Long Belatedly Poems
Long Belatedly Poems. Below are the most popular long Belatedly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Belatedly poems by poem length and keyword.
Have you ever been hit by a strong feeling?
It feels like you've just been loaded
with an array of possibilities.
You feel like you're bursting with
zillion of words;
your poetry meter is blinking red,
meaning your brain is straining at the seams.
You just think, 'i wish!',
'I wish i could lay hold on paper and pen!'
It's as if you're going to write and write
until your fingers drop off, and your pen runs dry.
You get inspirations, as a smattering of words.
The sayings come in trickles
and you become restless.
And then, whoa! you find a pen,
and grab the nearest piece of paper; not minding
if it's a checkbook, recipe or yesterday's bills.
..... suddenly, it stops!
It's like a dam that just stopped pumping water;
like the silence before creation.
You could hear a mental pin drop:
you gnash your teeth in frustration
'I wish!' you cry,
'I wish I got hold of pen and paper sooner!'
until you realize, belatedly,
that you couldn't have written anything more down.
It's the poetic fairy
come to play tricks on you.
You look down at the paper
and all you see are scraps of words
just here and there:
a jumble of words
that doesn't really make sense together.
You stare at it, hoping
that they would kind of trigger some poetic mechanism
deep inside of you.
You feel like there's something missing,
some vital key; but still,
nothing comes.
At the end of it all,
you close the book
and return pen and paper to their places.
You sigh in exasperation.
It's the Poet's Mirage!
So no more shall his haters hate
For the veil of death has made it late
To hate a soul that time has called
To dine and wine in the city of gold.
And his tombstone will eerily stand
Above the grass on the watered land
Where passers-by will donate a tear
To mourn the passing of a jewel dear.
And wayfaring aliens of kindlier blood
Will cast their eyes above the mud
To read the bold nineteen-thirty-nine
And his two names in an italicized line.
They will see there below two-zero-zero-nine,
The time the grape was plucked from the vine.
They will briefly standstill and belatedly mourn
And recall that all must die that before was born.
His only friends – the butterflies during the day
And the crickets who with constant chirping pray,
Will keep faithful watch over his desiccated bones
Throughout his rest beneath the tireless stones.
A friend passed on – not someone close
But someone I adored.
A service in her honor
I would never have ignored.
So when I heard, belatedly,
That there had been one planned,
In three days’ time, I reached out
To the person in command.
Explaining in an email
That I wanted to attend,
I thought for sure an invitation
She would thus extend.
Instead, in her reply she wrote
That there was just no room.
She’d add me to the wait list
With some others, I presume.
If she who’s being honored
Were alive, there is no doubt,
There’s no way anybody
Wanting in would be left out.
I understand a wait list
Must be started on occasion,
But not when someone’s death
Is factored into the equation.
Beneath the inscrutable sky, blinded by divided eternities,
We are islands of yearning, adrift in fate,
Each bearing a mysterious longing, a desert within the chest,
And with every heartbeat, my sorrow robustly grows.
Fate, the ancient dramatist who in astral maps has decreed
That we be star-crossed lovers, struck by the curse of the falling star.
Painfully sweet is our allotment, a share of shadow and nectar,
Tasting fleetingly, in profound flight, from the sweetness of ephemeral intimacy.
This is the light we endeavor to clasp tightly,
Like Odysseus, shipwrecked in an epic of froth,
Clinging to the beam that thrashes amongst the violent and caustic waves.
You remained locked in a loveless alliance, you've watched too long.
Belatedly, we discovered each other, drawn by a sublime magnet,
Which seemed, in its ephemeral moment, too intense to be contained.
And thus, nature staged its wild banquet,
A cruel show, unintelligible to hearts, stealing away our happiness.
Coming to an End
On the terrace this morning, it is warm,
sun has not
switched on the heaters yet, and wonders if the postie
His brother was sending him chewing tobacco rolled
up in newspapers as this type of tobacco was prohibited
under the EU law.
A cur on the road barks up at him and ignores the dog, but it sits down and waits, sure the man will relent and feed
The dog that had ended up homeless since his owner became ill and returned to Britain
since 1945, when the World War 2 ended, the USA,
Britain and France have been meddling in Africa,
countries and the Middle East
Claiming they want the best for the people if they throw off tyrannical regimes, elect democratic leaders, and join
the happy family of the West and denounce Russia
The people have, belatedly, woken up to the truth, it is
not peace they seek, but minerals and oil.
Russia, Russia Russia has always been hated by the West, even
now the rime is socially conservative, the republican party has more in common with Russia than the Woke Party
the Democrats.
NATO, do not mention that cursed organization looking
for a war on the behest of the USA
luckily, they are not so clever
losing against the Russians in Ukraine, which they have allowed to become a dictatorship on their watch.
There is more to this than we know from newspapers
the people with two passports work at all levels While, in the USA and Europe, mentally disturbed female
have yet to wake up and call for help
The “two passport” people say what is good for us is
good for Israel.
So no more shall his traitors hate;
For death's veils have made it late
To slight any soul time has called
To dine and wine in the city of gold.
And his tombstone does eerily stand
Above the grass on the watered land;
Where passers-by might donate a tear
To lament the passing of a jewel dear.
And wayfaring aliens of kindlier blood
May cast a tearful eye above the mud,
To read that fading nineteen-thirty-nine;
His twain names inked in italicized line.
And perhaps see therebelow two-zero-zero-nine,
Saddest hour the grape was thieved from the vine;
And maybe briefly stand still and belatedly mourn,
And sadly concede all must die that erst was born.
His only friends - merry butterflies during the day,
And the crickets who with mournful chirping pray;
Shall some keen vigil keep over his placid bones,
Throughout his rest beneath those tireless stones.
Copyright © Hannington Mumo | Year Posted 2021.
No Stopping The Carousel Of Time!
The inescapable reality
consigning one at birth
automatically includes no breath
oblige premise, whereat
existence can terminate
with sudden,
and untimely inexplicable death
cruel ploy wrought,
whence randomly begat
into this webbed wide world
grim reaper nonchalantly,
asper macabre Vaudevillian
character cane twirled
automatically infers
cessation of livingsocial
with no forewarning,
where nutty squirreled
memories become indelibly engraved
(photogravure) inherently
pervasive I apprise imperiled,
which ever present
unavoidable demise,
(albeit a bleak thought)
looms larger as orbitz
(demarcating sans initial debut),
each subsequent anniversary flies
faster as staying alive finds
every mortal getting
older, where guise,
which gloomy thought didst arise
with the windmills
of my mind particularly,
sans unwelcome thought,
when my person dies
came to mind, while subtle
diminution to exercise
asthma body, mind, and spirit
approaches sixth decade (come
January 13th, 2019),
the harsh reality lies
within this cognitive,
intuitive, and fully
still operative flesh and bone
aware of becoming deceased
increases in direct proportion
as another year done
and all to quickly, irrevocably gone,
when deplorably belatedly
late life self discover
re: visa vis hone
passion with words specially,
possibly, feasibly encrypted
while supinely prone
on deathbed with
onset of rigor mortis,
yet just barely
enough buffer'n strength
to etch said chicken scratchings,
hens forth before
mine unbeknownst cremation
whereat Facebook friends invited -
cost will be...ahem...
(no more than one rolling stone)
presently concludes any
subsequent poetic endeavors
shot thru with quasi morbid tone.
Reflecting On Thy Long Doggone Pooch -
"Georgie Harris"
At present moment thoughts adrift,
whereat figurative throne,
this chap doth
emotionally abdicate
no particular reason finds me
revisiting nostalgic
thoughts, our
(Harris – birth
family) first pet,
who didst accentuate
mine early boyhood
(far removed time wise
from the crowd did place
housing nostalgia), now over
laid with subsequently
decades worth of memories,
your bow wow wing did
sub woofer did accumulate,
I attempt to adumbrate,
while sitting facing,
the Lenovo external screen
(linkedin in my
macbook pro laptop),
commencement to nuh aerate
spontaneous thoughts ruff lee
outlining thine affectionate
"mans beast friend"
a dearly beloved,
(long since departed),
yet his "Georgie"
spirit lives within me,
and doth ameliorate
teary eyed intermittent outbursts,
sans remembrance
of things past,
particularly said
four footed best pal,
(a hybrid Boxer and Dalmatian -
with docked tail) asper,
when yours truly,
a lil whippersnapper,
he taught thyself
bone a fide life lessons,
and did animate
my preschool days of solitude,
and whose sixth
canine sense didst anticipate
increased amplitude
of nascent childhood anxiety,
yes unwittingly, "a therapy dog,"
whose company,
I did appreciate
oh, how his innocent naïveté
bared kid lee didst articulate,
thus whose demise
scored beloved value,
I belatedly authenticate.
The old lady passed away
as the elderly will.
Memorial cards arrive belatedly
from places far away.
‘Final Notices’ pile up
on a welcome mat.
Those who knew of her
claimed kinship once removed.
The vacated home picked over
in the measured haste
of part-time mourners.
A heavy recliner disappears
as if a feather upon a morning breeze.
Dainty china rattles in the back
of a fleeing pick-up.
Cushions and drapes buried
into already stuffed trunks.
Dark corvids fly high against the sun,
wait to assist in the clean-up,
their silhouettes reflect justly upon all,
as we run with the spoils.
Behold the Pied Piper has tossed his pipe belatedly in the trash
Having led folks down some garden paths he trousered wads of cash
Dollars, pounds, euros, rolls of wallpaper - the currency didn’t matter
He gathered countless cretins, enchanted by piffle and patter
From sound suburban Ruislip to Henley-on-the-Thames
This piper sprinkled magic dust and never made amends,
His tunes were quite eccentric but they made the voters dance
Cycling round the capital his prospects to advance
Now the pipes have fallen silent (I wish this event came sooner)
Though he tried many instruments, he never bought a tuner
Cast-off from the orchestra, a wayward minstrel now unseated
His lies have all been rumbled, and on radio repeated
Considering his record, he enjoyed a lengthy stint,
While friendly foreign editors found his comments fit-to-print
The piper told his followers, “Pack your bags and let us roll
It might be a path of brambles but we’ll be taking back control.”
At last his pipes are broken, there are pieces in the bin,
We count excuses and denials that with hindsight look so thin,
People run-for-cover as they see their hero beaten
Coping with defeat is not a subject taught at Eton.