Long Decrepit Poems
Long Decrepit Poems. Below are the most popular long Decrepit by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Decrepit poems by poem length and keyword.
In a lonely garden is a shrine
where upon a rough hewn stone is writ:
“GOD IS LOVE.”
The devoted supplicants make wail,
water the flowers, feed with crumbs
the sacramental dove.
A priest, decrepit, feeds the holy fire,
rakes the embers of the holy hearth.
Heaven is grey above.
Daily he laments in doleful orison,
unbinds the holy scroll and reads:
“Thou shalt not kill.”
His sentence is short and simple,
without exceptions and parentheses,
declaring God’s will.
though many about have forsaken
Love’s fane, have fallen prostrate
before a god of ill.
And this god has three faces,
one wreathed in pleasure’s smiles,
when the cup is full.,
a brazen face of terror
wrought in hatred’ fire,
And a skull.
Alas, in sports, circumstances looking grim
But, help spewed forth, this day,by installed clowns.
To be born a woman, comes forth a new spin?
You decrepit menaces of DC town!
Gigantic males, may compete in their games.
Female dummies will be used in crash tests?
Brutes, who tower over them with no shame
Female equity shining at is best??
True, we may not win trophies anymore.
Let’s see macho trans-men giving birth?
While females,dishonored in a crash-car?
Devoid of a single human on earth.
Note
Representative DeLauro…suggested female
dummies in crash cars. As if those used now,
were males?
Idea suggested to De Lauro(D)…..by:
The Prince of East Palestine:
Crown Prinnce, Peter Buttigieg
4/21/2023
Late November,
and lonely resonance of harmattan
salutes this solitude.
A weaverbird's contralto, in one
gale-sweep, lays bare the lower balustrade
of a maisonette,
and the romance of the last seasons
shoots the long throat of the clarinet...
O'classicals, on wings
ye come;
leaf cusps and petal ears —
classicals, swearing oaths of
mellifluous assembly...
Calm rhythms hasten to the
ears of Beethoven —
summon him for a serenade,
lest the dark shelter of a
decrepit day strips this solitude.
Anodyne hisses among
this hidden threshold,
curing and healing the weakness of
Clepoatra's hair, dampened with
the venom of haters of vanity.
Classicals,
rid us now of this grief of mundane
dances...
Even in death, Stravinsky hails solitude
on notes of the keys.
From the clarinet,
the bimetallism of barter —
the platitude of life and death
(symbiosis of percussions)
epitaph to the aftermath of
inveterate tradition —
now and forever...
And the clarinet looms.
Stillness in the Storm
It isn't too far from a conceivable image,
To perceive the vast and forgotten knowledge;
What was and still is a, yet-lost tho recoverable innate and
usable norm,
We have merely been tricked to stumble and to falter,
To see only this, yet to live and just perish..there,
According to our physical form,
That they abuse & destroy upon an altar,
Weather warfare, earthquakes and genocide, ultimately we do not care,
For we reside here and so will yet survive,
All around us - here in this, our current metaphysical realm,
The imposed Chaos though surrounding every border,
A precursor to ancient prewritten solution and clumsily enforced brutal order,
A metaphor for required need within ourselves to never fall,
Do we not see an opening here at all?
Free our minds and our souls so then; by just remaining calm, all existential fear from harm,
Calmness within, proceeding to calm without,
Our sitting and walking meditation,
Hereby dissolves the seeds of doubt,
For we are inherently spiritual of course,
This we've always known, aside all attempts to quench and stifle, All adverse intent by decrepit obstinate deceptive force,
Nothing could delete the basic gnosis of what one really is,
So never give up your regenerative powers again,
To recall and never be reborn,
Innate within us, dimmed and
disabled, but never once forlorn,
Assume what was once stolen, Resume serenity once again, and for goodness' sake,
Renounce their trickery, and false imprisoned slavery, Regaining whatever it was they thought they had to take;
So as to never ever slip from grasp,
From God the origin and Source,
Ascension to freedom from our past,
Where we are from, the spark of his Divinity,
To a mindfulness and a calmness,
That our persistence then so gives us,
Rooted in our physically unforseen ability,
A steadfast grip on all around us,
Providing those of us with a remarkable and resounding..
Stillness in the Storm
Kurt Hubbard-Beale
19th February 2023
During mass consciousness awakening from this age old enslavement, culminating in their forced Disasters, Fabricated Food Scarcity, Earthquakes &
a scripted, orchestrated WW3..
Manson, the surgeon.
I know of a famous neuro-surgeon who retired at 65
to write a book that made him more famous
Now he is 72 and has cancer of the testicles, life
in the fast lane has ended.
In the night, he is visited by patients who died
on his table or left in a vegetive state, this I think
is caused by him performing surgery when he knew
the outcome
He tells the dead, he followed procedure, somehow
this sounds like “Follow orders” is what the guilty of
war crimes say.
He worries about getting old and decrepit needing a nurse
to wipe his bum, so undignified for a famous man.
When he visits his hospital where he reigned supreme
he is forgotten except for the relic of a porter who
salutes him, he is glad for that.
The newer generation sees him as an old man coming
for his checkup and treats him with hurried nonchalance.
Sic Gloria Mundi.
She placed her dreams in starshine's bright design
where she believed the galaxy would guard them
from incidents and accidents that might shard them.
She trusted stars to lifelong harmonize love's song.
Wearing confident styles, she traversed fickle miles
before finding a grand love that would surely thrive.
Now, she barely manages life or pajamas without strife.
Gone is her strong and else she wished meant to belong.
Her frantic emotions fast crashed in gray-bashed static
and just her sofa holds her in tear splotchy folds.
Wishing to be free of depressions dark torture spree,
she lives with heart bruises and painful mind debris.
Numbness blurs her pathetic in swirls of decrepit
that pick at her feel-fabric already shredded traumatic.
She cannot define when their end started its doomed sway
but recalls when he left with her 'besty' on a final, total away.
I once
dreamed a dream
that made my soul dance
singing loved ones into my spirit world
Entering my essence in gentlest of ways,
enlightening my heart with their truths and their love.
an ethereal mystical magical dream that uplifted and cherished me.
One of my most memorable soul people returned to apologize
I gladly embraced her, she was glittering, bright light, but I knew her.
My soul knew her. I told her I forgave her of course.
The next arrived to assured me that I could not have stopped her from
Taking her life; it was hers to take, not mine to protect.
She consoled and soothed me.
Her essence was a reminder that even suicides are
nurtured and protected in heaven.
My heart was enraptured to see my third visitor in this visitation dream.
She had been so confused and unwell in the end; decrepit even.
I had never known her this young.
She was gorgeous. Thrilled to see me as I was to see her.
A person who had always preached I should be proud of myself,
and live my truth,
she gave me a heads up.
She has been watching and she is proud of me.
Best dream ever.
It has surpassed all of my other wonderful dreams.
One of three of my most blissful spirit-inspired dreams.
Written 2-17-2019
Contest: I Dreamed A Dream Sponsor: Silent One
Shrub leaves lie curled in the dormant yard;
Trees shiver in their nakedness
As a crisp autumn wind exhales
Into the barren night sky.
On the corner of Walnut and Maple,
The Old Crowder House fights for breath--
Creaking and moaning with age and neglect;
Too decrepit to shelter life beyond a few strays.
There in the cupola she sits
In the long forgotten platform rocker,
Watching the child parade with eager longing
As they wander from house to house.
Will one look up to give her a smile?
Will they even notice her there in her chair
Rocking, as she has done for a lifetime or two
Mourning the loss of her own?
She hears a child's cry echo through the night
And notices a boy clinging to his mother.
Does he see me? Will I finally be released?
Alas, it's just the cats and startled birds.
And so she sits. Waiting and Rocking;
Rocking and Waiting for that magic night,
When the hallow spirits sing and dance
Under a barren sky as the cool winds exhale,
And the marchers of the child parade
Finally, look up and notice the wraith
Longing for a child's smile,
As they pass on their way to the next treat.
Jsc
October 17, 2004
Note; This is an Italian Sonnet rhyme scheme but written in hymn meter which is an iambic tetrameter and trimeter mix and echoes a style that Emily Dickinson often used. Although she admired Shakespeare, she didn't write traditional sonnets (which is okay, we like variety and originality).
So ... in honor of Emily and - age and wishes; I wrote 4 years ago I think.
Oh pity my decrepit frame,
with every step I cry;
to see myself through clouded eyes
and barely know my name.
Oh God! To be that youth again
when skyward I could fly,
bereft lament that now abides
with not a soul to blame.
So ... should I ride that plaintive wind,
or wait the gentle breeze -
to climb with wings on upward drafts
...or stay where I have been?
I think I shall await the breeze
and ride it 'til my last.
Many mountains, seas, women, and dollars made
But for you only was each moment played
As an aged wine flask, your decrepit skin cracks
As flaccid muscles bend your creaking back
Hard hammer toes hamper your stiff walking style
Toilet king, bilious bombard of bile
Fog obscures your mind, only to rise again
Wishing for many things which might have been
Stung as by tzetse flies you cannot forget
Fantasies won’t revive corpses of regret
Too late, with dreams drooling down your hoary chin
Awaken to the state you are now in -
A dream without legs, with all hope beyond reach -
A jellyfish sunbathing on a beach.