Long Blundering Poems
Long Blundering Poems. Below are the most popular long Blundering by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Blundering poems by poem length and keyword.
SONG TO MOON
Moon ! Light of Shadows
Luminosity of strengthening black bows
tears of trite nights
and blundering blights
tears of a trillion thorny flights !
Moon ! Mother of Souls
of wayward wonderings, Rise !
release us from festering fears,
ancient grids
of obsession, greed, forgetfulness
Moon of my navel, my breasts
my convoluted gut
embellish our bodies to offer our Selves
Moon of phobias, of parodies, of paradises !
Dissolve our self created shackles
our cemented barricades, steely borders
Receive Earth’s germinal gems
germinating geraniums
garland grains as you shine on gateways
Let us flow freely frankly
Flow and fly where wild freesias prevail
let us ride on dazzling rafts airborne
dripping dripping gurgling giggling
Let us dwell inside you, above you
in God’s warming womb
to fall in a splintering of shadows on
wet grass embracing !
Moon ! Moon Grandmother, Moon Mother
Moon Sister, Moon Nurturer, Moon Wisdomkeeper
Absorb us into your magnificence
You are Here in my Song !
So hold us dear in our slumbering
Sojourns…
©GhairoDanielsPoetry&Song2006
The blackest night wrapped around the lake of Votna - snow fell fast what is up and what is down? A fist held tightly not allowing a single sound.
Below the murky waters lay a creature unfound.
On its serrated time timetable and its unfounded clean the concoction mirrors the souls it has taken, they could not find his place of refuge, but a cauldron of
whispered tensions among a deepening tragedy of history and evocative lies of
the breath of wrath that must be emoting in constance.
In the belly of the beast grows a hunger.
Earth and still life start to crumble. The eyes of the beast look into a bleeding soul – don’t ever, ever grow old.
A swimmer gazes under the cold lifeless moon. Tensions rise on the shore of steel knives. Violin strings cut through the wind. Mirrors of blackness - warmth seeps in steep pools - mid winters child learns of white dawn.
In the boarders set, and a blundering storm of mimicry, before the sights of knives, teeth, and his kneeling stance of predercoutship, we could sense the shifting season arrive, landing on the very night and the poor guy, never feeling a drift from the pools depths come alive.
COLLAB POEM WITH JIMMI CANADA
If it wasn't for poetry
How would we, secret agents,
Communicate without blundering
By not letting our thoughts turn into
Revelations which might cause mass panic?
If it wasn't for poetry
How would we play with colours and numbers,
With pictures and symbols
Communicating in a language only we can understand,
Demonstrated solely by the deep and honest depths
Of our eyes as we look at each other
Keeping a safe distance
Yet holding hands together with our beating hearts?
If it wasn't for poetry
We, secret agents guarding the treasures of life
Would bloom not into angels of the divine
Having as main duty,
The keepsake of the blinded humankind
Who take the blessings of life for granted
Caring not to see and to hear the universe as it sings!
I was christened a vampire at the stroke of ten.
My bloody reign of terror was about to begin.
No more would I live as a once good samaritan.
To think before this, I was a confirmed vegetarian.
Now destined to hunt human prey by night,
Relishing the moment of that fatal first bite.
Down a dark deserted alley, I hatched a simple plan;
To watch for the arrival of a single woman or man.
Perched on a fire escape, it was there I awaited.
I hoped it wasn't someone to whom I was related.
But as my hunger grew, it didn't really matter.
I longed for the carnage and arterial splatter.
Soon there came the sound of staggering shoes.
It was a tall lanky man, clearly reeking of booze.
As soon as he neared, I pounced from above.
He puked on my chest and gave me a shove.
I fell on my back, as he ran from the scene.
Now jumping to my feet, I had to come clean.
This dirty deed wouldn't be as easy as I thought.
Could it be from the lessons I was never taught?
How does one kill for the very first time?
I was feeling quite ill and covered in slime.
I hurried back home, for a badly needed shower;
Then glancing at the clock, I noticed the hour.
Time was ticking down towards the coming of dawn.
I had to rethink my tactics and muster my brawn.
Two blocks over, I spied a lonely old maiden,
With a cane in her hand; and a purse that was laden.
I crept up from behind with cunning, stealth, and grace.
Spinning around, she screamed; and pepper sprayed my face.
Dropping to my knees, with eyes burning and red;
I prayed there was someone close, that was easily bled.
After deciding not to tolerate any tit-for-tat,
I finally gave up; and drank the neighbor's cat.
Some perhaps more fortunate poets will
With greater ease urge their heeding quill,
To tell in switching tones many juicy tales,
Of love-aided treks and shipwrecked sails.
Not so for this goofing lyricist whose
Heart-felt lays Muse hesitates to aid.
His adequately regaling yarns refuse
To relay accounts by raw feeling said.
While true impulse says song is sweet,
His loth pen lies that such ditties cheat
The listening heart with strange sights,
With fake ideals set on fictious heights.
Although unsullied emotion colors love
As that rare thing that it has often been,
His pabulum lines mar it with banal ink,
Cladding in dross the slick gold unseen.
The blundering odist displays want of skill,
But let his themes not lose their latent thrill.
Have you ever seen Jack in a tutu?
It is not an inspiring sight
His thundering, blundering torso
Can give most ladies a fright!
He thinks he's just so appealing
Can't see why they cringe and recoil
Thinks he's God's gift to women
More like a weighty gargoyle!
He's got a genuine happy heart
Too bad he looks like a blimp
It is hard to avoid staring at Jack
With body hair resembling a chimp!
We haven't the heart to tell him why
The girls all giggle and choke
When he prances around in his tutu
He's an outright comical bloke!
Have you ever seen Jack in a tutu?
A sight you won't forget if you had
This huge abundance of body mass
Jiggling up and down when he's glad!
Jesus Gods Link
Written: by Tom Wright
3/10/03
The words I pen, quite simply,
Are my thoughts disposed to ink.
Laying my heart agape on paper,
Inviting others to seek God's link.
I seek not possession, or ownership,
To thoughts that once dormant lay.
God, bades my elite in each travail,
In stride, thought, and feats of day.
Never regarding it developed talent,
But alternatively, God's, gift to me.
That in using my blundering efforts,
I've presented Jesus, for others to see.
So consider these not as abeyant words,
Ink, structured to form a printed page.
My objective was to show you Jesus,
And plant a seed to sprout with age.
Dear Donald,
I heard it said
it is your position
that reducing carbon emissions
and other climate therapeutic investments
are not a healthy US priority.
I also heard
it is your position
that the federal Environmental Protection Agency
is redundant,
and therefore also not a climate pathology therapeutic resource
on your national priority list.
I also heard
that Puerto Rico
and Florida
and Texas
might have benefited from more environmental protection
from the climate pathologies
that you would re-invest in nonrenewable environmental hazards
like oil fields rather than polyculturing yields,
and nationalistic patriotism
rather than Sacred EarthMatriotism.
Isn't that a bit like
encouraging arsonists to burn
during growing droughts
while also closing down the local Fire Station?
and calling that conflagration
what you had in mind
and relentlessly promised
when you ran as if for better economic government
through active abuse
where once we tolerated mere neglect?
I realize you are not an advocate for universal health and climate care.
Still
it seems we might find some healthier direction
than anti-health care and climate death bed delivery.
We are trying to adjust to lowered political
and educational
and civic
and moral
and health
and environmental therapeutic care,
but your current dive
to find the most toxic bottom line possible
is breath-taking.
Thanks so much
for constantly reminding us
what a great job you are doing.
It would otherwise
be so much more difficult to see
and smell
and feel
and hear
or in any way sense
anything beyond blundering
Business As Usual
mediocrity.
Probably your biggest fake-fan,
Gerald Oliver, EcoTherapeutic ReGenerative Designer
Crumbling is a failure in structure, form, and art.
It's where time at last begins to play its part.
What age makes weak is hard to see when growing old.
Until hands lose their grip on what you can't hold.
We do not lose our knowledge once and for all;
it falls in fragments, grain-by-grain, in the pall.
To crumble is to learn what entropy proves true:
all things grow disordered—back to the dust they knew.
The mind, like stone, holds its shape tight within,
till doubt erodes the edges and cracks let light in.
Age does not take away the crumbs in one broom sweep;
the crumbles tumble slowly—each loss a memory we keep.
Understanding builds like sandcastles, to fragile art;
one crack, and doubt pours through the frail rampart.
What crumbling shows along time's long winding path,
is that nothing endures as keepsakes in the aftermath.
Listen closely —you can hear the soft crumbs fall—
a mantra of truth, that none of it was ours at all.
So let the crumbling loosen what you once knew;
opening space within, for something strange and new.
Crumbling, murmuring, blundering through time,
teaches the grace of slower, wiser rhyme;
loosens our grip on what's failing anyway,
to free up space for what's arriving today.
What falls away makes room for come what may,
making hay in the sunshine, all along the way
as a crisp, crumble topping, made fresh today;
if we don’t let the rain set in, and stay.
And when it ends suddenly, unexpectedly,
You start to count.
First on the days, then the hours - then
Just counting until 100
Then
Beginning again.
The dead find their faces
The living count faces
Then most forget
Unless the face has your DNA in it,
But you remember the body bags
Being moved around in the night,
The nurses crying,
The lies being spread,
The excuses,
The obfuscation,
The blundering incompetence
Of bureaucracy and officialdom.
The elderly kept in deathcamps
that used to be nursing homes.
The grinning mayors
And governors.
It’s going away now.
Less and less each day.
It’s going away now
It’s going to a place
Where the living cannot find it
It’s going away now.
And suddenly you are very angry
About the stupid shut-ins and the shut-downs,
The politicization of tragedy.
The muddled and slanted statistics
The ridiculous projections,
The false data.
The contradictions and bluster.
The draconian regulatory and government
Sponsored power grabs.
The gagging and intimidation
Of workers.
The trashing of basic freedoms
People
Jailed,
Fined,
Harassed.
The banning's.
The right to collectively worship denied,
Peaceful protest denied.
Businesses forced into bankruptcy.
The unemployment
The waste.
And destruction.
The sundering of families,
The needless school closures,
The suffering that led
To clinical depression and drug overdoses,
The disdain of those
Who rejected commonsense remedies.
The manipulations
And machinations,
All the willing useful fools
Chorusing together to tread down
Democracy.
The grinning talking heads
Who doctored the news.
The attacks and the cancelling
Of those who begged to differ.
Dissenters labeled conspiracy theorists.
The cover-ups:
Gain of function.
GAIN OF FUNCTION.
The dumb mantra of the ignorant
Demanding we 'follow the science'
But the science was wrong
The scientists lied
They lied.
They all knew
AND THEY LIED!
And I am still counting
In case it returns
And I have a lot more things to count,
Lots more to tally and be made
ACCOUNTABLE.