Long Chattels Poems
Long Chattels Poems. Below are the most popular long Chattels by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chattels poems by poem length and keyword.
Faithful companion, Caradog, without necessity
Habitat fed his needs, our bond rapidly developed
Fierce competent hunter amazingly adopted me
Heritage unable to continue, thylacine near relic
Decision to keep him secret was tumult traumatic
Exploited Tiger captured disallowed me to have it
Slender sniff nuzzled friend was a multitude more
Central to my craft's formation, carved wood replica
Tangible muse renews value in sculpting his form
Task of inspiration shed sparks of reaching fire
From my lantern lit table, I intently watched him rise
Stilt like legs stretched, striped yellow rump lifted
Nudged me with gentle nose, wild must be a guise!
Trusting eyes knew domesticity, my heart pilfered
So we walked, accepted man beside marsupial beast
Sharp snout pointed urgently when he detected a meal
Several rats equalled daily quota, Caradog's appease
Showed me hidden nooks, I couldn't figure the appeal
Of providing his secrets, perhaps to dispel theories
Population still existed, a duty he felt was obligatory
Already running in my long local veins, knowledge
Caradog was the final egsample, the last battler
Of a fine Australian species, sadly now abolished
Persistent development trampling their chattels
Option to turn him in to rangers, on my doorstep
Final thylacine female despondent and beyond it
Zoo tourist captivity would instill Caradog torture
Days spent free, ferocious mate bore my fondness
( Last live Thylacine held in Tasmania, 1933 )
* Convincing Thylosene on poems below this,
the prequel to this story
9th August 2020
No historic chattels, old photos or memorabilia.
Nothing has historic value for us to remember.
The sheds are old and rusted on our farm just out of town;
our house is not long new since the old one was burnt down.
I often think about our lead up by putting up a trouble sign,
when we as kids so full of hype one day had crossed the line,
when the four of us all boys whose age’s fell from twelve to six,
went on a rampage of disaster and left a trail for dad to fix.
My oldest brother he was wicked. He had a scheming mind
that got us younger ones in trouble from what he left behind.
He'd set up a situation where, that made ‘bells’ surely ring.
He was never ever caught so it’s us who felt the sting.
However - somewhere down the line, the cunning can get careless,
and us junior followers can be the victims now ‘God Bless’.
For it was in our fathers shed he found matches laying 'round,
and made things out of paper; then burnt them to the ground.
At one stage down the paddock where the grass was thick and dry,
he just lit one match and the flames were crackling to the sky.
We laughed and got excited watching, the earth turn black as night,
then he went off looking for something else that he could light.
There it was laying there; the family cat out in the sun.
And it became our brother’s target when it didn’t up and run.
We watched him as he held the cat and gave it a petrol douse!
But after he had lit it - the cat ran underneath our house.
No historic chattels, old photos or memorabilia.
Nothing has historic value for us to remember.
The sheds are old and rusted on our farm just out of town;
our house is not long new since the old one was burnt down.
I often think about our lead up by putting up a trouble sign,
when we as kids so full of hype one day had crossed the line,
when the four of us all boys whose age’s fell from twelve to six,
went on a rampage of disaster and left a trail for dad to fix.
My oldest brother he was wicked. He had a scheming mind
that got us younger ones in trouble from what he left behind.
He'd set up a situation where, that made ‘bells’ surely ring.
He was never ever caught so it’s us who felt the sting.
However - somewhere down the line, the cunning can get careless,
and us junior followers can be the victims now ‘God Bless’.
For it was in our fathers shed he found matches laying 'round,
and made things out of paper; then burnt them to the ground.
At one stage down the paddock where the grass was thick and dry,
he just lit one match and the flames were crackling to the sky.
We laughed and got excited watching, the earth turn black as night,
then he went off looking for something else that he could light.
There it was laying there; the family cat out in the sun.
And it became our brother’s target when it didn’t up and run.
We watched him as he held the cat and gave it a petrol douse!
But after he had lit it - the cat ran underneath our house.
I’m So Much Better for the Magna Carta
I feel so much better for the Magna Carta,
Can trace atheism and humanism’s roots,
Can define that moment of clarity,
When individualism and free-thinking were to rule and roost;
I know the time philosophy changed,
From people as state/monarchy property,
To making their liberty into the king’s concern,
When the law became a place of security.
I can comprehend the specifics of the document,
To state common folks rights and chattels,
Can accept it needed barons, church and king,
To agree to certain terms and conditions;
Can reason why god was upheld as lawful,
Being the people’s recreation and heart at the time,
Can feel the rush of glad tidings that swept throughout the land,
When all citizens received an existential, fair and equal stand.
Although politicians and companies stand on their own,
It's the law that pumps their blood, fuels their fire,
Makes us feel safe in our much loved homes,
Cases the achievement of the success story and graduate in gold;
It lavishes love on the inconsolable victim, cold with hurt,
Pours restraint on the unstable, intending criminal mind,
It encourages all to engage in life with reason and rationality.
And loves with quietness radicals, jostlers and free-thinkers bold.
Flat pack Wobbler
Procured from mega shop, a straight-lined box amid a cardboard wall
Where jig saw chattels rise above the queues of flatbed wheelies
And underarm catalogues patterned with an iconic list of what they are
When the blocks are sequenced and affixed with laborious strife
A transformation takes place that gives the pack new form herewith
Long live the flat pack table and its tedious sway in frail chipboard
Seated upon upon a quartet of nailed on props that creak objection
It takes its varnished place in harmony with four bolted chairs that match
And for a while it serves to hold the plates and cutlery just grand
Until the careless etch of scratches weave marring patterns on its top
Forever to remain as though a work of scribbled art and wrinkled mess
No longer wavelets in the soup, a tidal wave is now the norm when the legs teeter
Today the food’s aslant and the drinks decide to slide and slither to the floor
The props have given way, they’re tired and now submit to glory
And the table returns again to flat pack with eternal gratitude
quartet of props
.
I
The prognosticator
strung together with
hamstring
not born with
yet acquired
Spill 'pon slip
'bout the damsels
their acuity
their devote
their
profession
From mine last breathe
i share their tenure
with the future
hamstrung'd
Their chattels
shall be
amplified
There is a vast domain,
Grounded on a golden land;
There the immortals remain,
And those who in holiness stand.
Once I reminisce on the pure realm
Beyond the shadows peep
Where beings in white apparel swiftly touch
My sovereign bids me to natter
Of how mortal there must occupy
In eternal bliss
Where the mighty one is eternally pleased
Not a taste of this ground is felt
Nor the chattels of this home can compare
The lanes are of choice treasure
The trees fairer than cedars of Lebanon
And of the river, as crystal, not like Jordan
Yet unmixed, while that of Euphrates is less
Every flower is arrayed gorgeously
And they sing melodies, not upon ten strings
But upon angelic inspiration, of harps
Made without hands
Time has no power there, nor can cause—
Oldness or baldness
There are no unequal roads of life
For goodness remains a seal,
The vast domain speaks plenitude
For the plenum from all race
The sun and the moon are not at their posts
And upon the brightness, its source is not from them
At instances when I feel the heat
Of this accommodating hut
Then I reminisce on the pure realm.
THE DAY MY LIFE BEGAN
The day my life began, my friends,
Was back in nineteen sixty-two.
It was a romantic story,
That I'll now relate to you
When Mum and Dad first married,
Things were hard for a time.
There wasn’t much money for luxuries;
They had to watch every dime.
They lived with Gran and Granddad,
Though they yearned to be alone.
While they scrimped and saved to raise the cash
To buy a house of their own.
They worked all the hours God gave them,
‘Til they put a deposit down
On a house with two small bedrooms,
On the poorer side of town.
Moving day came round at last
And they hired a van for the day.
They couldn’t afford a removal firm,
So that was the only way.
With the help of friends and family,
They did it all in one load
And soon their goods and chattels
Were stacked in their new abode.
The last box was safely unloaded
And Dad returned the van.
They celebrated later that night …
And that’s when my life began.
4h April 2020
The day my life went Whaco contest
Sponsor - Caren Kritsinger
I have listened to,your stories
Heard your talk on Human Rights
It’s warmed the cockles of my heart
On many a Bastion night.
The next time I come across,
And I know I surely will
The indiscriminate victim
Of a Taliban kill
I won’t get upset
Or have any sleepless nights
I’ll know the Tali did it in defence
Of his version of Human Rights
And when we leave this country
After years of combat and bravery
And the Afghani woman are
Returned to their Burkha’d slavery
And ISIS cross the channel
Because our security is so bad
And unleashed chaos on the streets
In pursuit of their Jihad
And they demand Sharia law
In my native England
I’ll try to stay calm
And try to understand
And I won’t get upset
And try not to hate
Those religious fanatics with views
Five hundred years out of date
For I have listened to your story
Heard you speak of Human Rights
It’s warmed the cockles of my heart
On many a Bastion night,
Written sone years ago, but the repression goes on with women being denied education and treated like chattels/
Charlie was dead
Charlie was dead: to begin with,
There is no doubt whatever about that.
I leave my residue to Carol for Christmas
and Little Dorrit his faithful Tom Cat.
There’s been hard times here in Bleak House,
Villainy and miserly crime capers,
I spent my fortune in shops of curiosity,
Pickwick wrote of it, in his gossip papers.
You gather here with great expectations,
Of bequeaths, chattels and yield.
But listen well to my loyal Trustees,
Messrs Chuzzlewit and Copperfield.
To that twister and Street Urchin Oliver,
and to show I bear him no grudge,
I do leave a Crown and one Farthing,
and a sixpence to Barnaby Rudge.
To our mutual friends Dombey and Son,
Please accept my cane and fine silk scarf.
May you prosper all the year round,
As comfortable as a Cricket on a hearth.
So, here is my last Will and Testament,
Yes, I’m worthless, so whimper and brood.
Where did it all go, there is no mystery,
Lost at Cards to Nickleby and Drood.
KS 6/11/2017