Long Complacently Poems
Long Complacently Poems. Below are the most popular long Complacently by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Complacently poems by poem length and keyword.
When the opaque nights are starless,
and the gloomy days cloudy,
the journey through the vale of life
is not easy as it is meant to be.
When the wilted flowers turn pallid,
and the defoliated trees brown,
losing tantalizing trail of the garden,
in the unshed tears of toil hopes drown.
The rough pathway of life I travel
is sorely tortuous and the time finite,
at the end of the dark tunnel
I do not see the flicker of guiding light.
When I am in the desolate wasteland
in the stormy nights the destiny brings,
the shards of the splintered sky fall
all around me, I forlornly see.
I do not question the supreme designer,
and His ways of manifestation,
but pray for the glitter of the starry nights,
and the shower of the sunny days’ shine.
Without complaint I endure complacently
the transient time’s turbulence as His gift,
wait for the spring of blooming flowers,
and emerald trees to enliven the blessed me.
When under the ruins of the fallen sky
my broken dreams lie in the debris of despair,
crossing the dark corridor I travel within,
and in the soul I discover the divine light.
I surrender totally to His omnipresence,
and remain subservient to His benevolence,
I get the inner strength to hold up the sky,
and that is what keeps me going.
_________________
April 7, 2022
Contest : What Keeps Me Going
Sponsored by : Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer
"Chai Tea, Vanilla: Writing it All"
We are a cauldron
steeped, stewing bitter,
unlike sweet chai tea
boiling
and bubbling,
our reality,
is hard
to swallow.
how do we live
with ourselves,
knowing,
we live
complacently?
we observe,
we write,
we watch it all,
the killing of
innocence,
the black
and white
of it all;
the death
of a dream.
before the end,
the war
begins
it all.
the future of
our children:
we watch it all.
we watch it all.
we take notes,
we journal,
the poetry
of it all.
do we make
changes?
do we?
do we,
do
anything, at all?
writing it all.
We are a cauldron
steeped, stewing bitter,
unlike sweet chai tea.
we are so
Vanilla,
do we do
anything?
writing it all?
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
John 1 (NIV).
"The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it."
Lux Vitae.
A creative process
disguised as a French Bulldog
has pooped in my mind-pot,
where I was complacently
growing small obscure weeds.
Muse me, or abuse me you poetry bug,
if you are a stinkbug, I will take it,
fake it until…
The Frenchie faux English Bulldog
licks a poetic banana smoothie
I have been working on like a dog.
The soft and gooey muse
shudders, goes insane
from a rare form of Gallic syphilis.
The dog poop,
is not processing well.
Fragments float in a soupy miasma:
said poop, a small annoying dog and
a smoothie.
But hey,
I think I can do something with that mix.
Poets know
that all kinds of ingredients
may be added to a mind-pot,
all we need do
is stir.
Home
Cosmopolitan suburbs take shape
Form, not far from the metropolis
Streets bustle, enlist design, become cities
Drawn down the street, concrete solid
Buildings line up one by one
In the calm one structure at a time evolves
There on the outskirts of timid town
Rising from the dirt, from nothing
A flirt with creation on the street
Laid down on asphalt beds, no secrets
Familiar as a name not said, aligned
Not far from metropolitan streets
Enlisted are construction workers to create
Drawn down the road to concrete city
Blueprints sit pretty
There on the outskirts of town, worthy to build on
A home, a structure to call your own
Usual forms materialize with nature in layers
Seem to build themselves communities
Cropping up as large as life
Sometimes it is hard to find your way home
With so much going on
The road to success is always under construction
My house has a number above a wooden door
Such a detail can be useful to have to get inside
Steps lead the way on silent stones
When I go home, get in, my world slows down
Universe stops or shrinks in size, to be defined
There are many wooden skeletal chairs there
Fixated around a dining table when I arrive
Waiting for a holiday or family to come together
No prayers are said these days
It’s just a dining area, nothing else
A bed is hidden in another room
It keeps secrets but mostly it keeps sleep
Buried under pillows and quilts and sheets
Furniture remembers everything
The kitchen is the center of it all
It comes in reds and yellows with a sink and range
Fires from the stove ravage meats and vegetables
Such alterations make them manageable to eat
Ice cubes in the freezer trays stay there complacently
Waiting for someone’s drink, a friendly hand to warm them
Home has a shower down the hall
Cabinets full of towels and soap lie beneath the sink
Clean thoughts from wall to wall
TV turned up loud in the living room
To keep life serene and meek
An old phone in plastic black rings and rings out emptiness
Lies lazy on the antique table, stationary, waiting
Sits by the ancient sofa hugging floor
Listens for someone to answer the call
There is an echo running through the halls invisible
But no one picks up the receiver
No one is home
Only the ghost of a ringer
Style
Compass points in more than one direction
Lays low its feelings before the landscapes gravity
Magnetism searched below the skin of Earth
Substances you can’t touch or feel or see between the seams
Reveal no secrets or mysteries down in the weight of things
But up above the surface, are aromas for the senses
Fragrances of good and evil roam around the world
Nose points in that > direction
Beyond that is the future
Around the corner are other corners
Future always waits complacently
Corners do not hesitate or move themselves
There are more of them than you can count
A compass is useless in the dark as a companion
But will help you navigate the bend of days
The future is unknowable and unknown
If you must go, go all the way
Take a device that indicates and points directions
One that can sing and dance and play
If you get lost at least you’ll go in style
A compass with a smile will know the way
Created on 1/02/15 for PD’s “First Poem of 2015” Poetry Contest
Gathered my belongings and I burned them as an offering
to who I might one day become if I could let them go.
I knew this gesture could be seen as one more case of posturing
but I’d grown tired of who I was and all that status quo.
Wind was blowing, killed the flame, so I poured on more gasoline
and never gave a single thought that I, too, might be burned.
In my head it would be like what you’d see on the silver screen
where Karma only bites the ones whose lessons are not learned.
And the flames rose up
And the smoke blew away
Everything I had been
Only yesterday…
Sitting in a lawn chair with the green grass tickling my feet,
complacently I watched as my possessions turned to ash.
Imagining a better place, a house way up on Easy Street,
Where I could spend my lazy days just twirling my moustache.
Wind was growing, felt the heat so I moved my chair back a bit,
distancing myself from all the things that I’d thrown out.
Now short on accelerant , I packed away my arson kit.
Never felt so certain though down deep I still felt doubt.
And the flames all danced
In a weird display
That I would have feared
Only yesterday…
As the sun was setting all the embers started sputtering
and slowly growing colder in the evening Autumn air.
And I could feel my heart, like a butterfly was fluttering
looking for escape or just an answer to a prayer.
Wind was gently dying down. Packed the car, anticipating
moving on and moving up and reinventing me.
Red and orange, the glowing coals were still so oddly captivating,
so I stayed to witness the end of the mystery.
And the flames all died
Like an old cliché
That I might have said
Only yesterday…
Inclinations Of Fan
Ceiling fan mesmerized the day’s hypnotic flashings
Sunlight fractured through rotating blades
Someone must have traduced it with black magic
Or a switch turned on when we weren't looking
False currants of air, created up there
Pretending to be wind inside the room
Are merely fabrications of the ceiling fan
Humming complacently about a motor at its core
Variable speeds at war with nature
Pretending to be wind is such a sin
Slow, medium, fast… won’t last forever
Ceiling fan will stop one day for many reasons
Electric cost is at the top
An condition unit will replace it for a time
When the grid goes out by bombs or hackers
Paper fans will do just fine
We are all queens or kings
Some are both; but only a few.
We know the king is the last to give up.
But the queen is more versatile.
She has all the moves, except the knight’s.
The bishops and the rooks have one track minds.
Bishops always going diagonal, rooks parallel.
No matter what they do, the queen is on the move.
The pawns are sneaky; there are more of them.
They catch you unawares from the side sometimes.
Knights scoff at them, from their lofty intricate places.
But should we really laugh at anyone? The king asks.
He, after all, is the one who can barely maneuver around the board.
Being complacently placed in a four square limit. He has to be staid.
No matter where you are placed on the board, be versatile like the queen.
She truly does have all of the best move. No offense Knight.
If food for finer thoughts we did not crave,
If sense of purpose we did not apply,
If we did not critique how we behave,
If dormant laid Alert Judgmental Eye…
If float and breed were our exclusive wish,
If instincts solely spurred us to survive,
We might as well be just a school of fish -
Not learning about deep currents of Life.
If we ran loose, not playing by the rules,
If years weren’t measured by the days we seize,
We might as well be just a pack of wolves -
With hungry jaws and reflex to appease.
If loyalty and trust weren’t our guide,
If fam’ly failed to withstand the Time,
We might as well be lions, without pride -
Where govern male rivalry and crime.
If we ignored the term - Personal Growth,
Meandering complacently in awe,
We might as well be just a slack of sloth -
With sluggish status quo, seeking no more.
If benefits of thought we didn’t reap,
If mindful property we didn’t hold dear,
We might as well be just a herd of sheep -
That sacrificed their free will out of fear.
Brushing aside the Kingdom of the Wild,
Place on a pedestal a Human Mind.
With love and progress equally aligned
Let’s be the best we can, one of a Kind.
As to Judgmental Eye, its primal goal -
To keep our planet safe and civil,
By virtue of Grey Matter, above all -
To distinguish between good and evil.
January 20, 2021
I curtsy to say may he allow me one last dance
At the end of my play, at the end of my last day.
A celebration of life, mine, in due time.
When soon but no one knows absolutely when
Do they? Perhaps, he does.
Covering the Earth as the shadow of Life
Lurking everywhere in between rebirth.
Always on alert for something to become dirt.
Soil is his soul. Shadows, his coal.
He needs no black robe nor a scythe,
He has no bloody body nor real eyes.
He shovels lots of it, everywhere, all the time.
He expects no bows when the curtain calls
All prayers go unanswered, perhaps just simply ignored.
When the time comes, he does his job.
He transcends them upstairs, or casts them down below
Complacently, he doesn’t really care about high or low
Me or you or anything at all, as long as he just does his job.
It must be important,
Life seems to depend on it.