Long Enfeebled Poems
Long Enfeebled Poems. Below are the most popular long Enfeebled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Enfeebled poems by poem length and keyword.
The sadness of getting lonely, weary and old
is none other than the anguishing thought,
we can't avoid feeling or mentioning at all cost;
daily unrest triggers the awful death word!
Will all frighten when that time comes?
Shutting windows to shelter ourselves
from an imaginable cold worsens existence;
it's not winter yet, gather common sense!
A menace is horror to whomever perceives it
as an imminent demise, a sudden sorrow that
persists and torments feeble souls intensely shivering;
insidious voices transform all moods and well-being!
Whoever detests old age will have his own pain
to bear when he comes face to face with reality;
and the one who uses his young body to entertain,
escapes it from it a while, then encounters fatality!
Declining years show their signs on faces,
unbearable is the isolation from a society
that abuses and scolds the enfeebled minds,
all they ask for is understanding, not mercy!
Are they able to withstand the fury of the rainstorm,
the fret of desolation amid screams and crashing noises?
And despite their strengthless, fear and deviating tones,
nothing delights them more than the soothing calm!
They have lived a life with very noble ideals,
no affection they withheld from their peers;
and having completed their devoted human task,
they'll go serenely as they came into life to be brisk!
It's so clear too us that who chooses to live in dreadful darkness
decides to disregard what's sacred indulging in wrongful pleasures;
and for the ones who strongly believe in a gratifying, divine purpose,
they pave the way not with gold but with something very grandiose!
The greyness or whiteness of hair shows actual age,
it's not complaining about wrinkles, moods and looks:
it's the absence of compassion, kindness and closeness,
take away these three from them and they'll feel rage!
Empyrean drops,
Monument of July,
The pluvial chapter of life...
O July of enfeebled yolk,
Dispenser of splendour of sempervirence,
God has watered your tongue.
Therefore, pour, July, pour
The essence of life,
The grit of living
Unto the bosom of the
Seventh month and other
Months of parturition.
Let us conceive in July,
To bear in good season,
Sons of courage...
Wearing festal garments
And adorning our heads with sepia cloths,
This shall reinforce hope.
In front of the monument of July,
(A slouching image of sleepy rain)
Right on its wet feet,
Shall we bless the earth abundantly.
O July,
Bearer of thirty-one offspring,
Male and female, dew and fog,
So full of grains of years,
Frenzied and dancing your rites
Together with the age of insistent youth!
Middle age is when neither youth nor old age
Finds you worthy...
They sing:
The perception of the pristine green
Aroma of July
Is often the first of the rites
Of the seventh month.
Aging baby boomer
no longer fit as a fiddle
accumulating extra adipose tissue
around the middle
ain't no impossible mission
whence thumbs I twiddle
to shed unwanted
weight methinks exorcise to unriddle.
Call to action necessitates
yours truly to acclimatize,
calling fitness trainer
whereby honed toned physique
(tubby synonymous with Adonis – ha)
benefits begetting courtesy to aerobicize,
nsync dumbbells compliment exercise,
whereby brutal daily grueling
regimen will also comprise
boot camp rigorous discipline
strength to pilot (minus paunches)
shouldering, managing, hoisting crucifix sunrise
to sundown will non verbally advertize,
verily intolerant to chastise,
hence no bully best better mess
mine mean mien guise
will enjoyably capitalize
zing might equals right to authorize
self defense without need to apologize.
Back in the day, I
presented pitiful sight
self worth equated on
par with botanical blight
buffeted along boulevard
of broken dreams
depressed body language
bespoke head to foot
encompassing enfeebled edifice complex
scrawny measly gumby,
hokey pokey height
how I presented such sorry spectacle
courtesy excellent twenty/twenty hindsight
analogous to an emotional black hole,
never exhibiting courage to fight,
rather yours truly immediately took flight
and/or stood dumbfoundedly
in imitation of deaf mute wishing to alight
bajillion miles away, versus
active stance to fight
preferring the incognito
guise pitch dark vested gentry
donning luxury invisible
accouterment shade o' midnight
proffered, though natural camouflage
infrared crosshairs nonetheless did sight,
when scaredy cat sacrificial scapegoat
experienced his sealed fate, a heavy smite
upon me noggin scrambled outlook
seeing stars courtesy topflight -
(bare in) strong arms hoodlums
brandishing razor sharp dagger
type like fangs able, eager,
(think) bloodthirsty 10,000
homicidal maniacs
ready and willing to bite
simultaneously trumpeting
hate speech to excite
curious madding crowd
glomming to render airtight
any possible safe escape,
yours truly turned white
as a sheet.
A miracle isn't just a bizarre fluke
in fact, it's present anywhere we look:
It's our enfeebled earth welcoming the sun,
although a searing touch is something to shun
It is the air awake no matter the bruises from pollution,
as well as the streams without termination
The trees smugly outstretched and unperturbed,
although their tidy canopy has been greedily disturbed
It is the impetus of time's valor to evolve,
despite conditions that seem unresolved
They are the praises and prayers we instantly utter,
and our compassion freely given while we silently suffer
They are the uninterrupted moments we're able to live,
as well as the small victories we achieve
Your miracle isn't like a craved leisure outdoors,
it can be the success in mastering your intimidating chores
Above all, it is knowing there's no limit to how we thrive,
that after being lost and barely surviving we are still found alive
-Nicola An
PIERCING EYES
My
Ineffable
Inferno like emotion for you
I tried to bare, for no longer could I bear it.
But I could not.
I made to run, to hide far away from you to a sequestered
World of fantasy of my own where this feeling one day enfeebled
And dead would be and its corpse the hearse into the nether world of
Illusion would lower.But on time this insidious desire in my eyes,
Flawless, so genuine, you saw and those salving hands of yours towards
Me in embrace sauntered,heartsrings pulling kisses, caress abreast
Behind ambled and my entirety thru the sky of ecstasy scudded
And in gratification nestled.To those eyes of yours eternally
In gratitude my knees will bend, for only piercing eyes
As those could this sensation lurking
In the caverneous depth
Of a heart
Bare.
No, she said, it just wasn’t worth a try.
Her life, she said, it must come to an end.
Goddess Latona of the darkness said goodbye.
Mother enigmatic could no longer pretend.
Her children caught in advancing adulthood,
we never clearly understood her daily anguish.
She exposed parts of her hidden to us by motherhood.
How dare she bring her life to an enfeebled finish!
At 84, her joyless life racked with chronic trauma.
We sat feigning dispassionate deliberation,
Hearing her date with death, we tried displaying no drama,
a surreal sham, as our mother declared her termination.
Shocked readers must think we should have done more.
Surely, she suffered from Alzheimer’s, or some sudden dementia.
Mother lucid, clearly contented in family, but resolute to her core.
Venerating her dignity compelled our deference to her enigma.
Inviting us around her final table, she said goodbye.
Her gesture of honesty to us intended to make it easier.
As she stripped us of family grounding, I did not know how to cry.
With everything in her death choreographed, I was an awkward actor.
Some of my siblings were quite confused
but seemed willing to take it in stride.
One, in particular, went off the rails, feeling quite abused.
Indeed, the cavity left in hungry hearts could never be denied.
Slovenly winter's sojourn lingers, but dwindles away.
Petulant cold snaps, squalls and hail the exit price you pay.
Riddance wrung from season squeezed by hugs to relent reluctantly.
In dawn's budding yolk core, a sign of hope that Spring's door shunt
Nurtures renewal, renounces enfeebled winter gloom with enlightened lilt.
Get those shoes on, ready for a gamboling, frolicking dance in kilt.
Impatient expectation threatens to half-bake Spring's coming.
So easy to go off half-cocked, like cock miscalling a morning.
Conjure up your juggling balls, and warm your hands as well,
On stage you go, to keep your baoding balls chiming a spell.
Meditating on what Spring may bring when plated to please, and charm.
Inviting renewal, a fresh go, mindfully aware of warnings strung on yardarm
Nevermore to be ensnared by false hope and expectations
Growing too fast and withering on vine, denying your supplications.
So often your hope chest is wrecked when predictions are dashed
On rocky shores, hidden behind a rosy mirage of beach on shore bedecked.
Only expect half your quiver of Spring gambits darts to hit home true.
Never be disappointed that Spring's coming only delivers an IOU in lieu.
It’s the cat on the doorstep you didn’t expect.
A burnt-out lightbulb darkening the foyer.
It’s the thought of something creepy lurking under the porch,
A feeling you might need a clever lawyer.
It’s the odd conjunction of uncanny events,
With noir intrusions scratching in the closet.
It’s a drip from the faucet you just had repaired.
Make sure your will is locked in safe deposit.
It’s a psychic vision, a dystopian dream,
A dark abstraction slinking through the mist.
It’s the merciless stab of a memory’s fang,
It’s venom much too tempting to resist.
It’s a camera obscura, a projected effect,
A vision of transgressions grim and hellish.
It dwells within the heart you're too enfeebled to protect,
A claw that rips your soul with chilling relish.
It’s the phantom at midnight. It’s the creeper at dawn.
It preys upon the lonely and the strange.
When it's time to get going, you will find yourself gone,
A gaunt and ghostly coachman at the reins.
It was once the pride of a prairie farmer not too many years ago.
Now, long abandoned it stands forlorn on a wind-blown plateau.
Its rusting blades slowly turn at the whim of every passing breeze.
It has weathered the storms of summer and the bitter winter's freeze!
It leans a bit askew and a couple of blades are missing from the shaft,
And it squeals a lot as it laboriously turns with each passing draught.
The rusty weather vane dangles lifelessly having served its vital role.
No life-sustaining water doth it draw for this once busy watering hole!
A couple of stately cedar trees grow nearby as if standing guard,
Over the old windmill's enfeebled frame so twisted and so marred.
The water tank that once over-flowed with cool waters from the well,
Now lies in a corroding heap where not a living thing doth dwell!
A once sturdy barn leans in upon itself nearby in a terrible shambles,
Nearly hidden by ancient oaks and creeping blackberry brambles.
What was once a prosperous farm, alas, is now torn asunder.
Who once dwelt in that archaic homestead, I am left to wonder!
The once beckoning oasis sated the thirst of a multitude of creatures.
A well-worn path is seen leading there - 'tis one of its lasting features.
The verdant prairies for many years with working windmills were replete.
Graceful windmills that graced the landscape are, alas, nearly obsolete!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
TENDENCIES
too perfect
flawless
virtuousness
in thrall
to the moribund
superlative
to reinvigorate
the enfeebled
concept of genius
this exemplar
of grace and harmony
conceived
& inspired
since antiquity.
a tapestry
of shimmering threads
a satisfying
breathing space
thought-through
immaculate
finished
intimate
& sublime
subtle &
restrained
tender
as an embrace
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived