Long Drabs Poems
Long Drabs Poems. Below are the most popular long Drabs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Drabs poems by poem length and keyword.
In dribs and drabs, in fits and starts,
the elders slowly congregate;
in the common room of the seniors' home,
they patiently sit and wait.
Some are wheeled in, some simply shuffle
in orderly fashion, without kerfuffle.
They've all been told
there's "gonna be a show"
put off by some "young people"
who (chances are) they don't know.
Many are quite alert and very aware
delighted to be together
and to have an experience to share.
Others come in a different mental state,
in their own little worlds,
seemingly uncerebral
yet dignified, quiet, sedate.
The entertainers have already arrived, in fact,
and as soon as the seniors come in
they start to interact,
exchanging pleasantries with hellos,
how-do-you-dos and "what're-ya-ats!";
smiles and handshakes easily given
with banter and casual chit-chat.
The nurses and attendants smile,
noting the connectivity,
and across the room faces brighten
at the growing sense of fun and festivity.
A happy mood pervades the place
as the singers smile and sing;
their voices effortlessly fill the air,
easy, relaxed, warm, soothing.
Lots of "old" songs are played and sung:
"Country Roads", "Danny Boy",
"Kiss an Angel Good Morning".
"If you know the words, please sing along!"
and so many of them do, with voices soft or strong.
But what sets this show apart
is the interaction
between singers and seniors;
their reaction and sense of satisfaction
of a diversion from the mundane,
a vivid and vibrant distraction.
And those with minds in altered states
are aroused from their lethargy,
hearing the music and sensing joy,
perhaps remembering when they felt such ecstasy.
Often, the singers will reach out to touch and hold a hand.
Elderly eyes light up and smiles show they understand.
A few of the more able-bodied are invited to dance,
a reminder of the long-ago days of youth and romance.
After an hour or so, the concert reaches its conclusion
with applause and cheers, compliments said in profusion.
The Sunshine Singers are pleased with a job well done.
The seniors and staff feel delight and satisfaction;
and everyone is enveloped in a warm glow:
the simple joy that comes from human connection.
Ofttimes yours truly assiduously tries to adlib,
but blubbers like a landlubber
at sea treading water donned with bib
(that doubles as yellow
spongy bobbing life jacket)
furiously doing doggy paddle
riding the next tidal wave
hoop fully washing me ashore to crib
if need be to dig an underwater channel
painstakingly slow drabs and drib.
The English language I simply adore
though offtimes methinks waxing eloquent
affects listeners as yours truly a bore
in record time flapping waxed lips
beholds one gordian
tongue tied knot major chore,
whereby I wanna bolt out figurative door
feeling deplorable and stuck
analogous to Eeyore.
Ache 'n to launch into a monologue
or chime into ongoing dialogue
me noggin off times generates brain fog
mental state mimicking one,
who quaffed an over abundance of grog,
which for this teetotaler would constitute
a mere thimble full of drink,
perhaps rum enhanced eggnog
just one sip and boing I go
topsy turvy as if a felled log
hit me over the head
rendering me unconscious.
Thus wood explain mine altered state
though unsightly gash on pate
battle scar leveled playing field
with the missus, 't other significant primate
supplementing and complementing
one aging long haired
pencil (vane ya) necked geek
being caged, yet free
to roam within human zoo
both, (née all) of us captive
on carousel of time
nsync with every other *****sapien
begot to participate in circle game.
All superfluous joking aside,
I strive to groom conversation,
whereby uninterrupted flow of words
(versus fumfering, hemming, hawing,
stammering, stuttering...), thine
general oral feedback paradigmatic guide
ever diligent to think
before I speak with pride
else I heep discourtesy
upon myself and chide
yours truly with harsh rebukes,
which maybe tantamount
going off the mountainside
plummeting into the abyss
engenders an unpleasant
metaphoric roller coaster ride,
and if crash test dummy doth survive -
upon gibbet he will be tried
punishment broadcast world wide
for flagrant horrendous verbal
egregiousness (waywardness) he belied.
Stands a beautiful tree firmly with its gracious branches and boughs
On a bank of a running or on an edge of round pond
May be it is on the skirt of triangular lake
Natural or artificial
Or it is in the middle of an esplanade
It can grow anywhere,
In the moon or in your orchard
The place where it will grow is none of your business
Just see its beauty and show thankfulness
Feel its usefulness and express gratitude
But here it is not my job to describe the charms of a tree
Neither is it to make you understand how to appreciate delicacy or loveliness
As other poets delightfully do in their handsome and alluring drabs
That duty I left gladly long before for idiots
As I got another work of other kinds
Another responsibility, another task of other types
To split the beans and peel the skins
To smooth the bones and puncture the balloon
Wherever I find stupidity, nonsense and bloody foolishness
In the middle of telling you these serious issues
I see a spectacle of a donkey
Near the valley among the green leaves
In their words, in between their lips
At the tip of their tongues, at depth of your throats
And below in the meadow in the bushes of shrubs and grasses
A circus is run by the jokers and baboons
The promoters and the patrons of the parade try hard
To catch my precipitated attention and perpetuated concentration
Baffled I remain and look at the sky before taking a sigh
I decided not to give favourable response as wise men know
This is neither my kind of monkey nor is this my kind of show.
Small rolling hills, valley plots,
nothing regimented,
graves not scattered, but placed
among natural features.
It’s beautiful here
especially in the Fall.
The Maples are tall and burning bright.
There are new graves among the old.
I thank all of them
for being here before me.
Not that I could afford
to be planted here. Even the Maples
are too rich for my death.
No, I will be ashes
thrown
into the Ohio river.
I imagine the fishes will be pleased
to see me,
the abandoned truck tires
easily accommodating my
swirling dust.
If the shore weeds and cattails catch me,
then I will linger until their own death
releases my essence once more.
Down the slow waters,
in chewed, dribbles and drabs will I go
until I seep within a slick of mud,
just spice for mites and grubs
into the Mississippi.
Days bleed their green entrails into
the empty hulks of passing years.
A future, nourished by the ear bones
of all beings who listened, and once heard,
of the everlasting
opens up into a perfect unison.
I reappear transformed
by generations of sprouting dreams
into a Maple seed.
A seed now planted in these same
pleasant Autumnal acres.
Here, I will grow tall and beautiful;
as a many limbed arboreal fire.
Curious ghosts in their mausoleums
will spy into the Fall daylight
to watch my leaves, turn, and grow bright –
so flame red, so burning bright.
Rushing through each day, as if I had not a care,
head long toward the sun screaming, "catch me if you dare."
Dripping drabs of liquid sunshine burn my deft eye.
While seeking answers to the question, why, why! Why?
Into the sun I run, my skin so hot and dry,
as the dusky penciled pastels of twilight smear.
Through tight clinched lids the sun glares, blind I'll be I fear,
always grasping for truth, but my head just can't clear
my thoughts on the tautly stretched canvas of my mind.
Race and run and fill my lungs, still I fall behind
playing catch with the sun, and all I seem to find,
I'm racing toward the horizon of tomorrow.
Please, one more chance, for a moment I can borrow,
but blithe sun denies me, leaving me in sorrow,
while in the distance the light slowly fades to dark.
Truth or naught, who can say, the end is cold and stark
the meaning is lost in life's fading rainbow arc,
enveloping me in my sadness and despair.
Dripping drabs of liquid sunshine burn my deft eye
as the dusky penciled pastels of twilight smear
my thoughts on the tautly stretched canvas of my mind.
I'm racing toward the horizon of tomorrow
while in the distance the light slowly fades to dark
enveloping me in my sadness and despair.
07/29/16
Born To Bleed Onto Eager Page, What Fate Has This Life Decreed
Born bloodied poet, writing of Life, Love, Truth and Hurting
pain, when words come by bits and drabs, instead of by spurting
Nights of heaven watching, earth's canopy of sweeping skies
days with ink and pen toiling, oft 'til soul lets out its cries!
Born to harvest delicious fruits, from bountiful verse trees
inking in realms, devoid of life's worries and ghastly fees
Weighing words for balance and rhymes by their resplendent scores
Homer, Keats, Poe and others calling from paradise shores!
Born to bleed on eager page, what Fate has this life decreed
living while from open veins write, as a true poet bleeds
Cherished, this that oft in sorrow is thought to be a curse
pleading poetry's return, as its absence pains far worse!
Born bloodied poet, writing of Life, Love, Truth and Hurting
pain, when words come by bits and drabs, instead of by spurting
Nights of heaven watching, earth's canopy of sweeping skies
days with ink and pen toiling, oft 'til soul lets out its cries!
Robert J. Lindley, 6-03-2020
Rhyme, ( Writing Where This Poetic Heart Leads )
Syllables Per Line:14 14 14 14 0 14 14 14 14 0 14 14 14 14 0 14 14 14 14
Total # Syllables::224
Total # Words::::::170
QUANDARY
They said the deserts empty.
They said that space is too.
They said you’d go for many miles
and find there’s nothing new.
We said there’s life on moons.
We said there’s life on mars!
Yet nothing found we, deep in space,
nor in between the stars.
They sought for tiny creatures,
too small for their own eyes.
They sought minutes,
in microscopes or LHC, for ties.
We gave a name to quarks,
and to particles that spin!
We gave the names to each
new one, as we collided them.
They jettisoned in spacesuits,
and in deep diving suits in seas.
They jettisoned in obvious spots,
to what’s hidden in deep freeze.
The finite became the infinite,
the infinite, finite!
We found substance in the emptiness
and the emptiness outright.
The something found is all at once.
There’s something there and here.
There’s subatomic bits and drabs,
and a chunky biosphere.
Who said there’s lots of nothing there!
What said there’s nothing here?
The space between the molecules,
proves nothing’s everywhere.
Yet looking far away up close
and close from far away...
There’s elegance and substance
in, all that we survey.
-Edlynn Nau
© May 12, 2018
I slip into a circle
Or a circle becomes my surrounding
With certainty i can’t tell you
Now I feel the avoidance
The criminal negligence
And the cruel apathy
From the vibrant neighbours
Eating, sleeping and hoarding
Laughing at the cost of dignity
To tell spade a spade
Against the piece of drabs
And inspire someone
Striving for the best
They all are brave enough
To nourish the sycophant
But too coward to face this fool
Hammering on with words
Their inborn follies
Being a narrow minded
On caste, religion and race
They behave like they are
On the tip of an apex
But they are really small
Like a speck of cloud
Floating in the lap of
Vastness of endless space
Yet they feel proud of
For their being born
In a house where
Only meanness grows
For the blood they carry
In their swollen veins
Though it is not blue
Yet they go arrogant
With stubbornness of a mule
With mulishness of a wild goat
They will reach nowhere
Whereas I will rise
Like the sparing smoke
As I know to burn myself
Alone in the fire
In the hearth of all indifference.
Aerial dribs and drabs, a sidewalk canvas
As a toddler chases bubbles her mother blows
from confectionary soap,
Fluttering fluidity in spring air
Child's laugh, a mosaic of innocence, discovery and glee
Her run after each globe, unsteady, twisted gravity
Her footwork shifts in warfare wobble, no sinkhole falling
Her reach to pop each bubble, circus kerfuffle, giddy,
giggles that swing like a trapeze artist,
while a mother retrieves
unexpected memory
shards of recovery
that coat a guarded self
Neverland jester, a child's guileless glow,
routing air baubles
unconstrained by space,
untethered from fear,
avoiding a fall off the planet
to limited mobility
For sometimes life's march
doesn't start on time
Poem revised: April 19, 2021
Sobriety
to reclaim momentum like a thrown fast ball
to get beyond the confinement of a booze-haze
when beer came before bread
an escape from one's self
submerged under foam
free from the bottle
no longer on the edge of living with bits and drabs of rot
a colorful landscape that re-boots resilience
tapestry hues
that sheath images, glowing
recovering a lost sense of time
brought into focus
the resolve: to weave a new reality of self
narrative change
clear eyes that sweep the world clean
newly knitted to others
a tapestry
no longer threadbare
no sense of unraveling
no more screaming at the stars
the surprising clarity of giant strides
a renewal
rising
Composed: November 8th, 2021