Long Barest Poems
Long Barest Poems. Below are the most popular long Barest by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Barest poems by poem length and keyword.
I oft shooed thee as bird of barest brain,
No, ye do hide behind some talent rare,
Should a rare hand nurture ye to train,
Thine sense of shades I doubt any may share.
It is thine knack human commands to heed
That makes thee a bird of a choicest breed,
Thou ‘lone, O angel, canst call a Monet
From a Picasso, Peace pigeon, prized pet!
It was when I saw a huge flock of thee
Taking off from the ground at a command,
Swirling soon in a formation to be,
Showing off skills in flight, and to soft-land,
Thence to trap birds of rival fleet—what treat!
I know ye deserve discerning diet—
Of dry fruits and pure Indian ghee— a bit
Rich may it look — a long-corn and millet.
I never knew doves could be trained to tell
A human voice or whistle, and many
A hand gesture to return safe and well
To base, until I did thine talent see.
Thou hast the measure of magnetic field
Of Earth, to have a sense to know at best
Thine place in space with the power ye wield,
And to return spot-on to place of rest.
Those eyes hast more colour cones than us,
That thou canst see three times as many shades
As humans, making ye a bird so precious,
A pigment marked seldom from thine mind fades.
O thou, a perennial guest of my house,
I'd not shoo thee away- now that I know
Thou art not like that pesky pest, the mouse;
Yet hygiene's good habits ye ought to show!
And ye make every corner, every niche
In my house, and thine nesting place, a rage,
Thine maternity home all so hellish,
But, pray, a house is no home of garbage!
It's odd, we call thee a common pigeon;
Such rare credentials can't make thee common.
For nesting home, O thou a homing bird:
What made ye leave trees to like human herd?
______________________________________ ________________
- Reflections | 03.01.12
“For do I now persuade men, or God? or do I seek to please men? for if I yet pleased men, I should not be the servant of Christ.” (Galatians 1:10)
In exile ‘midst the southern timbers’ walls,
My chamber bleeds the candle’s dimming thralls.
Upon the midnight blaze, I weep in vain,
Awaiting courts beneath Islamic reign.
For mother’s blood lay cold and carpet stained,
And thus the village pointed me to blame.
As peril looms and fate constricts my soul,
My heart grows dreary, sweat consumes me whole.
In shaking breaths, I glare above the coals,
The wooden cross reveals a burning gold.
“O’ Father, lay upon me warming hands,
Amidst this sea of wolves, I walk a lamb.”
I am the way, the truth, and the life:
no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.
In darkness shines his light of blinding grace,
Upon my chamber blooms his loving face,
He stands above me, arms in gold embrace,
As holy wonder sets my soul ablaze.
“My son, why dost thou meddle in thy woes?”
“O’ Lord, my soul lay barest in their throes.”
“And whoso dost thou fear, thy dove or crow?
For hearts of men lay barren ‘midst my throne.”
Be not afraid, only believe.
I wake, my chamber blind without a flame.
With peril knocking, father calls my name:
For do I heed the judgement of men,
Or the mercy of the Lord?
Rags To Threadbare Tatters...
(a true “FAKE” story
how Mein Kampf - chill as hoary
frost – and totaling lacking glory.)
A woeful disgraceful
cautionary tale stitched
from the barest thread
harkens back half life
of yours truly
comprising a few decades
in the pluperfect past,
when this husband newlywed
living hand to mouth,
when thy wife and me
occupied mine boyhood abode
sharing one kid size bed,
though dwelling under
same roof as parents,
this "pariah" did dread,
cuz prior to getting married
most every day
found me loathing mandates,
yet never fled
duet hoo bing
cowardly, yours truly
blithely endured pa
rant till fulminations,
and litany of"hateful"
broadsides at my head
minor misfortune, sans scant
details barely one
measly paragraph
tenuously stretched,
thus (with all manner
of dogspeed, I fetched
kvetched against restricted
poetic licensed finesse)
to complete
at least one
page (OpenOffice)
word document spread
attempting to convey penury,
but nonetheless I
consider meself
if nothing else
blue tiff lee well red
irrelevant to stand in good stead,
and pertaining to
profession of thespian,
never found me professionally
acting out a scene
neither did I glean,
nor memorized
scripts, thy counter
with applying literary mien
super tramp ping cheap tricks
to convince skeptical readers
"Quod Erat Demonstrandum"
just show up on opening night
when mine break
out character lean
on words since being "green"
behind ears of corn lean
refulgent klieg lights
will shine a light
asthma pantomime
dramatics mean
business and take
thumb page from playbook
portray me as
superb drag queen
when "lights", "camera,"
and "action" called
debut appearance
with stellar broadcasts
in every magazine!
Ecology, Humanity, Me, & Tea
A fox at the altar.
Bee nests to seek before light.
A rabbit where the fox’d trot.
(Foxes have only ever trot. Perhaps fast, or nimbly, or slow - they do not walk.
They do not run.)
Morning flies...
And the sun is slow to rise.
The clouds are only a smidge more awake than I.
Sleep-rolling by.
A duck flies, no tumbles, no whazzles past.
No more gainly than when waddling on sod.
Morning hawks take to the barest of first updrafts;
rising like mists on the lake where dragonflys slowly
flex their diaphanous gemstone wings. The ones who
keep as captor the rainbows from the last day’s thunderstorm.
A frog {Maybe toad. [Probably frog.]} somewhere in the pottery.
Awaiting the repottery of potted plants, themselves awaiting the
heat of day and breeze’s gift of sway. Hiding in the repository of pottery;
perhaps in rainwater held in temporary reservoir - a feast for frog, a womb
for gnats...this believing squeak-croaking, near-whistling frog calls out in love -
or something very much like it. From the dark. Not near at all to kindred souls.
At even the odd hours I hear it call. Her call? His call? The call we all...make.
Know.
Offer.
Await.
The barn cat, asleep, misses it all.
And misses none of it.
Soon he sidles up.
In need of scritches and time with.
The tea cools, the leaves unfurl.
The tannins dye.
The world wakes.
The lupine at the altar try their hand at purple.
No goose today.
The sibling blue pines put one in minds...
of poetry. And work awaiting.
Effortless is your perusal
The barest to the deepest of my being
Lay wide as a sailor’s map
Before your all seeing eye
The angel that I was to the conscious person I am
From the wrinkles a load to lines a dot
From fears on the hide to hopes immortal
From cries introvert to laughs tangible
From days dismal to the ones I’m beyond the sky
My sins that are a scar to our ‘relationship’
To my numerous surrenders at your feet
The unworthiness that so often visits to the worthy surprises
How weak I am to the strongest I know not to be
Every part of me that you wonderfully made that I love-
To the one I try being my own creator
My borehole of faults visible to eyes normal as mine
To the darkest of secrets that seem nonexistent
In the most crowded of places and in my solitude
You see all and whisper-
You know who I am from who I think I am
Contest Name: His All Seeing eye
Sponsor: Mystic Rose
He was a born teacher
From birth destined to be
You'd know by his phene.
In capitalist-run schools
He's taught for many years
Earning pennies for labour.
Three years a beneficiary
On stipend of N-power teach
The Program axed by corruption.
Then long a community teacher
He's rendering public service
For little pay out of community levy.
He's adept; he got more papers
Hoping for full employment
With satisfaction in the job.
He got a conversion to EdoStar
State-run, two-year probationer
On the barest wage.
On his appointment
In the civil service, he got
The news of his careerlong pursuit.
The government is youth-centric
On account of his age, maybe his status
Or affiliation, he's disqualified.
Meanwhile politikers in the council
Of politricks make millions
By the seconds chattering all day.
When the Righteous strive
the People Rejoice
Speak me In thy Freedom Voice
-------------------------------------
Come now thy fountain
barest waters for thee
to drink
speak me in your freedom voice
Prayers that speak of
drought and floods
effect to all
just not the lords
speak me in your freedom voice
oh ye where who speakest me
that my strength in human decency
speak me in your freedom voice
On those common grounds
to what we believe
that the blessing of nourishment
in the fields and trees
speak me in your freedom voice
lands make food for us to eat
our rich textiles creates
to cloth our way
speak me in your freedom voice
Speakest me in your freedom voice
to forge my way this day on
Speakest thee in your freedom voice
might my ear hear your song
speakest me in your freedom voice
that tomorrow is a day new
speak me in your freedom voice
which paths we look to do
That seeds shall be sown
and harvest stored
that roofs be built
and new ways explored
speak me in your freedom voice
might I understand
speak me in your freedom voice
might I see it clear
Speak me in your freedom voice
oh what song you sing
speak me
speak me
please speak me!
might my hands carees your face
ignorest me that my labors
-------monophthongs-------------------------------------
Believers are called to use their freedom
not for selfish indulgence,
but to serve others in love,
acting as servants of God
See no water for perspiration,
Ask for flowers, not all the garden.
Light a lamp if ye feel there’s darkness,
Nights are always dark, ask for no Sun.
Blame me, all the evil will I bear,
But ask not what might wake my demon.
In matters ‘tween you and almighty,
Ask for no human intervention.
If you’re looking for a fair image,
Ask mirrors— but with mind’s abstention.
If you’re out, looking for happiness,
Ask mind’s monkey to lose its mission.
If you have enough of bitterness
In heart, ask for no liquor’s passion.
If you’re out to describe barest truth,
Ask for no designers to fashion.
As poet let me read my poems,
Ask for facts, nor yet any fiction.
_________________________________
Ghazals |09.04.2022|
Thunder the poor plagued,
the tread thread barest.
Thunder the crow black priests
beaks clattering, hands anointed
with broken oaths.
Thunder also the mean streets
and all the mean sisters of hope forgot.
Thunder under a seashell dark,
for a flea picked residue
is the image of love,
God bedecked in the vesture of the ragged,
a derelict in a derelict park.
Thunder in the unmade bed
where sweat exhausts an arid skin.
Thunder all headless silences
That hammer hard upon the breast.
Thunder the naked man
under the coffin lid of this moment
and the next. Thunder until words
riddle and warp, being all things left
after the clap and roar.
Stripped of light
I witness the night at it's lowest
It's an ugly one
No stars, so no wishes
Moonless, it's dark
My eyes are drawn to it
Or maybe drowned in it
Sunken in my own
Ocean of feelings
My heart in my ears
I listen and I breathe
My heart in mouth
I swallow how I feel
My mind rambles on in circles
It's a mental slow ride
Many stop points
I quietly hang out at
I just have to deal, don't I?
And I simply don't know what to do with my hands
Maybe I should hold myself
Stripped of lies
I witness myself at my barest
It's a lonely side
Like the night
When the light is gone
Beauty and ugly become one
Form: