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.
I’m not on social media
And yet I have a group
Of buddies I have never met;
I know them from the Soup.
We comment on each other’s poems
And through each varied post,
We learn, in dribs and drabs, about
What matters to us most.
My fellow poets span the globe
And one above the rest
Took time each day to let me know
He’d read what I’d expressed.
His repertoire of limericks,
Which no one could resist,
Were funny, often bawdy,
But a day was never missed.
So when I didn’t see a post
From my Hawaiian friend,
I had a sinking feeling
It might signify the end.
Dear Rico, may you rest in peace.
I’ll miss our warm rapport
And your signature Aloha!
Will not greet me anymore.
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
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.
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.
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
Icicles arrested in time freeze over tears cried and abandoned
they shear and fear in torn abandon when solutions have dried
and our mind’s flow screams in silence as a dark crystal night hangs
like daggers from thunderous storms
Once the solar eclipse rewinds and points at the sky there is a tiny
glimpse of the rainbow as drips and drops turn drabs into hope
when sepia seeps out and the soul gathers colour
Beware of the wetlands and cherish the moment
endings are beginnings and time does not stand still
A custom stove was needed for the camp were the show would
be performed. They stacked straw inside six erected fpour by fours
and used chicken wire to hold them in place. A canvas was used
to create a make shift roof the walls were longer on the front and backsides.
shorter in the middle. Two by fours created structure for the canvas
which was laid and stapled a pipe went up and suddenly we had
heat. Breakfeast and Lunch were smokey delicious. When the ladies came
we readjusted our conversations to be both kind and friendly.
Soup poetry ius Poetry Soup backwards
not spelled backwards but backwards
were you to spell it backwards it would
be: Puos Yrtoep. That say's nothing.
Nothing she responded: Nothing he said
as some watched them take nothing
and talk about a whole lotta something.
It was subtitled under "Awesome Things."
We found that the conversation came
about when someone was interested in
creating a large sign that would be attached
to his lorry doing the "Harvest Day Parade".
The grasses of the field
to feed the cattle as they say.
Quite a week for
Parade Lovers
the muses of folk who admire
comedy too will be quenched with
the addition of "THe Clowns Of Wok-Shire"
the muses mind you as they are humorous!
And to the "Drabs of Murphy" who shall
perform "Poetry and Song": lounge Musik
a style unapproached. As you were my Darlings
we have alot of work to do! They applauded her
as she left the building. Reappearing the
"assignment sheet is on the board!" Love to you all!
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