Long Disinclined Poems
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Timothy Catchpole lived in a field
on the edge of a deep, dark wood.
One of a long line of Catchpoles he was,
who tried to do nothing but good.
Home was a nest on an ear of corn,
in a fresh grown field of barley.
On the outskirts of a pretty village,
which folk called, 'Little Harley'
He spent most days foraging for food,
or else tidying his little home.
A harvest mouse doesn't need a lot,
and he was disinclined to roam.
One day, playing 'dead', in the farmer's field,
he overheard something distressing.
Two men discussing the sale of the land,
which Timothy found quite depressing.
They went on to talk about houses and shops,
and destroying a part of the wood.
He didn't know how, or where, or why,
but Tim thought he must stop it, if he could.",
But what to do? He was only small,
and no one would listen to him.
"I must talk to Owl, he's wise," Tim thought,
and off he went, on a whim.
As he neared the edge of the deep, dark wood,
his folly he started to see,
"This is a bit foolhardy," he thought,
"Owls feed on the likes of me."
"What have we here?" asked a big black Crow,
as in front of Timothy he swooped.
"A tasty morsel, I'll be bound."
As he threw back his head and 'whooped'.
"You don't want to eat me, I'm saving your life!"
Shouted Tim, at the top of his voice.
"Why, you little rat, you've no say in that,
it's not like I'm giving you a choice!"
"Please, listen to me and I'll explain,
let me try to make you understand."
Tim took a breath and the words poured out,
about the farmer and selling the land.
"That's nothing to me." Said the Crow with a strut,
and a blink of his gimlet eye.
"What should I care if he builds on his field?
What's it to me? Pray tell, why?"
More confident now, Timothy spoke,
eloquent and without fear.
"What will you eat when the corn is gone,
and us small animals disappear?"
The Crow's beak opened as if to speak,
when the penny dropped in his head.
"I see what you mean." He mused and strutted,
"We'll all be bloomin' well dead!"
"Exactly,"said Tim, "which is why I'm about.
to enter the deep, dark wood.
To ask Owl for his answer to this thorny problem.
Could you help me, if you'd be so good?"
"I like your spirit," said the Crow,
"and, if what you say is true,
the Owl's the very one to help,
stay here!" And away he flew.
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
Earthdate/starttime: 11/04/19 01:10:26 AM
Earthdate/endtime: 11/04/19 02:55:46 AM
Poetic snapshot regarding immediate
actual, physical, spatial... environment
pertinent, relevant, salient... yours truly
commenced within fleeting electronic
date/time stamp indicated above bereft
attempts to describe character sketch,
whereat I sit within Apartment B44:
taking immediate lock, stock & barrel
ordinary repeated situation witnessing
garden variety *****sapien imbibing
familiar scenario, while spouse sleeps
near proximity, CPAP machine regulates
continuous positive airway pressure
offsetting sleep apnea breathe more so
she can breathe free and clear preventing
airway from collapsing when she inhales.
Nothing particularly spectacular wee hour
this ordinary moment beckoned, challenged
decided... attempt to focus (laser like) sense
and sensibility without pride, nor prejudice
essentially simply worded still life repeated
predictably, & regularity glossed over other
instances finding impetus preying upon pro-
fun ditties, and expansive vocabulary unsure
communicated printed idea understandable
aware some readers disinclined wading thru
thicket (quagmire) of verbiage, hence eureka
experience to corral immediate circumstance
(think Will Rogers' 140th birthday his home
spun extemporaneous anecdotal nuggets.)
Many occasions embarking upon complexity
aspire to elaborate intricate worded webbed
(wide aye bother) complex edifice ambitious
invariably confounding unsuspecting readers
suddenly sinking within quicksand helpless
against salvation, hence painstaking effort
to asseverate downplaying sesquipedalian
rather toning down syllabification sharing
trumpeting, undulating humdrum existence
verily reporting sleeping on floor - courtesy
restless leg syndrome, which affects the mrs.
Marriage basically no match heavenly made,
nonetheless dynamic linkedin travails values
wifely attentiveness to prepare unrecognized
frying object (best described as pop slop), +
she tends other domestic chore, viz washing
soiled clothes nsync of kitchen, whiling away
(think dervish) stoking chaos within invisible
re: nearly infinitesimal speck within Milkyway.
Upon the first date (decades ago) with the gal,
whose troth aye did pledge allegiance to wed
we agreed to dine at an ex-mex eatery
in north Wales, Pennsylvania, where angels feared to tread
carefully scrutinizing bon appétit the menu selection,
a touch of Latin lick QED
all American version sans south of the border cuisine –
Quod Erat Demonstrand – translations spit out in rapid fire Hispanic
by a beady eyed inked kid named Ned
whose couture favored a punkish style
with spiked gelled green hair, piercings galore and
necklace with a genetically modified sizable
entombed glass encased amber ked
which beastly fully intact organism with a miniature grisly bear like head
momentarily hypnotizing me tell nudged out of trance sans this egghead
who make a selection by randomly
landing finger on an item feigning to be well bred
unbeknownst to the arbitrary choice this senior made
within an ample number of mouthfuls
of beans and rice that quelled hunger pangs
mine lower gastrointestinal tract,
felt a bubbling sensation played
though impropriety struggled with gaseous mounting perturbations,
what promised to be hot malodorous, would induce an air raid
from this “wind bag”, whose saving grace divine, when wallet of suede
discover herd visa vis tubby devoid of cash, thus and excuse to beat the tirade
of volcanic eruption found me bolting
out the restaurant door fortunately not waylaid
and madly dashing (like some comet fiery dancer)
performing a cheeky number hopping on one foot than the other –
since forceful blast triggered kidneys to be tapped, thus prancer
two step extemporaneously incorporated while await the ATM to disburse cash
legal tender coveted akin to Cupid sprinkling spell of romancer
while expulsion of noxious fumes from thine sphincter from this hob er dasher
brought relief as aye nonchalantly strolled inside
the cozy diner and slipped into me seat
disinclined to relate vents to future spouse,
the bodily aeration and stream of urine from me magic flute
which amazingly synchronized with the Maximus glute
from consuming food triggering tushy to toot.
Prayers
Make prayers a way of life
My mom would often say
Being a headstrong young girl
Disinclined to obey
Would swiftly turn my back
And hurriedly get away..
A brilliant student with excellent grades
Scored without much struggle
Had a reputation all over
Of being too bright and clever
Sitting for my high school exam
I read the question paper
Seemed too simple to answer
Poised my pen with elan...
Out of the blue
This couldn't be true!
My mind numb my heart sank
The pen froze in my lifeless hand
The earth seemed to give away
My head began to reel and sway
Horror of horrors!!
What a disaster!
I imagined the news
Spreading like wildfire
'Topper draws a blank'
Pushed me deeper in quagmire
It was getting hard to bear
I remained paralyzed with fear
When suddenly moms words
Popped out of nowhere
Prayers yes,prayers
What a solution!
So very clear
I closed my eyes
And went within
With all the courage
I could pour in
Begged the Almighty
For salvation...
Peace descended on my being
Slowly it all came back
The answers I had been seeking
Now lucid on my brain map
Promptly I set forth to write
With a silent prayer on my lips
Thanking the omniscient Supreme
For saving me at a precipitous brink
As the years rolled on
I had my share of grief
Prayers came to my rescue
Offering immeasurable relief.
The sublime connect steadily
empowered my will
My pillar of support it was
In moments of peril
Things and people changed with time
Thoughts fluctuated several times
Be it darkness or sunshine
Ever changeless, The Divine.
Mom's pearls rang in my ears
Pray to live without fear
Pray to get the best of life
Pray for fulfilment of desires
Pray not only for yourself
Pray for mankind's welfare
Now of course I know better
The worthiness of her words
In foul or fair weather
Prayers enrich our world...
Now submitted for Brenda Chiri's contest
Best rhyming poem
Sept1 2017
Earlier submission
New Poem Aug9, 2016
Name of contest
SOMETHING SEEMINGLY INSIGNIFICANT AND UNEXPECTED CHANGED MY LIFE
Not a blemish on your skin,
Not a mark,
Nor even a scratch,
Yet you tempt me,
Resent me,
Prevent me from Playing with my mind,
And agonizing my thoughts,
You ask me to draw,
To write,
To speak out my ideas,
To not be so disinclined to shoot.
My fair lady,
Our friendship is tough,
It is not as simple as love.
But, When we embrace
I forget
And My worries disappear
My thoughts begin to flow.
My heart begins to hear.
Then,
Then there is so much to tell you,
So many tales on my tongue,
So many memories on the run.
So My fair lady,
Why do You say you need more space?
Why do You ask me to find another?
And to continue our conversation with her.
Why do you say that you have had enough?
My fair lady,
Do you think that I bluff?
Look now,
In your presence I wonder
What I can possibly say or do.
I stare at you,
Quietly,
Admiring,
Appreciating,
Devouring,
Ruminating,
And yet silence is not your desire.
No,
Not tonight.
Tonight, You wish for words,
It is evident in your disguised beauty,
It is evident in your pale skin,
It is evident in how you shiver impatiently,
Fluttering as the wind blows,
Shining as the moonlight catches you.
You take a seat on the wooden table outside,
In the balcony,
In the icy air,
And wait for me to accompany you.
So My fair lady,
If that is what you want,
If that is what you need,
Then let me find myself
A pencil,
Or maybe a typewriter,
Let me find myself something
With which I may
tattoo your skin
With the prayers I pray.
Let me find myself something
With which I may
Engrave your side
With letters of Black, White and Grey.
Unless, I finally discard you,
Crumpled,
Wrinkled,
Used,
And yet of no use,
No longer plain,
But feigned,
Disdained
Inane.
Is that your fate?
Is that your fate
Or is it too late?
After all this thought,
After all this time
Will you simply be
A part of the heap
Into which nights have seeped?
Will you simply be
Chucked away?
Just like she was,
A writer's romance of yesterday?
My Katie was here for a while and then gone.
Your face brings her face to mind.
Gazing at deep pools of innocence, I see
a loveliness usually hard to find.
Yet, time, I do need, so as not to compare
two faces, two hearts, in kind.
I want love, love filled of all loves of all time.
Not dry, as becomes the rind.
Spontaneous, deliciously, warm to the taste
love, bred of the subconscious mind.
Yes, bred of the subconscious mind.
It was June when my Katie and I said hello.
I was moved, my feelings defined.
The next June, in the spring of our life we wed,
an experience, one of a kind.
We loved with a love that only lovers know,
many look for, yet never find.
And the love, for this love, continued to grow
‘til we two were only one mind.
Yes, only one subconscious mind.
She gave me a gift, in nine months to the day,
our love now, forever affined.
Instead of dissolving the closer we came,
our hearts, and bodies entwined.
But something happened on that birthing bed.
A tiny seed, exposed, unconfined,
grew, and continued to grow inside and spread,
all, part of life, as it is designed.
And I lost a gift, in nine months to the day,
one gift, for one gift, in kind.
Lost was that gift none can ever replace,
that gift come from the Divine,
a love in the subconscious mind.
Angels wept for joy, for my love and I,
for what we were and had combined.
Each from each to each other and no other,
each in that constant state of mind.
Promises lived and loved in the living.
Promises in the face of death resigned.
Made from the subconscious mind
I implore you deny me your love at this time.
It’s wrong when I am so disinclined.
But in a day, and a day, as I while time away
and become again less undermined.
The subconscious will mend, become whole again—
for surely angels are so divined.
To make room for more love, not throw out the old,
but simply fold the old in behind.
© May 23 2011 For Deb's "jack out of the box" contest
The ghost of Harriet Harris abhor real
disillusioned, disenchanted,
and disembodied (incorporeal
spirit of mine late mother) doth feel
displeasure toward this sole son seal
ling himself most every day inside
the one bedroom flat, a bargain deal
asper costs pegged to monthly
social security disability as sole
income intended to support me,
and the missus, who does not troll
the internet for employment,
and in fact exhibits no goal
to supplement marginal roll,
out sans unearned income, especially now,
(no surprise I wanna be a bachelor)
cuz finances teeter on cusp of red hole
mainly whereby two sizable
automotive costs (within a
six plus month period) sunk me soul,
and psyche on the point
of despair, where goal
to be alive undermined
nearly being penniless
and this communique not aiming to trawl
for sympathy, nor remuneration,
which latter would definitely draw scowl
upon countenance of eldest daughter completes
University study (housed with her eminent beau
within city of brotherly love), awl
so this papa disinclined to apprise her
meager finances put me the dole
drums mainly aforestated a cup pull
of hefty car repairs
spurs impetus to burrow self like a mole
whiling away hours of each twenty four hour
listening...perhaps for me the bell will toll
(at long last mitigating this
deplorable strait no life atoll
where today hard pressed
upon Highland Manor knoll,
and basically undifferentiated from yesterday),
budget restrictions limit choices, hence I stay
inside, where the brutal cold oye vey
also contributes preference
to remain comfortable at
60?Fahrenheit until April or May
solitary (trivial) purrs hoots
occupy time, to allay
writing, reading, meditating,
exercising... staves off ennui
until...these lovely bones turn brittle,
and shock (wave) of brown hair turns gray.
If We Try To Ask Why
It was another plain morning in the mundane business belt
until we felt the day stay still, and we knelt to pray at will.
In the decade since our engrained tranquility was strained,
our prayers have waned, and cooperation was not sustained.
As proof time is trained to be aloof to tears of our grieving,
the babies born to widows, our high schools are now receiving.
And in history books, I fear a new chapter must appear …
Alongside its heavy content, the sheen on serene sheets shall screen
the extent of torment The Event means to they who lament …
Until the day they die, for some, when the autumn sun is high
in the September sky, the past and present run as one:
The scene, never done, repeats; people run; the crowd retreats …
And, where the cloud of carnage meets startled city streets,
the ash painting the panorama underpins
our divine Manhattan skyline mourning her twins …
If we try to ask why, theologians will explain,
when God grants free will, evil may reign, despite its pain.
My theory, one of many but as good as any,
is that the gist of why a sadist’s bloodlust exists
isn’t to be endeared to God, but feared like God.
Some philosophers pry, “Why was the September sky
a nearly perfect hue of select, pastel blue?”
The poets sigh, “… because on this date the land stayed dry
when the cascade of nearby angels refused to cry;
they came to fixate upon the souls they had to elevate,
and through the demure azure, the dead felt peacefully lead …”
If we heed our ancestors’ lead, never letting faith recede,
the wealth of our prayers might impede the stealth of the slayers,
but if we try to ask why, our first task may be to find
ourselves resigned to God sometimes being disinclined
to thwart an evil mastermind within humankind.
E. V. Wyler
If We Try To Ask Why
It was another plain morning in the mundane business belt
until we felt the day stay still, and we knelt to pray at will.
In the decade since our engrained tranquility was strained,
our prayers have waned, and cooperation was not sustained.
As proof time is trained to be aloof to tears of our grieving,
the babies born to widows, our high schools are now receiving.
And in history books, I fear a new chapter must appear …
Alongside its heavy content, the sheen on serene sheets shall screen
the extent of torment The Event means to they who lament …
Until the day they die, for some, when the autumn sun is high
in the September sky, the past and present run as one:
The scene, never done, repeats; people run; the crowd retreats …
And, where the cloud of carnage meets startled city streets,
the ash painting the panorama underpins
our divine Manhattan skyline mourning her twins …
If we try to ask why, theologians will explain,
when God grants free will, evil may reign, despite its pain.
My theory, one of many but as good as any,
is that the gist of why a sadist’s bloodlust exists
isn’t to be endeared to God, but feared like God.
Some philosophers pry, “Why was the September sky
a nearly perfect hue of select, pastel blue?”
The poets sigh, “… because on this date the land stayed dry
when the cascade of nearby angels refused to cry;
they came to fixate upon the souls they had to elevate,
and through the demure azure, the dead felt peacefully lead …”
If we heed our ancestors’ lead, never letting faith recede,
the wealth of our prayers might impede the stealth of the slayers,
but if we try to ask why, our first task may be to find
ourselves resigned to God sometimes being disinclined
to thwart an evil mastermind within humankind.
E. V. Wyler
Sweaty Palms – Chronic Woe Renders...
Po' Whet Tick Dampened Curse = A
Worse Fate Than Death!
...of Google I now know sweaty
palms sports dignified name
known as palmar hyperhidrosis.
Here all along (meaning major
of my roam'n LIX chronological
hash tagged linkedin orbitz), this
plague constitutes bona fide
medical condition. Cold drippy
comfort! Also (minimally) re:
assuring to realize, this generic
guy need not count himself alone
in sopping wet wilderness re:
this plague. Such problematic
health condition impacts, comprises,
and affects one to two percent of
the world’s population. One
Doctor Riesfeld purportedly makes
hand over fist handsome income.
Will power alone seems a dauntlessly
futile endeavor to rid oneself of
disruptive condition. Try as I might
to put lockdown on propensity
for sweat glands (synonymous
with the term eccrine) packed
within sub surfaces of hands, fore
head and feet. As linkedin to
sympathetic nervous system,
the body electric under stress
activates glands. Profuse moisture
dripping like a faulty faucet
severely affected everyday
activities of existence since a
young adult. Frustration to
complete a simple task such
as opening a doorknob, using
the laptop, and even writing
concomitantly associated with
droplets of water soiling green
sleeves to appear near saturated.
Without fail interpersonal ambitions
hi-jacked when wet as dishrag hands
found me disinclined to experience
social rejection. Though sprung
from overactive predisposition to
anxiety, these secretory organs
get exacerbated with dubiously
honorable privilege of being gifted
with panic attacks, offers little
comfort to sill lake consolation.