Long Dawdled Poems
Long Dawdled Poems. Below are the most popular long Dawdled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dawdled poems by poem length and keyword.
Calling Captain Hindsight, where the heck are you?
The table booked for one-fifteen and now it’s ten-past-two,
The waiting staff are anxious, they want me to move on,
Their patience was exhausted as I sat buttering a scone.
I dawdled on arrival though the menu is quite clear,
I fiddled with my glasses whenever waitresses came near,
I nibbled on some poppadoms and slowly sipped my soup
But they’re keen to move this table now, to accommodate a group.
So come in Captain Hindsight, I need you on the line,
Just Tweet a cute emoji if you’re still a friend of mine,
You must be getting hungry, clear your diary, find some foods,
The hosts of countless phone-ins are simply spouting platitudes.
Is it really sensible to let our steelworks close,
Should Boohoo use slave labour to stitch our discount clothes?
Was breaking-up the railways a really mad idea?
Dare we book a holiday for May or June next year?
Reveal yourself on Tik-Tok or maybe Instagram,
This is no time to reject toys or throw them from your pram.
Laying-low is not required they need you on the news
There are many here among us who would gladly steal your shoes.
Just who imagined gantries over motorways were sane
When stranded vehicles occasionally block the left-hand lane?
Should crops be decimated by barbarians hare-coursing
As some tally-up donations from the firms they like endorsing?
The nurses and the warehousemen all need your sound advice
Without this there’s an endless risk they’ll run around like mice.
Public trust in newspapers will ebb away and lapse,
With schisms on the increase we need you to say “Perhaps.”
So please stay in our consciousness - like Robin Hood or Santa
Without your wise opinions, LBC* will lose its banter.
When the bar stools are in use again we shan’t know what to say,
So come back Captain Hindsight, please don’t go away!
* LBC is an English language radio station highly reliant upon telephone calls from its listeners. This poem was first published by Poets Unite Worldwide on 25th September 2021.
A dazzling blaze sews magic on warm eyes.
Hurdles were solved, and secret vows were heard.
I won't steer the yarns while holy denies.
My cheers are shorn, and my heart is averred.
All musings are being wrecked with a sword.
Bumptious, you believe, life tricks may apply.
So shut your eyes and bear yourself a few dries.
Earth life has an aim, yet we trust God's may.
You've swayed me; you hand a heavenly prize.
The stinks of anguish seep from veins and blood.
Astute thrives, teaching groups of soul and rise.
Bunk time dawdled on, yet death stalled ahead.
At which wayward tears of memory scoured.
Once the grave prodding heads him to comply,
How pointless would it be if no one believes?
Earth life has an aim, yet we trust God's may.
My inward beasts are swamped forward to seize.
I'm battling, yet my dense wheezes are heard.
We've pleaded with God for such a glimpse guise.
Too long, psyche harm has been our swear word.
Is it taut to earn a clear slant on the board?
Where has our keen the past sunk to decay?
Is it tough to grab a clear view of ties?
Earth life has an aim, yet we trust God's may.
This deep yearning proves that there is inbred.
Believe that God is love concealed in the sky.
Coldness and loneliness on a stark sled,
Earth life has an aim, yet we trust God's may.
Written: December 28, 2021
''B'' Forms, 10 Plus lines Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
THE END IS NEAR
POSTED
on a telephone pole
FANCY FONT
…THE END IS NEAR
I slowed my pace
dawdled and lollygagged
pondered the possibilities
….“THE END OF WHAT????”
My subscription to the
“WHAT’S IT ALL ABOUT QUARTERLY
,,,RENEWED,
the glass of DOUBTS AND FEARS
….HALF FULL.
The road narrowed
trees snatching up shadows
offering darkness
…AT NOON.
I peered ahead
searching for the credits
that always precede
….THE END
gazed into despair
as a message flashed…
….FANCY FONT
…..TO BE CONTINUED…..
John G. Lawless
©9/14/2019
BLOTTED OUT
He loved,but could not say
such words,he could not find;
He loved,but could not touch
such warmth,was just too much;
He was proud,but could not praise
such sounds he could not raise;
He supported,but not with words
such feelings,witheld unheard;
Sentiment,tight reined close within
banished, unvoiced by him,
embittered by his own hurt,
a scarred child 'neath his hairshirt.
In that distant past,crippled emotions lay
imprisoned,unsaid,'til his dying day.
BUCKINGAM LACE
Sussanah
great grandma
times three
a pillow puffed
up on her knee
with daughter
in cobbled Cowfair
daily shaped
their
homespun ware
Within such humble
women dwelt
a rare
& dextrous art
fashioned out
stitch by
stitch
pillowed patterns so rich
tinkling bobbins
bewildering skill
inch by inch grew
the intricate
frill
Twisting threads
in pairs & groups
knitted
together
as interlocking loops
a town craft
then
of world renown
plain or old point
hand made lace
lost foever
with no longer
a trace
COWFAIR TO ANCHORAGE
We left our abode in old Cowfair,haggled
a price for an old shire mare.Onto the
landlord's canal boat,lock stock and barrel
for a life afloat.Farewell to our Buckingham
birthplace ,a meagre living from old point
lace.Dawdled up to Cosgrove, meals around
a blackened stove.This moveable house
painted castle and rose, a life we would not
have chose.Eighteen fifties harsh and mean,
cargo of coal, nothing stayed clean.Doff your
cap,touch your forelock at the gatekeeper's lock.
Food scarce except for or fish,perch , roach a
staple dish.Clothes drying on a line,home for a time
whilst the toddlers were young.As numbers increased
and grew ,places to sleep, all too few.Family life
became impossibly hard ,so back again to a
tied cottage in Aylesbury's Anchorage yard.
Listen to me read these poems at youtube under the name ichthys
We left our abode in old Cowfair,haggled a price for an old shire mare.Onto the
landlord's canal boat,lock stock and barrel for a life afloat.Farewell to our
Buckingham birthplace and its meagre living from old point lace.Dawdled slow
up to Cosgrove taking our meals around a blackened stove.Our moveable house
painted castle and rose,not a life we would have chose.Eighteen fifties harsh
and mean,coal cargo so nothing stays clean.Doff your cap,torch your forelock
every two mile at the gatekeeper's lock.Fresh food scarce except or fish,perch
and roach a staple dish.Clothes dry on a washing line strung,home for a time
whilst the toddlers were young.As their number increased and grew ,places to
sleep all too few.Family life impossibly hard so back we went to a tied cottage in
Aylesbury's Anchorage yard.
How grateful I shall ever be for the creative gal or guy,
Who concocted and perpetuated the luscious "punkin" pie!
Ah! The thought of a golden "punkin" pie with flaky crust,
Stimulates my taste buds with sinful epicurean lust!
You can call it "pumpkin" or "punkin" pie, I don't care,
Just as long as it's on the menu for Thanksgiving fare.
Pecan, apple and cherry pies are pleasing to the eye,
But Thanksgiving just ain't Thanksgiving without a "punkin" pie!
As a lad I suffered through my Pa's interminable blessing,
Then I dawdled over a plate of my Ma's oyster dressing,
And toyed with a yam and piece of turkey thigh,
But all I really wanted was a hunk of "punkin" pie!
The perfect "punkin" pie, I can vouch, is made by my spouse.
I nearly swoon savoring the aroma wafting about the house!
To sample a wedge of that treat, my palate is just itchin',
But I am unceremoniously invited to vacate the kitchen!
I suppose the repast must include turkey and sweet pertaters,
And a relish tray with gherkins, olives and cherry termaters,
But upon this old but true aphorism you can rely,
Thanksgiving just ain't Thanksgiving without a "punkin" pie!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Placed No. 5 in the "Dreamy Desserts" Contest - June 2010
Born Doris, named for our grandmother Doris Owens,
she is nothing much like grandma.
If anything, I am more like grandma
for my thrifty ways and down-to-earth practicality.
Doris, nicnamed Dorie, how we tease her when we hear
her name like the name of the spaced-out fish on “Finding Nemo.”
Dorie, who we teased as a child because she always dawdled,
always losing track of time; we never could guess why!
In that way, she never was like me, but was more like Dory
from “Finding Nemo.”
Dorie, who like me, is long-nosed and full-bosomed
and of all my sisters, has the most in common with myself.
Dorie, who got confused for me, particularly by our grandma,
the woman after whom Dorie had been named!
Dorie, who got to be the cheerleader I failed to be
but who majored in my field and never got to work as a teacher.
Instead she works today in a place for special needs adults,
working many hours now that she is divorced.
Dedicated, hard-working, studious and conscientious -
in those ways Dorie is the most like me
of all my other sisters.
Who else but Dorie would write me back 40 to 50-page letters
back in the day when all we had was snail mail!
My letters to Dorie I copied off each month as a record
of my hectic life when I was young in college and
also when I was dealing with my new role as a mother.
Dorie, my writing soul mate sister, who probably
does not write much any more and I doubt that she writes poetry!
She is busy working up to 60 hours a week!
But when she writes, her emails are long and detailed
just like mine.
Dorie, in whom I gradually saw differences from me.
More emotional, more hormonal, more maternal -
this is Dorie. More religious and in politics,
the opposite of me.
Despite all that, we love to chat.
We laugh and laugh, as I do with all my other sisters.
Dorie, who like our youngest sister Theadora,
shares with me a fascination for things such as nutrition,
all three of us sharing with each other our recipes
fitness hints, and special ways to boost metabolism!
Dorie, the sister who Mom says "leapt with joy"
inside our mother’s womb right before Mom went into labor
just for hearing the voice of me, her oldest sister.
I love all my sisters equally, but for many reasons,
Dorie is the sister most like me!
March 6, 2019 for the "What's In a Name" Contest of Kim Rodrigues
We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are."
-Anaïs Nin
Memories of heart, half buried in open graves,
expectations etched in enchanted dreams.
Tear sodded sights, dry preoccupied minds
unknown truth camouflage visible known lies.
Clear 20/20 vision all blurred beyond a veil,
thought filled head, blankets a dawdled mind.
Temptress of emotions, seduces and misleads
distorted light bends, through eyes of prism mind.
Bright yellow refracts, into shades of sunset pink,
deep blue shimmers in orange hide and seek.
We morph and mould, a cocktail of our own,
rivulets scream soft roars, of invisible torrents.
I see sunflowers blooming on your snowflakes,
bumbling butterflies, or insects in cocoon ?
You see distant deep craters all dusty faraway...
My eyes blaze in love, as I see my beautiful moon.
7th February 2020
Sponsor Maureen McGreavy
Contest Name She Inspires Series - AN
Placed third in the premiere contest
In the morning I was impatient as you dawdled
and I told you to stop being so slow.
You just smiled sheepishly and said,
"Bye Mommy, I have to go!"
In the afternoon I spent most of my day on the phone
while you sang aloud and put your toys in a jovial row.
I motioned irritably for you to be quiet,
"Get your homework done right now!"
I rattled off like a sergeant.
"Okay Mom", you said seeming to understand
and sat straight at your desk with pencil in hand.
After that it was quiet in your room.
In the evening you approached me hesitantly and asked,
"Will you read me a story tonight?"
"Not tonight. Your room is still a mess,
how many times must I remind you?" I said in a muffle.
With your head down you wandered away from me,
but kept your dance-like shuffle.
Before long you were back and peered around the wall of stone.
"Now what do you want?" I asked in an agitated tone.
Without a word you threw your arms around my neck,
kissed my cheek, then "goodnight Mommy, I love you"
was all you said and hurried off to bed.
I felt a wave of remorse come over me.
At what point did I lose the rhythm of the day
and at what cost? I couldn't say.
You had done nothing to provoke my mood.
You were just being a child, busy
with the tasks of growing and learning.
I got lost in an adult world with responsibilities,
burning demands, and flip flopped priorities with
no energy left to give.
You became my teacher even after an arduous day
of tip toeing around my moods.
We have one life to live and I yearn to start the day again.
Tomorrow, I will treat myself with as much understanding
as you have shown me today. I will remind myself that you
are my baby and I will enjoy being your Mom in every way.
Your resilient spirit has touched me so I come to you,
to thank you my child, my teacher, my dearest friend,
for the gift of your love that will never end.
Today I walked the lake the wrong way round
and seeing such, the world seemed upside down.
What once was on the left was on the right
and shadows fell where once there was sunlight.
Agape, aghast and tipsy, I did toddle
all befuddled, as I dawdled, round the puddle.
Seeing sights I never thought I’d see,
meeting folks who walked a ways with me.
What a miracle, what sheer delight
to find some changes bring happiness not fright.
To find so much of what we see is mere impression
of how we walk, with whom and our discretion.
But, Widdershins* is the way I walk round
seems my right side up’s your upside down!
*To move 'widdershins' is to go anti-clockwise, or against the sun.