Long Dogged Poems
Long Dogged Poems. Below are the most popular long Dogged by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dogged poems by poem length and keyword.
After the dreary, dismal cold days of winter,
Bogged down by mounds of snow,
Chicago, the indomitable city,
Dogged by ears-flapping, bone-chilling winds,
Emerges like a blooming flower
Fostering liveliness, sensuality,
Gaiety and grandiose funfair.
Hot, sizzling and sassy summer aside;
Invigorating spring first arrives and
Jogging along the Lakefront trail or
Kicking a soda can down the Magnificent Mile,
Life finally emerges from its winter cocoon.
Mona Lisa smiles and bright eyes fleeting by,
Night life promises a charm of its own with
Outdoor patios where cooing lovers linger,
Pandering to fans of performing arts and swanky music.
Quotidian lives turn into jostling horseplay,
Ravishing beds of fragrant shrubs adorn the sidewalks.
Spring in Chicago is vivaciously volatile,
Temperature, as it rises, so does people's spirits,
Under the shadows of imposing skyline or
Viewing the serpentine Lake Shore Drive up from
Willis Tower's Skydeck, Chicago appears, oh,
Xtra beautiful – A spring's paradise!
Yellow magnolias, richly painted and sweetly fragrant,
Zestfully vying with vibrant clusters of tulips.
~"A Spring Abecedarian" Contest by Shadow Hamilton
~02/19/2015
Outside the city where the pomegranates grow
I vainly seek from the dogged strains of time,
a moment to hide in, under limbs hanging low,
and by chance, or the devil’s cunning, find
courage, as welling seeds inward and bound,
but bleeding, weeping their intoxicating blood;
ever so rarely, under Heaven’s smile found,
possessed by low creatures, a-wallow in mud.
Then in such possession, enveloped so neatly
as roaring winds and biting sands gnash the air;
with confident eyes, focus intently and sweetly
on the blossoms, those blossoms, everywhere.
The whisper of death rustles limbs hanging low
outside the city where the pomegranates grow.
4/30/16
For Contest: First Line Prompt
Hosted by: Julia Ward
Reading Out Loud...
Plus applying index finger as pointer guide
(take that Missus Wells),
who best not take objection, hence let snide
blackboard barbed comment dultifully slide
chalked up and emanating
from gentleman with pride
and prejudice toward third grade teacher,
whose archaic rubric, I no longer abide
when a student at Henry Kline,
he now doth elide
ridiculous bans Boyer Grade School
instituted), who undoubtedly Gracefully yells
from her grave, against these codas long defied
condemned, exorcised, forbidden taboos,
nonetheless tactically helped this pied
piping peter pan, an aging (intellectual baby
boomer bookworm) as his tried
and true knowledge bank account swells
conviction communicating wide
across avast web donning
and/or trumpeting averring,
he always decried
"FAKE" arrogance, conceit, egotism,...
which learning my methodology quells ride
ding high crest of aspiration an aside
to increase cerebral deteriorating multicells,
thus lessening the smarts for suicide
this technique fosters enhanced cognition,
galvanization, pronunciation, et cetera,
whereby vocalizing words,
while ensconced backside
voicing, learning idea
constituting each sentence,
(within figurative nutshells) decide
dutiful dogged diligence involves eyesight,
mandibular interaction
jabbering, sans oral jawbreader divide
aided by vocalization augmentation allows,
enables, and provides groundswells
flowing fun like joyride
with incorporation to hear
nasal twang only downside
syllabification altogether garnering
boost to comprehension outstride
ding learning taking paradigm nationwide.
weighing the total sum of existence
is not a skill which is given to us
lying well beyond realm of human minds
even those of prophets and wunderkinds
requiring eternal omnipotence
along with very dogged fixedness
on the tracking of every single change
within unending universe of strange
perhaps why all the gods are too busy
to notice devotees in a tizzy
over all who will not follow their rules
deride and treat them as self-righteous fools
certainly some will call this blasphemy
which should result in incapacity
removal of the right to live and breathe
to do any ungodly thing I please
while others may react slightly more gentle
needing to indoctrinate this fellow
fill me to the brim with scriptures and verse
before my condition becomes much worse
coming right back to the totality
that driving need to measure all which be
inevitably to count, sift and sort
that which their true religion should abort
keeping it all very crisp, neat and clean
creating an accounting-of-souls dream
I for one have no evil scheme or wish
within the sacrilegious pond to fish
fully content to not bother the gods
measuring of totality and odds
We are winded and on the ropes.
Backwater banjo boys
strum against us,
clouds prey upon our minds.
Bad days for going out
or staying in.
A time to be sleepless
to be dazed by the paltry,
nibbled by dogged uncertainties.
We must live timidly,
bargain for more
expect the unexpected
thrive with less.
Go shopping
in the poorer parts of town,
seek thrifty ways where
the well-heeled fear to tread.
When Cable News
assured us that the sky
was about to flap away
we began to dig deeper
with cheap plastic shovels.
We networked a few viral prayers
sought the company of magpies
while the nigh and near
once more took us all by surprise.
Thank you for walking with me
Through the rugged, ridged road.
Thank you for holding my hand
When I thought I had to walk alone.
Thank you for your kind words
That made my heart at ease.
Thank you for your sympathy
That showed me, that I don’t have to stand on my own.
Thank you for your donations
That made my mothers burial possible.
Thank you for the tributes
That made my spirit glad.
Thank you for the support
That made my mother rest peaceful.
Thank you for the flowers
That made my mother grave side beautiful.
Thank you for the cuddles
That kept my soul from falling apart.
Thank you for the dress code
That made everything bright.
Thank you for the horses
That wore lilac and stood upright.
Thank you for the pallbearers
Dress in black and white.
Thank you for the diggers
That dogged through the night.
Thank you Rowland Brothers
For the staff that was polite.
Thank you all for taking part and making my burden light
Its strangers, friends and family
Like you that made my mom life sunny and bright.
Patricia Garcia Howard Bramble
Dogged In the pursuit of truth
Science writes text with bone dead words
Worse parched than extra dry vermouth
Oft as tasty as rancid curds.
Keeping terms tight as verbal shields
Description is the task of prose,
The draft horse of the science fields,
That ploughs grounds where ignorance grows.
It plants the seeds of truth in rows
Which may produce some bitter yields.
I seek to learn what is real
But much prefer what I can feel.
The sun, I read, moves in ellipse
Joining earth and moon in eclipse.
Dry equations scribe orbits hips
But lack the power of poets’ lips.
I feel things of meaning to me
In robust words of poetry.
Free of parallax’ precision
Of syzygy and equation.
The sun plunges to nightly swim
Bathing deep in a crimson sea
Fringed by cumulous atoll rim
As starry friends gaze silently
Watching through the dark veil of night
Until sun splashes up the dawn
Raising up night’s curtain to light
As friends fade out without a yawn.
Temporary salient sunny solitary sight
does dole divine delight,
asper this dada to imbibe
delicious draught when uptight
fraught, viz sunkist radiant photons
packets of energy with
life giving hefty might
to warm formerly frost bitten cockles,
which secluded niche bracketed by slight
recess, where perpendicular brick walls
converge, forming mini refuge
beckoning tours ruly forthright,
this solitary scribe savored moment
of peace simply lollygagging excite,
hence lawn chair and reading material,
I did not schlep in vain,
cuz the others didst ordain
to succumb, resign,
and quit living sadness quite plain
(reed depressed churly
elderly lonely, utterly bane
residents), each whose private engineer
within their respective uber driver trundled
each individual along nostalgic train
on this pitch perfect in the main
spring day, they nebulously,
melancholically, and lethargically lain
abed flipping remote go'n channel
surfing and fishing, or
time age faded memories raised cane,
now offer bitter cold comfort,
where grievous frostbitten former halcyon salad
days of yore elapsed replaced with mundane
decades analogously pain
full as chilblain
exhibiting feeble gumption to live
dogged effort to die dost drain
ability (to bow out, i.e.
waiting for Godot)
each oldster fragile as porcelain
curmudgeon cast as deadened thespian
while days of their lives issue sad quatrain
rewind/replay within cobwebbed brain,
one despairing luxury of escape
afforded by venturing via imagination
to join deceased family,
where eternal happiness doth never wane.
Truthfully, the question knocked me off my feet
Like I was zapped by the stun gun,
The question is so insipid, so jejune, so naive
so unsavory that I caught myself dumfounded.
How can you ‘become’ a poet?
Can you even become one if you wanted to?
It’s not like you go to the school
to become a chef or a mechanic.
It’s more of a calling,
a dogged pursuit of the muses
You have to have ache in your heart
Passion in your soul, flair in your spirit
and streaks of craziness.
You have to feel the pain of the others
You have to cry their tears
You have to enjoy their joy
You have to celebrate their victory
and mourn their loss;
Neither can you become a poet
Nor can anyone make one out of you…
Either you have it in you or you don’t.
( “If a man comes to the door of poetry untouched by
the madness of the Muses, believing that technique alone will make
him a good poet, he and his sane compositions never reach perfection,
but are utterly eclipsed by the performances of the inspired madman.” ~Socrates)
every March seventeenth, the glint froom
a perverted imp finds me achin'
and if aye dig deep enough,
this Goyish pseudo judo day yo criss chin
can figuratively unearth a puckish
(gnome like) elfish sprite
with a layer ring ga Erin
which byte size (key) ah man able troll
help pan for treasure hunters
plume bing the underworld
with his (aye farm lee bull eve
moost har male) sly grin
stirring thy faux set (head)
feigned Irish with in
new mutter nada trace,
(boot perhaps juiced an iota)
o' Brogue kin
Celtic gene found
within me genealogical tree,
an itty bitty min
newt chromosomal thread,
(which with assistance of Crispr)
i.e., a more discerning Quaker can pin
point how this predominantly
(decrepit ole coot)
Semitic baby boomer tub hoot
(whale hugging
ma gude look four leaf Shamrock)
can locate long buried loot
according to legend
(plus devout avid fervent
Irish Aunt Fib B. Hen
aka Sally Salamander Newt)
doth avail her excitement to help up root
(perhaps revisiting a previously dug oop ditch)
maybe treasure undetected
cuz ova technical,
and/or mechanical glitch
truth to the tantalizing myth
whar hike can hitch
my dreams to a morning star,
that would make a par man rich
and put an end
to mine fingers that hoo twitch
which i roan nick pie rite (of quartz)
alluding to healthy appetite,
sans tea zing alluring
(whet started as byte)
size nar invisible craving,
which fantasy easily didst excite
(necessitating yars true lee) to don robe of foo fight
tar, yet persistent and nagging lust didst light
lore (akin to un hearth thing
pot o' gold at rainbow's end),
cuz hum ma penniless plight
such dogged pursuit, a mirage,
whereat aye drool in plain sight
thus conk clue ding this
hip poe eponymous droning pome
though, tis plenti mo' hie hood write!
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