Long Estate Poems
Long Estate Poems. Below are the most popular long Estate by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Estate poems by poem length and keyword.
This article is about the underground lyricist and outlaw musician. For other uses, see Zoltan Goliath, Brent Scorn, Lydia Fox, C. Günter Marrow, Elzbieta Bienga (disambiguation).
Otis (Trench Mouth) Trench was born with pneumonia in a black-rain steel town in Third World, Pennsylvania. He was not expected to survive and received Last Rites. His unction was so extreme, however, Death could not grab hold and he slipped away. He grew up wild, learned his letters from a ragman’s son and took off for the high country and the deep blue sea. Upon his return, he landed a job tending bar in a low life shot-and-beer joint called the Old Salem Tavern, but referred to by locals as The Country Whore Inn. He began composing lyrics as a way of minding the tide and easing the drift. It continues to be an on-going process. In a recent interview with the fashion editor of A Dim, Dark Mirror, Mr. Trench was quoted as saying:
At this specific stage of my existence, and in consideration of the circumstances in which I find myself, it surprises me to discover that rumors of my downfall have been insinuated within the chronology of my tenure, since, upon completion of an extensive and thorough inventory of my physical and spiritual estate, as best can be determined by the faculties I still retain within my possession and deemed by myself to be valid and reliable given an honest assessment of the facts of the matter; I testify for the official record, and in a fashion suitable to be notarized, authorized and cauterized, that regarding the state of my particulars, I am of the firm, unwavering opinion, despite whatever dissenting voices may be heard chiming discordantly in some distant pasture of manure-sodden earth seeking to either disturb my slumber or provoke my wrath, and regardless of whatever graying whiskers I may in fact possess, I aver assuredly that in contradiction to all appearances and any other details not withstanding – my ass ain’t draggin’ yet. In consideration of my prognosis, would you hike up your skirt a little higher, honey?
So many voices.
Competing
for Real Estate
in my head.
“You’ll always be a loser”
“He’s smarter.”
“She’s better than you.”
“Why are you so stupid.”
“You’ll never amount to anything.”
“No one wants you.”
“Wait”
“Stop!”
“Don’t listen to them.”
“You deserve to be happy.”
“You’re lovable.”
“DUMMY!”
“Idiot!”
“Those voices are lying to you.”
“You’ve come so far.”
You’ve got this.”
“You have so much to offer.”
Sometimes,
I can push the bad voices
deep down inside.
I put a cork in it,
place glittering gold foil on top to make it pretty.
I install a wire cage around my neck
so my cork doesn’t pop.
The bubbles are kept at bay
year after year.
I’m both transparent and contained,
trying to decide if I’m ready,
Am I properly aged?
Is this my special occasion?
“They don’t want you.”
Self doubt whispers from deep within me.
Shame for what was done to me.
A gentle hand caresses my neck.
“You are ready.”
“Champagne must be shared!”
“Okay, I trust you.
Please don’t shake me,
I’ve already been shook,
shaken to my core.
Open me slowly,
pour me into crystal flutes.
Let me sparkle,
shine sunlight through me.
Smell my essence,
let me tickle your nose.
Feel my notes on your tongue.
Everything I have ever been
presented for your pleasure.
Only to be shared with a precious few.
The ones who love me.
The ones who spoke kind words into my soul.
My flavour, like me, is complicated.
Yes, I can be intoxicating.
So please drink me with care.”
The gray exhaust of twelve warm hearths
Chased the clouds into the afternoon sky.
There stood the stalwart mansion
At peace with its surroundings
And steadfast with its environs.
Beckoning an affectionate greeting
Just beyond the bridge, it appears
To give light the sublime levity
Of being a nuance of darkness.
Its façade is as prestigious and lucent
As a librarian’s bustline in her noblest estate.
Its walls of luminous windows
Sit still in a kinetic majesty of colors,
Like the yew tree in its bounty of crimson berries.
This refuge from the current disharmonies
Radiates from its midst an unheard music
And a conviviality suggesting a vicarious ecstacy.
Here, perhaps, is that first step in darkness
Of the empire prophesized to come,
Bringing its measureless song
Of the queen of the northern lights,
Whose monarch calms the most vociferous tempest
And warms the most bitter winter chill.
Here, under the clouds of mortal brevity,
Contained are the exotic reactions
To long suppers and golden evenings
From the replenishing of early traditions,
Beyond youth’s humblest dreams.
The twelve hearths fully aglow,
Fueled with only kindling atoms,
Tell of a future only they can know
And every human mind fathoms.
Within these high stone walls,
Lit by radiant lamps’ glare,
Every place an eye-beam falls,
There is the glory of confident flair.
Did I exist before I came—
To Time’s reluctant Door—
Or was I but a voiceless Name—
In Silence—evermore?
The cradle of a Nothing vast—
Where neither Breath nor Form—
No Heart to quicken—nor to fast—
No Memory—to warm.
Yet here—I stand—amid the Grass—
The Moon—observes my stay—
She lifts her Lantern as I pass—
And will—when I—decay.
If Death returns me to that Place—
That hollow, unbegun—
I must bestow—while in the Race—
Some kindness—til it’s done.
Compassion—like a secret Fire—
Illumes the darkened air—
Empathy—becomes the Choir—
Where none—may yet Despair.
The Sky receives my trembling Word—
It vanishes—like Rain—
But Love once uttered—will be heard—
Beyond the mortal Plain.
So let me weigh my brief Estate—
As Stars record my Breath—
And make my Living adequate—
To justify my Death.
Yesterday morning, while waiting,
nursing a too-expensive latte,
I read poems by Dylan Thomas
from a worn paperback of English poetry
that my friend, a poet,
bought last weekend
at an estate sale
for ten cents.
In the evening, at home,
I listened to Bob Dylan
while reading the stories behind
the songs he wrote from 1962 to 1969,
my years of fatherhood, divorce, and radicalism,
rather than watching “The Voice,”
my one and only fall into the slippery world
of “reality television.”
For a bit of balance,
or maybe a jolt,
although that’s not a good thing
to do before bedtime,
I stirred in whiplash verses
from e.e. cummings
before I took my pills
and turned down the volume
in my head for the night.
The surgery
The surgeries were situated in an industrial estate
in an imposing building telling of elitist power
My operating room, painted gray and white, was ready
At ten fifteen, when I was wheeled in, who was
not allowed to talk to customers who came to have
Their illness was removed in exchange for a better life
Here, the patient was less important than the illness
They put me face down into a chamber with a screen
so that I could witness my surgery
Invisible hands cutting into my flesh to they reached
the bones that were to be linked together with a metal
clips; blood had been cleared
At the precise moment when the bones were linked
The screen went blurry, to stop the opposition to
See the method used, a system that could be resold
to other industrial surgeries
After 3 days to recuperate, I was told to leave that
caused concern as I had to arrange for someone to
Take me home, as the surgery that had brought me
They were not responsible for my leaving
Industrial surgery is not interested in the patient
but purely in the method used
TRIBUTE TO
DESPOLITE.
My eyes are blinded
with tears, yet my
heart see's the
despairing cry of
despo student.
The scent of agony
and fragrance of pain
weigh on my mind.
Legs were broken,
blows were taken,
gases were breathed
in,siblings once
nutured by sweet
mothers were packed
like sack of rice in the
van of peace trops ,
all in your single order.
All mighty clara we
salute thee.
We are not the
richest, we know we
owe, we agreed to
pay, why now are you
in haste?
You build your
estate,we paid and
became your
tennants, you flourish
with our parents
wealth yet they crave
and starve,they didn't
complain.
You are a woman too,
what happened to the
agitated feeling of
motherhood?have you
sold it out to the
god's of wealth?
Stretch out your
palms please, are your
fingers equal? Life is
full of inequality in
socal status.
We owe yes we
know, we agree to
pay.please do have a
heart DR CLARA.S.
In the aftermath of the bachelor's silent closure,
A plot with a building, wearied and older,
The nephew-in-law seeks to resolve the tangle,
Amidst power struggles, an intricate wrangle.
Uncertainty looms in the tangled estate,
An array of heirs, their conflicts innate,
The nephew-in-law, in selfless stride,
Strives for unity, in each turn and ride.
He sees not just money but the family’s dreams,
Amidst power-hungry eyes and silent screams,
His sacrifice echoes, with every step he takes,
Resolving disputes, for family’s sake.
While others vie for the biggest slice,
In a relentless struggle, a ceaseless device,
Each for their own, their vision so narrow,
The nephew's sacrifice lost in the barrow.
The dilapidated building, a silent stage,
Holds history and memories, a family's page,
The nephew-in-law, his heart in the fray,
Struggles for peace, amidst the dismay.
Power struggles persist, as ignorance reigns,
Each yearning for what each believes to gain,
In this vast theatre of plots and demands,
A family's unity left to disband.
Through the battles of power and ignorant claims,
The nephew-in-law keeps bridging the aims,
With every sacrifice, a peace to bestow,
In the drama of power, the familial undertow.
Amidst legal wrangling and familial strife,
He strives for harmony, embracing life,
The plot and the building, witness to the fight,
The nephew’s heart, set on making things right.
In this legacy's journey, a dramatic stage,
Echoes the nephew's relentless engage,
For within the estate, in each hidden lore,
Resides the nephew's resolve, a tribute to restore.
In this legacy's journey, a dramatic stage,
Echoes the nephew's resolve, an unwavering gauge,
Yet the niece and nephew-in-law, in a sacrificial ode,
Their selfless end, a testament to an arduous road.
For within the estate, in each hidden lore,
Resides the silence, of sacrifice and more,
The legacy tainted by the greed in the air,
Their ultimate sacrifice, a testament to care.
~The Knot Garden~
Weave up and down, now in an out.
Where does it start?
Where does it stop -
The dance, this lively garden gavotte?
A circle of Thyme, like ladies fair,
Joined with royal ribbons of Sage
Woven throughout with Tarragon’s leaves,
Rosemary’s boughs – handsome as lords.
A stately pattern of no mean estate
Made with Marjoram and Parsley in hue,
An intricate knot, noble in origin,
Sir Basil and Savory in delicate steps.
Oregano bows and Peppermint curtsies –
A duke and his duchess
Entwined in the waltzing
Of ancient design and arrangement.
Lines intersect with flowers of Anise,
Squares within circles – pungent with Dill -
Carefully planned, a castle garden dances,
Intertwined in delight by a King for his Queen.
Dedicated to the reproduction of a medieval knot garden at Filoli Gardens and Estate.
Watch out, guys!
"Clap hands, clap hands,
Till father comes home,
For father's got money"
Children play a game called "King of the Hill"
"Ena, mena, mona, mite.
Pasca, laura, bona, bite.
Eggs, butter, cheese, bread.
Stick, stock, stone dead"
He is great in business, real estate and entertainment
"Build it up with iron and steel,
Iron and steel, iron and steel,
Build it up with iron and steel,
My fair lady"
What are his politics and faith
"It's a long way to Tipperary,
It's a long way to go,
It's a long way to Tipperary"
He just talked about his D*ck size
"Rumour, rumour, pump and derry*
Prick his heart and burn his body
And send his soul to purgatory"
(*Derry means to have a strong dislike for something)
Millions of ordinary Americans support him 100%
"My Mother said, I never should
Play with the gypsies in the wood"
He says "I will be the greatest jobs presidential that God ever created."
"The fox went on a chilly night,
He prayed to the moon to give him light,
For he had many a mile to go that night
Before he reached the
Town-o, town-o, town-o,"
Donald Trump will he win or lose
"Round and round the earth is turning,
Turning always into morning,
And from morning into night"
Owner of one of the most famous commercial jet aircraft in the world is 747
................... fly free
"Glory to the newborn King,
Peace on earth, and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled!"
Joyful, all ye nations rise,
Join the triumph of the skies "
08.03.2016
A-L Andresen :)
Songs & Rhymes In English
http://www.mamalisa.com