Long Dispense with Poems
Long Dispense with Poems. Below are the most popular long Dispense with by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dispense with poems by poem length and keyword.
When lightning strikes post thunderclap
stout, sturdy, stems do sometimes snap.
Fires are kindled in a flash
turning things we treasure to ash.
From high above mountains and hills
lightning strikes men and maims or kills.
That’s when our gut grim grief doth grip
and chafe our soul as with a whip.
When death like lightning strikes a soul
sorrow and sobbing take their toll.
Mere mortals some their Maker curse
while others Job-like faith do nurse.
When sorrow and strife stalk your soul
let not your mind sink to Sheol.
Look up instead to God above
And let Him heal your heart with love.
The choice you make can build or break
your trust in God, so, stay awake.
Your enemy lurks like a snake
to tempt your God to forsake.
When like just Job your faith is tried
Humble yourself, dispense with pride.
Trust God, and with firm faith abide,
let His promises be your guide.
Pervasive personal questions people ask,
shredding to shards what truly is me.
The pieces are of no use to them though,
the effort seems at times
to stem from veiled spite,
incisive curiosity or even subtle affront.
I forcefully flinch to introspect,
ask myself why I’m under their prying lens,
and don’t answer.
Caustic comments people often make
on the manner I behave,
that seems strange to them,
or on the way I do or don’t do things,
that seldom matches theirs.
I don’t try to explain,
these are innate traits I am born with,
discarding or changing which for their sake,
or walk on their footsteps would be
to dispense with a vital part of my persona,
to exist as a facsimile entity of no individuality.
So, I don’t react.
If at times some people are good to me,
I can’t express articulately enough
the feeling of hearty appreciation,
for that action may appear a manifestation overdone,
deceptively laden with pretentious display of gratitude,
which in essence screens the implicit expectation
that the good done is what is deserved and due.
When this trait is criticized as intended insensitivity,
a part of me, inherently obliged though,
is tortured to plaintive and painful despondency.
I can’t endure the undeserving denigration,
for it aims to maim part of my bruised psyche,
I can’t rejuvenate, for it does no longer respond
for me to demonstrate.
People brand me quirky.
Surely, I’m so
with my strong sense of self-identity.
Travelling on the divergent path I paved,
I tell nonconformist me, reassured,
Shikata Ga Nai.
Pray masquerading hidden beauty,
Sweet innocent Princess Cinderella
She of midnight pumpkin slipper glass
For whom the ball bell's
Be spared your humble prince his
blushes of asking for your hand
and pleasure of your company
And so to please accompany me into the
banquet hall for the remainder on this
most auspicious summer evening
His Majesty quite inexorably is taken
with your strength and presence as yee
his confidence you have shaken
And he wishes to if nothing else discover
the name of said fair maiden woven into
that bespoken silken dress that grace
herself doth silhouette such blinding figure
of the number eight
If this be my kingdom i am over which to
reign then surely i duty bound as said king
should wish the fairest princess in all the lands
under my domain to take and marry as my Queen
and mother bare she and i a rightful heir to follow
the line of succession
For if the price of royal cross to bare is
duty before self then let me please this 1
concession have
Let me please for marry love and get to
choose she that which doth my heart desires
with a wanten passion worthy of an endearing
romantic fairytale ending where the protagonists
end up growing old together gracefully
So come the when the clock after
the bewitching hour of midnight 12 o'clock
strike shall you not be with a but slipper
left to seek you out once more
Rather we dispense with pleasantries and be not another
further single we a second lost just incase
either of you and i be in both in a state of
wistful dreaming
Only to be told my unconscious subliminal Julliet
was in reality to be in fact an unassuming passing
stranger terminal cancer patient who choose to spend her final moments reading
Shakespeare's Romeo and Julliet to me whilst i was
in my coma
So when in fact or if indeed eventually i was to
awake the time i lost could be permeated
by an empathetic soul by the voice of
an angel
Falling victim only to be branded with the mark by one of life's cruelest of intentions better to have loved
and lost than never to have loved at all
It’s time, by now, we did away with nations.
I tell you, hand on heart beneath the flag,
This jingo jag has now become a drag.
Those puerile patriotic palpitations
had meaning only when we lived in tribes.
Today our people mix and mingle freely –
so can’t we now dispense with Horace Greeley,
and wetbacks, wops and wogs, and all those jibes?
Since nations never have a sense of humour,
it’s little wonder why we have these wars.
We need a change of heart. Embrace the cause:
don’t split us into gooks or spooks or squaws,
or hicks or micks or spicks, or baby-boomers.
One nation under God, we’re all consumers.
January 24th, 2023 Hair washing heralds huge happening
Hark….the herald angels sing, and twitter
for mass communication
mediums stop the presses
when I, a regular schlemiel
take shampoo to mine matted mass mop
(no less than once a week)
of straggly follicles, and commence
to dispense with the heady eco system
viz rare crop of flora and fauna
(some rank as endangered species)
rub and band together
to scratch envy of
flaky key neigh bring ponytails
and create quite an niche,
and where also can be found
lousy knit wit vendors ready to scalp
and give shaft to razor sharp purveyors,
who mane lee scout out available
head and shoulder room to nap
without a stir, tub bed down
(praying Holy Scott no wash out
nor Harris mint occurs),
or burrow vis a vis,
where subcutaneous porous droplet size
watership down pieces
of prime residence found
counting one mister comb lee
bald bold faced realtor
amidst competing rival
bulb buss Edward scissorhands
(with knot to heavy a price toupee)
affianced to rapunzel,
whom he sheared split ends
as her barber of civil,
one dapper dander ruff dude to offer
lice cent shuss insects a tonsured
cut above other stylish habitués
preferring to fraternize,
glad-hand, and hobnob
amidst a cluster of big wigs
housed by yours truly - Samson
in gleaming puffy pompadour
pads tightly secured
with the best dreadlocks,
which harum-scarum
green barrettes serve
as first line of rinse able defense
IdentityGuard (with franchisee
Bob O Link averse to split hairs, but fierce
as a Mohawk and ring leader
to protect any curl of mine)
waving away intruders,
who if insist tubby persistent
and tangle with fate
cannot expect camaraderie
from buzz cutting crew i.e. the fuzz
to give expletive filled lathering,
severe shame poo wing subjugation
plus an up braiding experience),
and teach stragglers
they will suffer
a real perm in hint bang up job
if they brazenly brush
against brylcreem of the crop
rooted as rightful heirs
(hairs) of tousled doo mane,
thus concludes my tail.
Postscript: Yours truly
an aging long haired
seventh generation pencil neck geek
finds ultra joy when
volunteering for kitchen duty,
hence imagine the hypothetical picture
portraying Geico caveman
mimicking pseudo dawn of humanity.
Transistors fizz
Electrons bustle
As robots claim
The daily hustle
The hinges creak
The oil of words
Is missing from
The mindless herds
They oft parade
With heads bowed low
Quite frankly,
Nowhere else to go
As hooked in tasks
In ruts with traction
Replace the normal
Human faction
Robots make robots
Or so I'm told
They replicate
The lies they're sold
Perpetuating
All that manic
In ways that seem
Somewhat satanic
The robot wars
Are not to fear
Just realise that they
Are here
Dispense with screen
Release your mind
In un-robotic ways
You'll find
The beauty of
The world around
When eyes you lift
Will soon be found;
Through trees and rain
Bare feet on grass
A world machines
Can ne'er surpass
The pores of life
Should breathe it in
Beguiled no more
By wars of tin.
I don’t answer
Intensely personal questions people ask
For these shreds to pieces what is truly me
The pieces are of no use to them though.
The effort seems to stem from veiled envy
Incisive curiosity or even subtle insult.
I am forced to uncover and introspect
Ask myself why I’m under the prying lens
For my life’s energy dissipates reorganizing
The dislodged pieces in place once again.
I don’t react
When caustic comments people make
On the manner I behave seems odd to them
Or on the way I do or don’t do things
For them when they ask or even for myself
For these are innate traits I am born with
Discarding or changing which for their sake
Or walk on their footsteps they set would be
To dispense with a vital part of my psyche
And to exist as a void entity of no identity.
I don’t demonstrate
The feeling of appreciation articulately enough
If people do something good to me sometimes
For that action appears an expression overdone
Deceptively laden with fake display of gratitude
Which in essence hides the tacit expectation
That the good done is what is deserved and due.
When for this trait people criticize my insensitivity
A part of my mind inherently obliged though
Is tortured to premature and painful demise
I can’t endure for I don’t deserve the treatment
And they aim to maim part of my bruised persona
I can’t rejuvenate for it does no longer respond.
People say
I have gone or going mad.
I tell them, yes, I’m quirky
If self-preservation makes one so.
That’s why I am alive still
As a mad man at my will.
I say to me
So let it be.
February 6, 2018.
It’s time, by now, we did away with nations.
I tell you, hand on heart beneath the flag,
This jingo jag has now become a drag.
Those puerile patriotic palpitations
had meaning only when we lived in tribes.
Today our people mix and mingle freely –
so can’t we now dispense with Horace Greeley,
and wetbacks, wops and wogs, and all those jibes?
Since nations never have a sense of humour,
it’s little wonder why we have these wars.
We need a change of heart. Embrace the cause:
don’t split us into gooks or spooks or squaws,
or hicks or micks or spicks, or baby-boomers.
One nation under God, we’re all consumers.
Halloween night is supposed to be scary
Peopled by spooks and goblins, most of them hairy
But where I come from it's quite festive and merry
Sugarplums dancing, accompanied by faeries
Then there's the time-honored custom of trick-or-treating
'Course, as any trick-or-treater will tell you, it's all in the eating
But where I'm from we dispense with the preliminaries
Just one thing on our itinerary -- confectioneries
Now as to the matter of witches on broomsticks, cackling high overhead
And the spirits and ghosts that allegedly rise up from the dead
We don't subcribe to that spooky nonsense
What we do is burn incense and sniff frankincense
Not to leave out the garish jack-o-lanterns' macabre grins
The eerie haunted houses with their swinging skeletons
Sorry to disappoint you, but we simply dispense with that stuff
~ In our nudist colony, where tradition's remade in the buff
October 23, 2018
Hello Friends... I suffer from Severe Bi-Polar Disorder and this submission was inspired by
actual events that occured during one of my especially critical manic episodes. Be sure and
read Part 1 first so as to get the true gist of the poem and leave your comments here on the
Part 2 submission. Thank you for allowing me to share my pain for pain shared is pain
diminished.
Me, Myself, and I... (continued)
“Your, (Or “Our”), symptoms seem to intermit
And the fact that “You’re,” (“We’re”), a hypocrite
Tis no wonder we’re having such problems with diagnosis”
Then “I” had an idea so grand
To dispense with this at my own hand
A self-inflicted coup de grace would be my prognosis
So while the “Me” and the “Myself” squabbled
With courage newly cobbled
“I” spotted the dresser drawer and made my run
With fingers fiercely fumbling
Whilst they continued grumbling
“I” produced from the depths of the drawer a shiny gun
And now my life, though ill-fated
Was soon to be vindicated
This would affect us all equally the same
Would be no myself or me
No you, him, us, or we
But an inclusive all would be to blame
It took me a moment to figure
Out the safety on the trigger
Then “I,” (or “Us”), prepared to do the dirty deed
Then the barrel found my temple
And as it settled into the dimple
A still small voice did my “selves” choose to heed
Hence a moment of clarity
Harkened me to posterity
And I thought what a legacy to leave behind
“Can’t we all find a way
To save this miserable day
And avoid a broken body for someone to find”
And then deep within my soul
I felt and heard a simple drum roll
And the differing sides of me just subsided
And with my mind now as one
I worked to get this all undone
The whole business of this stuff I derided
And tis now true of fact
That I survived this ordeal intact
And lived to raise my face unto the sky
And here now as it ends
I find I’ve made good friends
With the “Me”, the “Myself,” and the “I”
Thank you for taking the time to share in my poetry. Please feel free to leave your thoughts
or comments here on this page.
J. Scott Burns...