Long Contingent Poems
Long Contingent Poems. Below are the most popular long Contingent by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Contingent poems by poem length and keyword.
When I looked in to her eyes,
In it I saw a prospect of a paradise.
A paradise whose entry was not
contingent on my righteousness.
My days of startling agony, still battled my
hope of finding true love.
Like the Battle of Armageddon,
I always came out a looser.
But meeting her... yea the Vault of Heaven,
was like proximal to the Book of Leaves.
Her countenance and demeanor,
whispered melodic symphonies.
And her meekness and charm,
transited me into a world of ecstasy.
Covered In fine linen and sapphire,
she glowed than a continuous spectrum.
Her beauty was an Achilles hill,
that all men that saw her failed to vanquish.
Just like my maiden father Adam,
In her I saw the hidden part of me.
As a woman, as one I will be spending my life with.
I have never felt this conflagration before,
It was apparent she was my dream woman.
What can be compared to the taste of crimson honey,
The more it reddened the more it sweetened.
I have never loved like this before.
For her I was willing to exchange my soul,
To be with her till eternity.
But cunningly she unmasks her real face.
Beneath her could not be compared to an iota of grace.
She was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Who entered my life to distort and annihilate,
My hope of bliss.
All these while we paddled and flew high,
In the crescendo of our emotions.
It never crossed my mind that it was all a hoax.
A calculated sham just to make away with all I ever had.
Now am left with nothing,
Since her angelic face and docile pace,
Which I thought was the elixir my unending conundrum,
Was rather an emotional and psychological torture,
That has rendered my life defunct.
When I imagine her driving around town,
Adorned in my hard earned luxury,
There is only one moment I wish ,
I could re-write.
And that was the day I met her.
I always tell myself that sometimes,
It is better some people don’t come into your life.
But here I am know,
Wishing to right my wrongs and alter the past.
But it is so sad that I cannot have my way.
I know in the annals of time,
When my saga is being told,
I will be know as the moron,
Who killed himself because of a girl.
Though it may sound and look stupid,
I deem it a befitting penance,
For my obsessed illusion of love,
Thus love is an illusion that,
Emotionally disrupt sober discretion.
What can be compared to the stench of a broken heart.
‘can’t change your family but you are free to choose your friends’
Michael’s brother is demented and only remembers the distant past
his parents are long dead they died in a car crash at illegitimate speed
every now and then he visits their graves and leaves a Match Box car
instead of flowers and lights a joint for Peace just to annoy them a bit
illegal traffic is one of the burdens of modern society and transport
luckily for him he fathered three children who don’t know what hit them
when he is diagnosed with cancer but they promise to look after him
a fortunate story of love and the transmission of generational kindness
life’s hardships are relative and sometimes a concept of irrational thought
now it stands him in good stead to have followed a path of emotions
Michael has chosen his own relative friends at free will and he
cherishes them all in equal proportions and knows how to relate
the Liberty to decide when to give and when to receive
undeterred by strict norms and unauthorized obligations
a notion of Justice derived from virtues and a moral law
from within along fairness equity rectitude without fail
Honesty in all his endeavours as much as the very truth
to be spoken when silence and falsification where easier
unmistakeable Charity in the face of a self-righteous world
requesting nothing in return because he is privileged by birth
Communication in deeds and in words without anger or venom
because once acted or spoken it is difficult to retract a position
most of all he is only too well aware that Perspectives are contingent
as well as embedded in context but that he can craft from his own Self
he Reads Writes Feels Reasons and Stakes his claim at times Surrenders
connects what seems to be relative but does not change on his last journey
Michael’s brother does not suffer from the loss of engaging with his relatives
his parents died a pain free death at the crossroad of the reaper’s stark scythe
and his children will tell his story outlook and attitude to relatives and death
he is a blessed man and he keeps a small vial of morphine for when time calls
his compassionate wife who by law is not a relative will help with the plunger
02 November 2020
I sing of the afternoon of life,
Of beaches shifting in such tiny ways;
Throes of death is what they are,
Under the light of a softly dying star,
When eyes full of wonder and hope
Stare into a sky
Made beautiful by the ugliness of transition
And the contingent world of vision and smell
Where only the blind and dumb can tell
That life doesn't really give a about
what you’ve done with yourself all these years.
Let the rain and wind pick up a bit
And clutch the world in a wet embrace.
I don’t really care, you see.
Let the drops mingle on my face,
A beacon for what hides inside.
I wear my disguise to bed each night
And when I wake I certainly stand
So that it's not noticeable.
My window provides a stark picture of a dim horizon
In the agony of acceptance
That every day is a painful step closer,
And those that don’t feel agony are numb.
Or maybe just dumb.
From the wisdom of poets long dead
And the simple thoughts of those
Who don’t mean anything to you
Come the answers we seek:
Words that illustrate our ideas
And the satisfaction of knowing that
Other people can feel the texture
Of the thoughts you hold
Inside.
Surely wisdom has no higher price
Than the realization that
Everything you think and feel
Has already been discussed.
Beauty and understanding once meant something,
But now they vie for attention with
Baser things, trivial things
Only meaningful in their relativity,
Along with knowledge, (what a funny word)
Which once meant knowing what was right
And what was not and knowing the difference.
Now it seems clear that true knowledge
Is only the acceptance that
We know nothing more than that which
We cannot change.
As flowers grow, bloom, and die, so must our
understanding ever be compromised and evaluated.
From the ramparts fall
The sonnets of those most have forgotten,
And maybe you’ll blink, mouth moving
Like a fish in the sand,
Gasping as you realize the futility
Of accepting anything
But what you wanted so desperately to believe,
But like any myth, eventually
you will uncover the trickery
And try to accept it without anger or grief,
Because once the movie’s over,
You’re just in a big room of people
Staring at a blank screen.
I sit here
In a place where I have no fear
Will there be another score?
Does the crowd want more?
Chelsea is on top
While Arsenal should not want to stop
The cheery contingent wants the action
And the goals in this spectacle is the attraction
If the favorite ticket ends up a pay
The pub fly will gladly say
“The pensioners are here, and they will gladly pick up the tab for the beer”
But there is more time to go, carry on let’s get back to the show
A penalty kick was the trick
And the home team was able to gleam
One nil that was a nice fill
But them Gunners made up for that bad mistake
Getting a break away that left Chelsea in their wake
One to one was the score
Will there be more?
As the gunner goalie picked shots off
The beer settled making the blue shirts wonder who’s at fault.
As I leave cash for my mealtime turkey
Chelsea needs a goal without Arsenal doing another thing dirty
Time ticks away
I do say
This match may be a push which would be pain in my toosh
But during the late stage
A goal was written by Chelsea on the EPL page
Not much later the gunners stole the sporting pen
And the blue shirts were not able to defend
Having two shots on goal without a miss
A clear message was made that the game that doesn’t use hands or a fist,
This was not done
And in the stands, those wearing red asked the blue shirts ‘are we having fun’
These gunners do not need a lot just one good shot
To be honest damage was done with only the one
Making the Gunners walk away with all the fun.
Giving questions about those leaving with outbursts that were steaming
Looking about hearing those chanted shouts
The blue shirt cheers who had to pay for their beers
Thought this London Derby was not going to be a fight
But to those who were just watching it was exciting, right?
Two to two is what the scoreboard flashed
And the blue shirts only had a draw ticket to be cashed
Granted this was more money
For those who shed out more pounds just in case something happened that was funny
Chelsea and Arsenal find themselves tied
And hopefully no one cried
Since it was a nice entertaining evening where everyone gave it a good try
Let’s be honest, I’m not that honest.
Be honest,
Just this once.
Forget all the dilutions of grandeur,
The noise.
Eat it so hard in the teeth that your mouth has a voice.
Unclench your tongue just long enough to choke on your words…
Then swallow your words,
They were never your word.
Just like it was never a case of, “she isn’t the other half of me”. Rational thoughts of that nature that tried to tie emotion to logic were as implausible as the idea that I had any idea in the first place.
It’s a philosophy contingent on empirically knowing that even the most limited of vocabularies can stutter words, reliant on misspelled synonyms that do more justice to a mind clumsy-drunk on love than any perfectionists wet dream of punctuation ever would.
It’s supposed to be messy.
Nights of trying to read the label on prescriptions through empty bottles gave self-induced illiteracy a formal introduction to Benzodiazepines.
See, attempts at dreams of you leave me isolated with feelings of resentment and distain in times of consciousness for nothing more than a lack of sleep.
Insomnia,
A new form of self-deprivation,
A therapy of sorts.
Wearing my “oh so apparent” membership card of bloodshot eyes and shaky hands with pride I’ve developed pipe dreams of time spent with the pillow in a utopia of…you.
I called you Benzo.
The irony is, the only provocation of panic that can get my mind racing fast enough to keep stride with the heart palpitations induced by you saying some other guy’s name is when you say mine.
The type of sickness I only experience when my mind decides to throw out the jury.
Anti-climactic, like her not being home when you knock on the door ready to recite a speech you wrote to explain how words aren’t enough anymore.
Standing there pledging allegiance to silence because the color of words has and always will be too dull to complete our portrait of perfection.
You keep your smiles guarded, with reason. All the more reason that I know I earned every last one, and the last one I got made me realize sometimes you got to burn it to the ground at a moment’s notice.
A flat line to a punch line, silence drowned out the noise…
"Resist the devil and he shall flee from you." James 4:7-12***
Part of the Lord's prayer reads," And lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil: for thine is the kingdom and the power, and the
glory forever." Mathew 6:13***
But all of those promises are contingent upon our willingness to, "Draw near to God and he will draw near (to us)." "Humble (ourselves) in the sight of the Lord and He will lift (us) up."***
How can we resist the devil? "And it shall come to pass, in the last days, that all who call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved." The first part of our resisting the devil is to turn our entire lives over to the Lord Jesus Christ.***
When Jesus was lead into the wilderness to be tempted of the devil for forty days, one of his responses was, "Get thee hence Satan Thou shalt worship the Lord Thy God, and him only shalt only shalt thou serve." Matthew 4:10 ***
We are instructed to "judge not least we be judged." We are not to judge the
breathen, but to admonish him to turn from his wicked ways. And likewise to warn our sisters, in Jesus Christ, to repent of their sins! We are to cleanse ourselves of our double mindedness, and to purify ourselves before God in order to be account worthy of Him! "Cleanse (our hands, us sinners)and our joy will become laments of our wicked ways! If we repent we shall rejoice and sing of the joy of our salvations'!
There is only one law giver and only one judge and we are instructed to not usurp his authority. After all is that not what Lucifer did unto Him? He tried to usurp his authority, as well as his throne. Satan who once was first became the very last! We are not neither speak evil nor judge the law, nor the originator of the law, Jesus Christ!
"Create in (us clean hearts) oh Lord and renew a right spirit (within us cast us not away from your presence nor take not your holy spirit from us.) Restore to us the joy of our salvation and uphold us with your steadfast spirit.")It was an exert of King David's confession for his own sinful ways.
Love in Christ Jesus!
Roxanne Lea Dubarry
Roxy Lea 1954
Roxy 1954/ October Country
October 19, 2020
You were born in Clermont, Queensland on December, twenty-four,
Away back circa eighteen sevn'ty-two.
Edward Jones now had a fifth child, whom his dear wife Anna bore,
Their second son and both were proud of you.
They'd migrated out from Ireland back in eighteen sixty-three
And sailed upon the good ship Beejapore.
Landing at Rockhampton harbour in the Queensland colony,
Resettling on a strange and foreign shore.
Childhood days behind you Victor you then joined the work force lad,
Assigned to a gold mining company.
In the range town of Mt Morgan you enjoyed the job you had;
A diligent and loyal employee.
You assisted the paymaster, though you left your posting when
You chose to join your countrymen at war.
For you heard the call of duty and you joined Mt Morgan men
To fight for Queen and country 'gainst the Boer.
Volunteering as a member of the gallant Q.M.I.
You proudly donned that feather in your hat.
First Contingent of B Company you waved this land good-bye,
Enrolled as British troops and went to bat.
Rebel Boers embarked on raiding farms of loyal colonists
In Griqualand west district to the north.
Counter measures were then put in place to stop these terrorists
By sending Pilcher and his column forth.
On the last day of December circa eighteen ninety-three
This force would march from Belmont heading west.
Information was forthcoming as to where the Boers could be
And Ricardo led his party which was soon put to the test.
On the first day of that New Year Victor Jones you lost your life;
They buried you at Sunnyside that eve.
Since that day the world's continued to be filled with war and strife,
So many die for what they do believe.
But the nation recognises that the first Australian
To die upon the battle field was you.
So Mt Morgan folk erected to your memory young man
A monument; the least that they could do.
In the not too distant future Victor, nations may yet see,
How precious all their young men really are.
Then refrain from sacrificing them and let the young men be,
Fine fathers to their families, not memories afar.
The Dark men fought on past their mother,
many had seen the mighty one fall
they fought on with bitter hate,
as now, once more, did the mother of the storm.
Her spear flashed lightning,
she stirred on her horses,
the chariot moving quickly forward,
the spear drinking deeply of Arlagh's blood.
The battle now raging,
one large cacophony of terror,
many smaller battles now being fought,
each as important as the next.
The mother of the storm,
so terrible in her warlike glory,
the darkness of the storm in her movements,
the lady dressed all in black.
She fought like a typhoon,
a mother wishing to meet her son,
to slay all in her way was her goal,
her mind upon the destruction of the foe.
It was arduous work,
she saw the Dark man stand again,
still, she struck with lightning speed,
her spear thrusting home with such anger.
On her left, many of her Dark men,
they struck the left flank of spiders and wolves,
in this crucible, they felt no fear,
they were truly children of the storm.
Their hatred for these creatures was ingrained,
they struck home with such power and speed,
nothing could withstand the shockwave,
nothing did.
Then a voice was heard to cry out,
"Walk in the light!"
It was the dark man,
all the Dark men repeated the call.
Then all the field of Badicha cried out,
"Walk in the light!"
the battle did rage on,
death and destruction on the plain of Badicha.
Chapter ..... 3 .....Part ..... 5.
Turvehr now led a contingent of Dark men,
to the Palovar ford, they did charge,
the enemy were now emerging in great numbers,
across the ford they did stream.
Battle was met, and its crash was heard,
the thunder did fill the air,
this emergence of the enemy had to be stemmed,
whatever the fatal cost might be.
Turvehr had led this charge,
his mighty body crashing into that of a spider,
the mighty horn of power finding its mark,
the underside of the spider now open.
How it did scream in its death agony,
now it was a dying terror,
it now attacked anything near it,
only wanting to escape the dark-winged death master.
To Be Continued ..........
(Dedication: For Tiaua M Ioane)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here on this earth each soul must walk
From time of birth until death stalks.
Each day hurls forth with stress and strain
As we go north and face each pain.
No matter how or why or when,
Each must face now as brave we can.
Hurts and dis-ease block stumbling ways,
Yet seek true peace despite harsh days.
Cancer seeds near waiting to choke,
Let grace now clear waste that stress yokes.
When pain flings fear, be not afraid,
Let faith see clear to face each dread.
Our weary days bring out our best
If we but stay our heart's true quest.
Carcinogens abound right now
Yet contingent upon fear's plow.
Do not despair when pain and stress
Restrict sure air yet dare court zest.
Each man must face the tides of fate,
Greet time and space through sultry gates.
All more reason to live your terms
Dare face treason and dare fight germs.
Do not give up no matter what,
Fill your own cup with love and art.
Style your own poise with cheery heart,
Grace funds your choice as soul imparts.
When pain attacks your body parts,
Let faith not slack what feelings start.
Go forward now with happy feel,
Cheer heals somehow with fond goodwill.
Dare to live then despite your pains,
Survive bleak trends that surge in vain.
Be still and know sure miracle:
Your true heart shows brave spectacle.
When chips are down, fashion a smile,
You need not frown but live great style.
Life is unfair to one and all,
Do not despair but bear with gall.
Read and align with laughter fond,
Jest and wit sign, cancer absconds!
Laugh at your pain, laugh till it hurts,
Laugh once again to force out dirt.
Let peace abide to bring new light,
Keep love inside to bloom new sights.
Around the bend, see rainbow days
When soul attends true light that stays.
Till then, be brave and live each day
With love that saves the best for play.
Leon Enriquez
19 August 2014
Singapore
In the rugged mountain passes
Of the western Carolinas,
Just west of Hendersonville and east of Kentucky, USA,
In the land of the foothills and steep valleys down,
Exists a remote land forgotten in time.
Steeped in country legends, handed down long ago -
A matchless region the locals, call Christmas Tree Mountain.
Thousands of trees spread, over the lands -
boundless pines, spruces and firs;
Home to mountain families at one with their land.
In these broken foothills in the lands of the mist,
On steep, rocky outcrops, barren but for the pines,
Rising above the lowly, bottomland plains,
Far above pedestrian highways where the grizzly roams free,
And the Winter's freezing cold,
With its fierce winds whipping through the trees.
On the Carolina hillsides is where it all begins;
Conifers contorting in the harsh mountain gusts.
Edging their way skyward one inch at a time;
Twelve inches a year the extent of their growth.
Like emerald clad sentinels oft standing at arms,
Like boundless militia watching o're the valleys below.
Seasoned veterans awaiting, their clarion call,
Their final, fateful, farewell, fore' their Christmas accord.
An all-too-short harvest's complete by Autumn's end;
If yields are bountiful, all cuts will, be bundled and penned.
Warmly dressed buyers trekking these remote mountain farms;
Back country charms tempered by the winding, rugged passes.
In the Fall the Scouts come - heeding a higher call;
Selfless endeavors to help earn much-needed funds
To support an ever growing contingent of troops.
Finding a world of fulfilment in these simple deeds;
They learn the values of good stewardship and all its rewards,
While learning to respect all of God's lands and all His designs.
End of the Season finds the mountain families gathering in prayer;
Thanking their Creator for yet another year.