Long Dilatory Poems
Long Dilatory Poems. Below are the most popular long Dilatory by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dilatory poems by poem length and keyword.
Rumbles of boredom lead the mouth to eat
but then there are the unwashed,
the residue of the crumbling
and smeared. Greasy utensils
sneaking like sharks amongst the soaking dishes.
A need now to refresh this domestic pond
with chemical bubbles
yet hands are too dilatory
to be daubed by yesterday’s food.
One has to judge with perfect timing
whether to wash the plates or
leave them to poison the sink
for another hour or two.
The essential factors are smell
and guilt.
When the sludge of the once edible
blossoms rudely in an untidy kitchen
or the shredded rinds of a latent rigor mortis
coat themselves with the pimpled oils
of former slicks
only then is it time to reassess
just how peckish we are for leftovers.
There are time capsules in the rural Mid-West,
not retro constructs, but temporal dislocations
that remain as was,
for lack of a reason to be other.
Restaurants steeped, not in nostalgia,
but in a comfortable inertia;
diners that serve
broast, broiled and breaded,
drive-ins where the movies you missed
can now (if you have a mind to),
miss again.
We have bars where the jukebox is not a junk box
but a wood and chrome depository
for archived time-warping selections.
Beer here has a fabled and dusty history,
and is brewed as meaty as a rolled-up forearm.
Astronauts are grown here,
the moon is their backyard,
their silvery spaceships
launch each year from every State Fair.
We’re futuristic in a plaid and dilatory way,
we are as post-modern as Jetson reruns.
We dwell just West of the middle of tomorrow.
Blessed in abundance that manifests in our
stressed daily interaction with our fellow man, and the sincerest
form of our inner wellbeing is the outpour of laughter.
Dormant in the face of adversity, while we empathise with
modern populace at large and try to bring some
modicum of humanity and relief of the pain.
We’d all experience this from time to time and this is
seed of essence in our reality that is forever fraught.
Felled by ulterior motives – punished like Sisyphus by our
fellow peers – as the dulcet tones of compliments, the sweetest
wrung encouragement that soothed our souls like songs
sung at our cradle; the melodies now forgotten. They are
symbols indelibly edged into our subconscious and those
cymbals that tend to want to drown us out so that
we spin in the vortex, but vector us towards the stories to tell.
Be it to explain the tumultuous emotions raging beneath the surface of
our designer exterior – this is by far the saddest
hour and we, eventually, rather opt for the dilatory thought.
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Percy Bysshe Shelly – To a Skylark
There are time capsules in the rural Mid-West,
not retro constructs, but temporal dislocations
that remain as was,
for lack of a reason to be other.
Small town restaurants are steeped
in a comfortable inertia;
diners serve
all broasted, broiled and breaded everything.
Amish noodles nestle in thick white bowls.
There are still drive-in movies
where movies once missed
can be missed again.
We have bars where the jukebox is not a junk box
but a wood and chrome depository
for long archived selections.
Beer here is brewed as brawny
as rolled-up forearms.
We’re futuristic in a plaid and dilatory way.
We are post-modern Jetson reruns,
we dwell just West of the middle of tomorrow.
The stores are heaving, hear the tills jing-a-ling
Dilatory Charlie hasn’t purchased a thing
He’s on a mission, buying last minute gift
Better get something good or it’ll cause a rift
But it Christmas time, I hear Charlie whine
Shelves are all empty – didn’t get there on time
Can’t get wifey a present, no gift for the tree
It doesn’t bode well for this family!
Charlie goes to the garage to get her some flowers
The bouquet’s half dead it’s been outside for hours
He heads to the pub where he’ll sup lots of beer
and then stumble home full of dread and fear
Cos its Christmas time, I hear Charlie whine
Shelves are all empty – didn’t get there on time
Dead flowers as a present, no gift for the tree
It doesn’t bode well for this family!
HAPPY CHRISTMAS SOUPERS!
25/12/19
OH AUGUST!
"The best of summer is gone, and the new fall not yet born--the odd, uneven time of year." Sylvia Plath
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
time drips slow,
like honey from a summer hive.
days stretch like shadows,
dancing with death of summer’s embrace.
amber fields rustle,
their golden stalks heavy with grain.
air, thick with heat and scent of decay,
blooms that once flourished, now wither away.
sun hangs low, a reluctant king
crowned in sun’s afterglow.
cicadas hum their throaty tune,
a chorus of nostalgia in the dilatory heat.
evening sky,
a canvas of bruised twilight hues.
odd, uneven stretch of days,
a paradox wrapped in sun's shimmering haze.
time of harvest, an unsteady grace,
where joy and melancholy intertwine.
Oh August! Bittersweetness lingers,
for I know summer’s end is near.
Rumbles of boredom
lead me to eat
but then there are the unwashed,
the residue of the crumbling
and smeared. Greasy utensils
sneaking like sharks
amongst the soaking dishes.
We need to refresh this pond
with chemical bubbles
yet hands are too dilatory
to be daubed by yesterday’s food.
One has to judge with perfect timing
whether to wash the plates or
leave them to poison the sink
for another hour or two.
The essential factors are smell
and guilt.
When the sludge of the once edible
blossoms rudely in your sink,
or the shredded rinds
of a latent rigor mortis
coat themselves with the pimpled oils
of a nibbling fungus,
only then is it time to reassess
just how peckish
you are for leftovers.
Cloaked in black she sat
with covered eyes from a broad rimmed hat.
Encircled in a wispy shade of cerise
that dripped to fade into the fleece.
Lines that linger on the chair
follow her finger like liquid air
as she stencils out the curlicue
depicted with pencils in her view.
Down the wall with a dilatory slither
and intent to enthrall by use of his myrrh
he skillfully eluded his own detection
making her mind his chamber of protection.
His volcanic eyes thrust into her thought
erupting the lust she longfully sought
igniting her vision like a candelabrum
an incision devising her to succumb.
Licking the salt from a lover's lips
speaking the scripts in hum
becoming embossed in indium
and forgetting fault of nothing but tongues.
Silhouetting the cast of questions surpassed
indulging in the treasure of temporary leisure.
Her guard was let down as she started to drown
in the light of the fire and her own desire
Unforeseen antecedently.
A scene drawn out by a welcoming invasion
she remains devout to enamouring persuasion
Still life flickering and unceasing to amaze
Like a liquor releasing inward
The inebriating reward of her very own blaze.
Written: September 16, 2023
_____________________________________________________________
In the dilatory embrace of midnight dance,
Amid gloom and shadows, we bore a chance.
Akin to a pyre of passion, the tango did ignite,
As our souls entwined, an epic cosmic sight.
Crestfallen souls sought solace in rhythm dance.
Two forfeited souls decry their trance.
In the nebulous world of dreams,
Our love gleamed through moonbeams.
We wandered the night with each diaphanous stride.
Mist In a desultory ritual, we waltz by side and pride.
The midnight hour whispered secrets untold,
As the magic of the moment began to unfold.
Inveigled by the enchantment of the night,
Our bodies moved in wanton delight.
A collocation of our bodies, a harmonious blend,
Creating a symphony only love could intend.
In the inane ails of the world, we decry respite,
As the rhythm of the tango set our spirits alight.
But amid canorous sound and shimmering stars,
A chimera of doubt cast its shadowy scars.
Inhale life into our dance, we dared to believe,
Our passion is beyond what they perceive.
Akin to gossamer threads, delicate and fine,
Our love drew words across the cosmos, divine
The ruling of a raw sun born from our embrace,
Beshrew qualms, that love would never efface.
In the clangor of doubts and the caterwaul
Of skeptics who denigrate, we stood tall.
Our compassion was the most potent force,
Nurturing us through life's winding course.
With every haul, we scorned the night,
In a dance that shimmered with cosmic light.
Until the stars start to drip and gleam,
A canvas created, a passion supreme.
Words whispered softly, in the midnight air,
Blaring a love that was beyond compare.
No rhyme nor reason why
yours truly recalled how
me late mother
(earlier in her fitbit livingsocial years)
non verbally communicated disgust
(insync with audible sigh)
quite often ultimatums
blasting fulminating nauseating
scathing well nigh
she loosed loathing against
grungy looking son (guess who)
futilely escaped wrath of Harriet Khan
clamoring upon rooftop high
offering birds eye view
out of earshot and eyesight aye
catching sunbeams while smiling wry
cowardly lion sought divine intervention
courtesy sheltering sky
acres of shingles I sprawled
these lovely bones did lie
property of garden variety generic guy.
She who helped beget and birth
sole heir inheriting gamut of behavioral quirks
linkedin with many predecessors,
who trod, slunk, roamed...
across planet Earth.
Best bet said present day scribe i.e.
poetic, nonesstablishmentarian, liberal,
jesting, humble, freelance, dilatory bummer
whose hindsight evinced a student dumber
than his classmates wheedled
(as targeted scapegoat) by bullies their flummer
re: entrapped - worse louse than lice
internalized trauma left figurative tread marks
analogous to raging road runner
pressing accelerator pedal of hummer
driven by (an actual person) one Roger Kummerer.
Despite agonizing vicious tongue lashing
against flesh and blood,
which venomous invisible whiplash
never petered out
(even when sundry bloke
got married and gladly left home)
abusive treatment markedly
left appalling, loathing and percolating
ambivalence if though mama passed away
(these last seventeen plus years) wrung
cash crop of poetic endeavors,
albeit resultant lackluster
literary crafted aspirations.
Memory of mom overshadowed
by similar facsimile thereof
think shrieking banshee,
an indelible psychological imprimatur,
I strive to acknowledge
emotional reverberations to date
(May 27th, 2021).
My trademark wordsmith fashioned communiqué
impossible mission to shake off bittersweet feelings
toward once (former) Arthur Murray dance instructor
which fancy footwork synchronized with favorite
debonair handsome young fella (papa)
both flirts buoyant with elan and energy
only thru death will angst become free
interestingly enough hands will clap with glee.