Long Dismally Poems
Long Dismally Poems. Below are the most popular long Dismally by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dismally poems by poem length and keyword.
Written: September 19, 2023
Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age. James Joyce
Fragmented Verse: is a rhyme form created by Constance la France
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As days fade, dimming their hissing light.
A whisper among aspens is overheard.
Perishable eyes blink—ephemeral and slight.
Angels framed a scarlet sky—tempers blurred.
Dawn's advent is tomorrow's embrace.
The transient is thawing, leaving no trace.
As time expands, a void of silence will brace.
Akin to a puddle that sinks with the dawn dew.
But bewitchery bleach, bolt broad bias blue?
Paths that diverge fade away as ripples in view.
Every day, it fades quickly but remains in sight.
Fade, sporadic, and shallow as a stroll preferred.
The unstoppable specter of time is in the face.
Love and unity shape life, not time spent anew.
Ebullient ecstasy cascades in the rolling valley of time,
changes tenor with the reflection of the chromatic sky
on the parchment of delightful dawn and dulcet dusk.
On the sensuous cerulean canvas the emotive artist
paints the poignant panorama of the unseen dreams,
perceiving the lively spirit of self-ignored design unshaped.
Life then weaves the lilting lattice of vibrant euphoria.
The miasma of surreal trance envelops in perception
the dreams wafting from the obscurity of nowhere
in the furrows within sands of time, past and future.
With the multicolored strands of possessive passion
the mystique mind conditions the shifting sense of belief,
shrouding everything that seems dismally distant.
Life then loses the outline of faith in the abyss of emotion.
In the entity river flowing to the seamless sea of eternity,
the mariner mind sails free on the waves of rapture,
passing past the debris of the denuded wasteland banks,
across the broken bridges crumbling behind,
to be in the bay of bliss gleamed by the self-lit twilight,
suspended on the tinged fringe of the sunset horizon.
Life is then the luminous essence of identity called beauty.
We see ourselves unimpeded initially
Some are stricken with a view artificially
We are told by others very specifically
There is a ceiling so proceed timidly
We try in vain with no support futilely
As we age blazing the path dizzily
Sometimes we see the results dismally
Eventually we learn to climb skillfully
We began to achieve sufficiently
Eventually finding success brilliantly
Living life with dreams so vividly
Sadly, a haunting voice still speaks flippantly
Reminding us of the ceiling frigidly
We remain in the arena mistily
Each overcautious step taken judicially
We endure the voice shouting viciously
The battle to continue is done willfully
Spring necked victim
Will be decked again
For pure amusement
Of fast pummelling fists
Layered bruise symptoms
Display punching bag pain
No retaliation movement
While heavy assault persists
Swung away, come back
For more of life's abuse
Copping it on the chin
Brings rhythm of survival
Waiting for following whack
Knuckle impact profuse
Tenderised gums begin
To resettle sidewards
Jutted out awkwardly
Jaw a crooked angle
Punished and punched up
Laughs with sinister taint
Prospect guaged morbidly
From unwieldy wrangle
Sippping from near empty cup
Limping with wounded gait
Fractured face suffers
Receipt of endless blows
Dislodged red teeth spat
Are metallic meant to be
True opinions muffled
Turn other cheek advice goes
Superbly for great diplomat
- For irate me, dismally
7th October 2020
'Take It On The Chin'
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
I
Hear the bouncing of the balls--
Basketballs!
What a sound of merriment they cause when each ball falls!
How they echo, echo, echo,
Inside the gymnasium walls,
Arriving at a crescendo
While the spectators shout “Bravo!”
Drowning the referee’s calls;
And the players start
To make their last dart
Amidst the reverberation ricocheting off the stalls
From the balls, balls, balls, balls,
Balls, balls, balls--
From the bouncing and the dribbling of the balls.
II
Hear the ticking of the balls,
Ping-pong balls!
What a soft and easy sound comes from their bounce and rolls!
In the crowded room that’s bright
How they fill it with delight!
Like the ticking of a clock,
Steady but fast,
Or the picking of a lock,
What tune they make with their ceaseless tick-tock,
Until at last--
Oh, what a miss that appalls
The audience that has remained speechless in the halls
How it falls!
How it scrolls!
And the erring player rolls
His fists at his own pitfalls
By the swinging and his missing
To hit the balls, balls, balls
The balls, balls, balls, balls,
Balls, balls, balls--
To hit the light and small and saffron ping-pong balls!
III
Hear the loud thud of the balls--
Volleyballs!
What feeling of suspense is caused by their great falls!
Across the nets stretched tight
How they gracefully take flight!
The watchers anticipating,
Who would win they keep waiting,
Breathlessly.
Until the umpire from his platform blows a long shrill whistle,
And the balls drop on the ground like useless heads of missile.
Then tempers start to bristle
In the air there is a rustle
From both player and spectator
To win the set or never
Hold the trophy covetously.
Oh, the balls, balls, balls--
"Pick them up!" the umpire bawls.
Once again
The balls are hit, tossed, and passed
And the game goes on full blast
While the players on each side dare not complain
Yet the audience fully knows
By the spiking
And the digging
How the game would sooner close.
Who would be covered in palls
Suffer beating,
‘Cause of losing,
And forced to receive catcalls
For dismally failing to score and keep afloat the balls,
The volleyballs--
The volleyballs, balls, balls, balls,
Balls, balls, balls--
In the scrambling and the spiking of the balls!
March 18, 2023
"A rose thorn pricked my finger as I laid it on the grave.
Tears mingled with blood, staining my love's headstone."
~ quote by poet
I often write of tragedies and woes that darken life
Those tenebrous times that cause sorrow and strife
They bring heartache and grief of their own accord
I brandish them with words as if my pen is a sword
Ink spots drip with my tears upon parchment pages
Bloodstained splotches I pay to life as costly wages
My sonnets should tell of love and sweet romance
but no one dear to me is left to hold in a dance
I often wake in the night from dreams of the past
in the hour of gloaming when shadows are cast
and feel I'm drowning in a river, caught in a flood
where the current flows red, stained from blood
I've felt life leaving my body when I wanted to die
On bloodstained sheets, my soul prepared to fly
From emotional wounds I bled, and I blame villainy,
the cruel fate that took my loved ones so dismally.
January 30, 2023
Writing Challenge - B Word Contest
Sponsored by Constance la France
Moonlight creeps through the writhing woodland as
Arion walks alongside me—upward toward the lone mountain.
We had trekked for miles and the way was wearisome,
heavy fog in its obscuring fidelity stalking our every step.
Winds shrieked around us like dissonant flutes—
high pitched, fortissimo screams that died in
and died out dismally.
They reminded me of my own undulating doubts
manifesting into fits of malignant mess—
but the steady sound of our unified steps
soothed my panicking heart—tears flower
my eyes, dropping like dew.
Soon—as many storms do—
the winds died away along with my fears.
That is when the mockingbird
began to stridently trill in the distance,
its venting variations vaguely familiar.
Arion and I stopped in a flat clearing, stunned by its clarity,
listening intently to her songs.
Timelessness touched the forest
as melodies touched our hearts.
When her trills ceased, I first witnessed
the tears of my loyal companion.
Somehow, they made him younger and freer.
Excitement sprouted from his eyes
like wildflowers witnessing their first dawn.
He wiped the tears away with his sleeve
and beamed like a sunrise.
“For just one moment—one moment,
she sounded like my mother,” he stammered.
I grasped his hands and held them to my heart.
Arion looked up to the sky, above the circle of trees,
as if he recognized a face in the midnight expanse.
We made a camp and settled silently in the clearing.
The last thing we remember before closing our eyes
was the overhead flutter of shadowed wings
and a gentle sigh beyond the pines.
(note: this is the third part of an epic about Arion I shared a while ago. The first and second pieces are “Little Glistening Salmon” and “Ocarina Steps”)
Ebullient ecstasy cascades carefree
in the winding valley of the teeming time,
changes the tenuous tenor with the reflection
of the chromatic sky in the overflowing palette,
painting the proclivity parchment
with the hues of delighted dawn and dulcet dusk.
On the sensuous convivial canvas of unification,
the emotive artist draws converging contours,
paints the poignant panorama of sensitivity,
where the diverse psychic elements mingle,
perceiving the vibrant essence so long ignored.
Life then turns into the epitome of euphoria.
The mystique miasma of transcendent trance
envelops within the innate mental mantle
the merging perceptions of righteousness,
the contrasting cascade of intuitive persona,
passing through the changing channels carved
in the shifting sands of the stimulating time.
With the multicolored sensory strands
of the possessive passion pervasive,
the mesmerized mind intertwines introspectively
the frail filaments of faith to form
the mental motif shrouding things dismally distant.
Life then turns into the essence of emotion.
As the anastomosing river flows fervent
with the dislodged sediments of the denuded banks,
meets the seamless sea in the timeless terrain,
the mariner mind sails benign with the flow of rapture,
deposits the debris of the wrecked wasteland.
Life then turns into the confluence of consciousness.
I scry through time with a crystal sphere
Asking of it my future, both far and near
Yet, the images I see were dismally unclear
(It should go without saying that I am not a seer)
I saw a black dog and it's rather cute
It doesn't bark though, perhaps it's mute?
Its silky coat shines like freshly ironed suit
Is it time to do the laundry? I do not compute
Then I saw an owl flying over my house
That's great! I hope it'd prey on the mouse
Who invaded my dresser and chewed on a blouse
The most expensive one too, that dreadful louse!
It then displayed my room, and zoomed in on my bed
Where someone had left on the pillow an old, felt hat
I tap on the hard dome, starting to get mad
Couldn't it bring a sign that can be more easily read?
Finally, it shattered, the infernal ball
I've been scammed! It couldn’t see the future after all
We gasp as our hostess enters the garden.
All of us women wearing glorious colors, trying for attention.
She has, of course, worn the ultimate dress
Which instantly brings lilies and carnations to fruition.
We ordinary simpletons are dressed like rainbows
Dismally paling against marigolds and roses
Which also sense that an angel has entered the arena
Our oranges, pinks and reds are not contenders for attention now.
She has sauntered in as if straight from heaven’s gates.
She is glistening without trying; her caramel skin is popping.
Her brown eyes are exceptional, and her white dress virginal.
Reminding Lily of the Valley she is queen of the garden.
The rest of us fade away amongst flowers that smirk.
No contenders for attention or conversation.
A garden party for forty, where all eyes stray to one.
She is the bride; we are mere spectators.