's advisor -
His deal with the devil's his sin
The billionaire Betsy Devos
Making plans for a school albatross
Hating free education
Backs private castration
And kids will be bearing her Cross.
The Congress approved Jeff B. Sessions
Ignoring his racist obsessions
He seemingly cares
More for foreign affairs
While forgiving Klan's toxic transgressions.
Chief strategist Stephen K. Bannon
Develops the Great Again Canon:
The Goldman Sachs Bankster
Turned yellow rag gangster
Flings crap from the New Order cannon
Says EPA ruler Scott Pruitt
"Instead of dry facts, we intuit..."
(His work as denier
Keeps profits much higher)
"... If everything dies, well, just screw it"
The war whoops of Mad Doggy Mattis
Awaken the death apparatus
With boundless expense
For a doomsday defence -
Armageddon administered gratis
The magnates no longer need lobby
Or fight regulations thought snobby -
Now set in the saddle
They're herding the cattle
And pulling the strings as a hobby
Now the Don can start wielding the axes
Truncating the tariffs and taxes
The Mafia boss
Is dismissing the dross
And poverty's pain as it waxes
At the beginning, your thoughts are like fresh clay,
malleable and soft to the touch, shaped by the hands of your early desires,
like a canvas painted with dreams dancing under the morning light.
As time passes, the clay hardens,
fired by the heat of failure, cooled by the chill of loss,
and in that hardening, it finds its true form,
a form that will endure through storms and sun,
through hands that try to reshape it again and again,
like a blind sculptor attempting to redefine time-worn marble.
In the depths of the soul, these thoughts become rocky landscapes,
where memories settle like autumn leaves on cold ground,
and in every crack of the hardened clay, a story hides,
a whisper of the past reverberating in the silence of the present.
So, in the flow of consciousness, you continue to walk this land,
where each step brings echoes of desires and losses,
seeking in every rigid form a trace of warmth,
a memory of the softness from the beginning,
in a never-ending journey through the uncharted maps of your thoughts.
The Lie
I am an insect waiting to be squashed!
I stare hard at the ground
as if fascinated, enthralled by it
while, above, eyes of cold-cobalt
wait to gouge and burrow out
any self-belief that might still remain.
“WELL?”
It always starts with that unsettling word.
Ironic as ‘well’ it certainly is not.
“COME ON!! I haven’t got all day!”
The next sharpened remark; his checkmate,
and the denouement usual swiftly follows.
I try to speak but my weighted words
require a wheelbarrow to carry them out.
I am snagged, on the jag, of repeated criticism
which over the years has shrunken me;
diluting my beleaguered confidence.
Most of my childhood years I understood
and welcomed the fluctuations of emotion
however the grammar and punctuation
of every day skirmishes of family life:
the questions marks, the exclamations, the..... ellipses
were rules, restrictions that became impossible to follow.
So here, once again, stands my father’s temper
attempting to confront nay dominate me.
At this point, if my body had consented,
I would have galloped over the nearest horizon
however all my moving parts had gathered together,
loitering, on a corner, spreading rumours and gossip
that had rendered me rigid and immobile!
My only escape, my bolt for freedom, lies… in the lie.
Yes, an untruth, that had lain in the top shelf
of my mind for many troubled days,
fermenting in its own insidious juices.
Now sliding treacherously from the corner of my mouth,
this worded assassin, homes ruthlessly on its target
…my firework of a father.
Suddenly his face tightens, a thought frightens,
his rigid body a jolt of electricity,
as disbelief snakes its way into his thinking.
His anger reddens, his reasoning darkens
and his fists…..boulder.
But the lie has lain down beside him
fabricating disappointment, bewilderment, distrust
deep into the windows of his eyes.. then...much deeper.
Gradually I turn the key in the ignition of my pride
carefully closing my hands, knitting my fingers,
creating a statement of both prayer and defiance.
Later a thought dangles in a corner of my mind,
a consideration, a contemplation of how far the lie
will layer down into my father’s subconscious
before he understands that the lie is a…
Trojan horse carrying … the truth!
Ian Souter
Two brothers born 18 months apart…now both old and grey…
who people said throughout their lives were as different as night and day,
They had different interests growing up…different likes and different friends….
They liked different foods , different movies…followed different trends.
They pursued different paths in life…different goals they sought
One was quiet and reserved…the other one was not,.
One became a teacher shaping young minds…attempting to help his students get ahead…The other became a carpenter…shaping wood instead.
One is married with children and grandchildren…a large, happy family
One has been single all his life and lives autonomously.
And though they do both love to write….to tap into their creativity…
One writes science fiction stories…the other writes poetry.
You can see why people have remarked in almost every way..,
how these two brothers…from the same family…are as different as night and day…
But have you ever watched the sun rise in the morning….celebrated her fist light…
as she peeks from under…then slowly lifts the blanket of the night?
Or have you ever watched the sun set…at the conclusion of the day…
watch the cloak of night slowly fill the sky and the daylight fade away?
There is magic in the way day and night share the sky
as one day begins and another ends….
magic in the way their shapes and colors blend….
Which has to make one wonder…..
If there is magic in the sky when day and night interplay….
perhaps there’s also magic in two brothers…as different as night and day.
Im not living my life
im just trying to kill time
I havent felt good in a long time
it seems to be some kind of depression but i refuse any medication
i wake up crying and fall asleep same way
i have hard time keeping my face from dropping on the floor in a puddle of blood
i really want to no longer feel the burden
i am the burden
Burden that is me and everything about me
mirror reflection looks at me with souless expression
like a doll it seems to be dreadfully odd and strange yet not a living being
Strange type of teryffing being
I want to pull my skin off and forget that i ever had it on my face
People whisper things about me that i deem as unkind yet they claim as harsh truth
who is right and who is wrong? we will never know
Beacusse I mearly exist in my own head and not to anyone else
like a ghost i simply wander around
attempting to hide my shameful existence from everyone else
as they look at me and laugh while i try not to attack
What do i get for my kindess?
laughs and disgust from the side of their eyes
They find my dripping bloody face amusing
its so incredibly amusing
i think im going mad, talking to myself about life and death
about looks and peronality
about love and hate
i dont know what to say
All i know is that i and everyone else hate myself and wish death upon my face
My paper, pen and me
Stepping from the shadows.
Not sure where we belong.
Wondering where we slipped off track.
And where life went so wrong.
My nose to the grindstone.
The whole world yet to see.
We face the world together.
My paper, pen and me.
Attempting to rewrite myself.
And change my whole outlook.
Why write one new chapter.
When I can write a brand new book.
Changing my perspective.
Of all the things I see.
Taking care of business.
My paper, pen and me.
I'll write a new horizon.
A rainbow in the sky.
I'll write a new beginning.
A new reason just to try.
And before my book is finished.
We will be flying free.
Hells fire far behind us.
My paper, pen and me.
Proclaiming from the mountain tops.
Life could not break my will.
The proof is in my writings.
I am standing still.
No longer in the shadows.
What will be will be.
Heaven lights the way for.
My paper, pen and me.
Edwin C Hofert
You may be living in a castle
But you’ll always be a thief
Pickpocketing off the pockets you’ve filled
Swiping the gold chalice off the shelf
It was bought for you, but engraved for someone else
A royal table set before you, and you stuff the appetizers in your socks
In this world there’s loneliness so great, you can see it in the slow movement of a clock
You project ill intentions on the household staff
Can’t seem to console the gap between what you have and what you deserve
Wary on all accounts
You walk around wearing second hand crowns
Thinking second hand thoughts
Battles second hand fought
Studying monuments built on foundational rot
Fashioned of silver, anointed in oils
You step on fine work, and rest where they toiled
You sleep on rocks draped in silk sheets
Staring at a low hanging chandelier that always appears to be falling
Lower and lower you go
Closer and closer it gets
Is it an optic trick, a sanity test?
Emptying the pockets at last
In a canopy bed
You feast on today’s spoils
When you’re young, blood boils
Now it runs dry
You spend a few hours, attempting to cry
At last, a single tear stains the silk sheets
When you’re in the ground,
Your soul’s the only thing you’ll get to keep
Tooth and Nail
In this space, this world we have created,
it is - for most – a very slippery slope
that seems – for many – to be frustrated
by this feeling – there is very little hope.
Upon the edges of this world – scars of mans
attempt – fingernails ripped from his hands.
Upon the edges of this world – craters from teeth
attempting – hanging by the skin of, from underneath.
On this world – from man’s shadows chained –
all that fate, karma, choices made, nothings gained,
for in the end, what is it that will remain ?,
that when we look back, be considered sane.
My words, my thoughts dance to a different drummer,
this places me on the outer edges, making life a bummer.
Life seems to exist on the fringes of winter – seldom summer
sings its songs to my ears – seldom a joyful hummer
will I be, for you see, I dance to a different drummer !
Doing so, I can find no band in which I might play
because my tunes touch most, reach none – nothing stays
categorized, for me – no place to belong – stark are my days.
In this world – life for me – to be on my own.
Journeys, adventures – life for me – all alone
as I fill my days – empty – in my little home
with little light reflecting from my shiny chrome.
And so, for those who care, or care to see ?,
there is little I say, I feel, that could be
a full representation, a complete picture of me.
Lost in the subconscious blackness – an obscured sea.
B. J. “A ” 2
March 3rd 2006
vernal equinox
pollen proliferation
spring rebirth affirmed
busy bees buzzing
beautiful birds building nests
winter gloom erased
dormant seeds take root
blossoms bloom birdsong elates
spring nearing its end
summer solstice comes
verdant landscape sandy beach
families frolic
short summer showers
heat and humidity reign
sunlight lingers on
temperatures lag
cheerful chirping of crickets
last gasp of summer
autumn equinox
turning leaves migrating birds
early morning chill
leaf-peeping pastime
harvest cornucopia
real time falls behind
fall’s first killing frost
season of melancholy
cold of winter near
winter solstice comes
bare trees long hibernation
don’t risk bleeding lips
gardens lie fallow
field mice attempting entry
long dark frigid nights
snowfall slowly melts
winter giving way to spring
first mosquito bite
My brain spots are pastel dots
that always fight with my stripes
over who is left and who styles right.
It’s bad enough that my stripes
also argue with each other,
not over their primary color,
but vertical décor versus horizontal.
My brain top is invisible,
not even shadows of minimal.
Brain designers concur it is not fixable.
In the back, well-stashed,
is a golden memory cache
guarded by a spot named Brat.
Small Brat drags a key most tall
and selfishly guards my recall.
Floating, flying, gliding free
is a silver-toned, sprite fairy
who sparkles imagination in me.
Fairy will not argue, just avoid,
my fuzzy brain, logic droid
who climbs over my stripes
and around all my brain dots
attempting to fill and deploy
smarts into all my brain voids.