Long Bred Poems
Long Bred Poems. Below are the most popular long Bred by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bred poems by poem length and keyword.
Trust Serve and Wait
I battled long in prayer one night.
For answers to questions I thought great.
To hear his answer in the morning light.
That I should have to wait.
Oh how I longed to understand.
Till it seemed my heart would break.
But the Scripture told me o'vr and o'vr.
That I should serve and wait.
Strange doubts crept in;
Like monsters bred in hate.
But the Holy Spirit gently advised.
To trust, serve and wait.
His gentle hand upon my heart.
Brought sweet peace to me.
His presence filled the empty space.
Down deep where none could see.
Calm now, like a sea serene,
I stand as it grows late.
My God knows all, this errant child,
Can but trust, serve and wait.
Whoa! I will be sorry for that poem!
Give back my pad and take my kiss instead.
Was it my lover or enemy
Who said that writing is for smart people bred
Here I'll show you my latest costly buy
And you may watch me show how well it flies
Oh, I will love you and all of that.
I shall be sweet, meek, mild, soft, even sly.
You will not catch me writing any more:
I shall be called a wife who learns and applies;
And some day soon you shall call to me__come
You shall look and seek at the empty bench
Run to the forest path enter in running__fast
But I shall be gone, raptured by__ the poem
The poem that I was not allowed to write in the past
Ben,our springer,brown & white
was our teen-daughter's delight;
Bred by the famous Shand-Kydd
causing us to part with fifty quid.
He soon grew,chewing chairs
forever racing up our stairs;
We'd no idea what he would be
the harum-scarum,we now see
A sporting dog,much too inbred
so to the vet,our footsteps led;
A day so filled with tears,
engraved upon our yesteryears.
Soon, we were given Bess
black&white,collie-cross,no less;
Perfect in temperament,ready to please
walking her,my mind at ease.
Each night to her bean bag she crept
in the kitchen , cosy,she slept;
Welcomed all with wagging tail
without a fault,she could not fail.
A pet no one would ever trade
her picture now in cross-stitch made
to remind loyalty of that lasting kind
No replacement,could we to find.
It’s now a bird sanctuary,
and has been for some decades now,
the trail wanders through the forest,
past the rock walls of an old house.
The trail itself was once a road,
I can tell by the two rock walls,
run parallel for a mile,
but there were no cars here at all.
Maybe carriages way back when,
wood farm carts and things of that like,
but if you’re looking for pasture
not a bit of it is in sight.
It is all second-growth forest,
where once the Holsteins grazed and fed,
on this land families carved a life,
generations were born and bred.
The kids must’ve played in that stream,
where the small waterfall cuts through,
small enough to be no danger,
fast enough to amuse the youth.
Men must’ve ridden through these paths,
stretch legs of their quarter horses,
running them on the rare day off,
preparing for the fair’s races.
Did lovers sneak along the walls,
risking all to just sneak a kiss,
I think they called in ‘pitching woo,’
so many different names for this.
It ends in a rocky ridgeline,
looks across the Hudson Valley,
to the fortress of the Catskills,
where they rise up majestically.
The view is half grown in these days,
can’t imagine in the years past,
when all of this was open field
and the vista was far more vast.
Did some man sit here on this rock
at the end of the Civil War,
drinking in this land’s great beauty,
and seeing the horror no more?
Did this farm bring him some solace?
Did quiet fields let him know peace?
Would he even recognize it
if he were here instead of me?
It is strange strolling through the past
when by all the forest it's drowned,
but it’s a bird sanctuary,
and has been for some decades now.
Oh What A Christmas Tree
Mistletoes, poinsettias, holly, and pinecones, stimulate their confidences regarding passage,
Tenuous fancied is the Norfolk pine, object facing, particular noble fir, and unique blue spruce trees,
These choice picks are amidst the well-bred evergreen trees variety fulfilling unspecified housed ambiance,
Detonates invariable sanctioned jubilation that a tree augmented during this festive holiday pageantry,
Well-kept treasured amassed souvenirs concerning marvels, embellish the excitable anticipant,
Venerated ostentatious amusements that sparkle in changeable glassed colorful bulbed shades,
While delicate precious keepsakes in attic cluttered boxes, issued in periods fording the annular flake catwalk,
Together with tinseled and snow-sprayed intensifications to ring in a most blessed Christmas vision,
In the whole grandeur, unwrap gifts escapism within overindulged pupils, a halcyon sweet surrender.
2019 December 25
ARE YOU RIBBING ME
GIVE us back our rightful place
Matriarchal society - was not broken- when you fixed it -
you need to stop playing games with yourself.
When western heathenism became patriarchal--
the feminine energy was still ruling--
We allowed you to realize whom came from whom.
Was it not the womb who gave birth to the?
son and the moon.
Was it not you who slid down our milky way.
Was it not you that we gave the power to.
Because you are our creation.
Give truth back to our men
the out of control concepts has bred deception-
Before too- many more myths create
the polarity- desires, pulling men
between masculine and feminine…
In the beginning the one who had all power
Created both male and female not to rule over
One another but to be as opposite attractions
Giving life -love- and-
Joy and to make more
Creations through pro-creations.
I WAS Placed in the womb
and in the womb, I was formed.
When I got here
somebody told me
I came from a Rib.
Did the research and found
it wasn't me
I am a womb-man
came from the womb
people.
I met the "Rib People"
heard their fantasy,
and they do not like me,
because I am woman.
But still they place more
seeds in my womb...
and give mystery to my history,
even though they know
They came from me.
The rib story gains
popularity as It's
entwined with the bibliography.
Now instead of love," Jealousy"
has reared its ugly head,
and female fetuses by the millions
are ENDING up DEAD!
Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2017
A Lincolnshire lass was she
in youth and bloom revealing,
and upon us all God smiled
when unto this world a child
was born and bred in Healing
Red flower of the Midlands -
O’ English Rose sweet and fairest!
Who heard the sirens roar
when fell the bombs of war
on village row and terrace
Where old port fishing boats
off the North Sea tied dockside,
and there their catch unload
where the mighty Humber flowed
as they came in on the tide
She met her Ted a likely lad
from the seaside town of Grimsby.
Unto a rose a prickly thorn
whose love to she was sworn
and wed the twain would be
And so it was it came to pass
a great debt of love was owed.
Dreaming of a foreign shore
in old England’s cold bitten door
from her house on Oak Road
Unto an isle beyond her own
in a far land and Bay of Plenty -
to sail a ship from Glasgow
and off starboard bow long ago
wave farewell to old Blighty
Away the colonies away on
berth and passage of ten pound.
Leaving her home by the sea
and the life she knew in Grimsby
on the Captain Hobson bound
Ocean to ocean voyage long
the bow waves did pitch and toss.
By day their slow time biding
and by night the ancient guiding
lights of the Southern Cross
Soon a year passed and nigh
that Midland girl a mother to be.
Once again in a seaside town
dressed in a maternity gown
across the world in Opotiki
But the Firth she calls home
and there in time raised a family,
and I remember to this day
her gentle and motherly way
to me and to all, dear Audrey
Written: December 2017
I objestigate between arabesques and sleep,
fugaciously spasmodic in fluxes and leaps.
I'm indifferent to the misanthropic mocking,
that welltering inflection that I call plockingism.
It's their cheeky syncopated schisms that I rebut,
and yet they slantathunt for the right to boff.
Well, blanderluse I refuse, so let them scoff!
I derogate their impultritude and arrogance.
Drapple their smirking repudiation of my dance
for they know nothing of the dark decoctions
spating rapidly through my vendacious veins,
nor of the mastacular alter assemblage
of the miscelany grey and white matter in my brain.
The mordant humor of this absurdity
is that I am irrationally rational...
psychotically speaking, perhaps,
I am dripping with percipience
sagaciously intelligent beyond the measure
of those cretins who kvetch, pule, and postulate
their hate. I am strabismic and nonsensical as a loon.
Mayhap writing in this style is as tedious a method
of torture as it would be to dispropart a heart!
After reading this ranting of gelastic absurdity,
it's become mereticiously opaque to me
that my discourse is oxymoronic, OR
I present my ischemic side as a dimwitted addlepate.
I'm a conflagration of animation or maybe I'm just lazy.
I'm not of the artificial intelligence variety,
but there's more than just one kind of crazy.
Vogonese is a language that few will applaud.
I see it as a form of whimsical words, without a reward.
If this is the third worst type of poetry in the world...
keep the first two ridiculous rooskits in sails unfurled!
Insanity is bred in flompous fields of clantigendice clover.
Moreover, before I drop my plasmergent pen on the floor
I find myself crossing the threshold of depravities' door.
*Don't ask for an interpretation. I have no clue.
Unopposed Oxymoron
This poem is light as a heavy contradicting complement
and rhymes with no correspondence of sound sharp at
the cutting horizon’s edge of melting confusing fission
Serious like a foolish jester and in trivial necessity it wants
to be chimed in disagreement discordant harmony figure
of speech silent shapeless tallies and out into central periphery
Traditional post-modern as an anchor less mooring unbound
a planar linear Oxo cube for poetry soups soaps speechless
rhetoric it says nothing’s everything all for refutation and proof
Cut as a half witted razor blade dull as laser bred dull diamond
the oxymoron in proximal distance joins divisions idiotic
intelligence bland precision in amorphous diffused clarity
I am nothing but and everything as I know to know nothing
where healthy insanity and clear normal madness when
condensed reflection and prismatic diffusion meets parting
My initial final backfiring telos in idle lazy effort’s endeavour in
rhyme and in lightness dissonant un-melodic featherless burden
is that being at different places in different times in the same
space and same moment is not an oxymoron but debatable truth
Written on 27th August in Johannesburg dateless timeless
and nowhere with a blank mind and mindful disregard
For Ogunyinka Damola Ebenezer 2nd Year Remembrance
Of Illness of a Damola
Of Death to an Ebenezer
Of Disappearance of a Linguist
Of Eternal Ascension of a Living soul
To the great stage above the beyond
Bred in a clergy clad family
Of no one but the Ogunyinkas
With the last born baton in his hands
Exhumed from the city of "Iseyin"
A man of a baritone voice in
The wilderness of a choir
We toiled and laboured endlessly
With our eyes very heavy of TDB
The core to which you keep vigil
Became helpless and hapless
Only on your back exit from the stage
It all re-echoes nothing but something
In a Play titled Vanity of Life
For two moons rememberance we gathered
Not to mourn or weep today but to
Extol the uniqueness in him
That liveth still in our heart
For he it is indeed a rare breed
A scroll whose rarity brings out veracity
To three scores in November we shall
Continually gather every moon
To look Death straight in the face
And breath in fulfilment for a great work left behind
For we shall all come to join you in
The stage above the beyond
Promising to positively impact our society
Like you did in your sojourn on stage
Adieu.
Alayande Stephen.T
28th of November,2005
11.30am
For and on behalf of Dammy's Core in the
Deparment of Linguistics and African Languages,
University of Ibadan.2003/2004 Set.
Form: