Long Exertions Poems
Long Exertions Poems. Below are the most popular long Exertions by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Exertions poems by poem length and keyword.
Everything had gone well and the night was still young,
she had made her intentions quite clear,
home alone we're not walking, the drink was now talking,
and the score was one-nil to the beer.
So we flagged down a cab, made a ten minute trip
hoping none of the neighbours would see,
helped her walk down the drive hoping I wouldn't slip
and then she turned round and came back for me.
We crashed into the hall, and both leaned on the wall
in an effort to regain our breath,
altogether uncertain if this nights exertions
would not end in premature death.
In the bedroom she tore off her blouse and her corset,
her lumbar support and her truss,
left her ankle support on, did she just forget
but I thought I'd not make any fuss.
After I had stripped off with the help of my frame
and rolled onto the bed in the dark,
we lay side by side, now with nothing to hide
and both waited for that certain spark.
As we stared at the ceiling, a terrible feeling
was finally now seeping through,
that the worst of our fears, after all the long years
we'd forgotten what we're supposed to do.
8th August 2018
For contest 'A rattling rhyme', sponsor Nina Parmenter
(*- This is not autobiographical. Yet. )
because life is limited
men measure the length of life
using the rulers marked to their own standard;
some cry, some sigh, some worry to death, while others,
tremble with uncontrollable rage; yet they struggle to stretch
their life as long as they can and hold onto it, though they know
very well life is misery
the poor kneel down at dawn in front of unknown divine spirits,
offering freshly drawn water and begging for relief from
dire poverty and for a better life;
the rich are hanging onto the elixir of eternal life,
which was tens of thousands of years of constant exertions to discover;
but the ends are the same, every one most go someday and that’s why, though not of own will, but with closed resigning eyes submit to death
and that makes me wonder why pathetic life is not worth
stretching or reincarnating though, everyone is hanging onto
an illusory hope that is thinner than a spider web
agonizing to extend it;
no matter how large sum the money you spend
there is no miracle drug warrants for eternal life;
no matter how much you cry at the top of your voice
there is no spirit would hear your cry;
every life, poor or rich, must go one day
why doesn’t anyone admit themselves that every life is destined
from birth to die? all are dwelling on this side of the river
for a while and time comes most cross the river. they step on
the stepping stones that extend to the eternal world laying
beyond yonder horizon. even though this world may be a challenging place to live for a while.
last night, I saw many souls crossing over the stepping stones
to the other side of the world, they looked so pathetic because
they were dragging their feet with drooping shoulders as if cows
taken to a slaughterhouse
The river smells like damp cotton this morning,
the weather has been so complimentary to our exertions
frost invades the nights nicely and soft sunshine comforts our faces in daytime,
we have been averaging 26 miles per day for more than a week
which gives us fat optimism that we'll reach the he Mandan villages before November,
our sense of serenity and ease is abruptly shaken by a suspicious sight,
from the boats we notice , not far inland
a settlement abandoned to arid earth and the whispers of sullen fate,
with a detachment of 12 men
this broken place in paradise is searched
with the circumspection of armed archaeologists,
from wood and rock totems
we have surmised that this village belonged to the Arikaras,
evidently, they systematically left here, or were decimated by some terrible force,
a gutteral roar rips into my ears
as I see the most monstrous beast of my life,
it is the great grizzly bear, wicked in temper and simply petrifying in stature,
about 40 yards away Sheilds stumbles out of an Arikara sod lodge
as the grizzly emerges from it's liar, standing upright like a tower of terror
fangs in the air and claws ready to thrash
Sheilds buries a slug right into it's chest from 10 feet away
sounding like a large stone plunging deep into water
white panic stretches his face while the beast stammers for a moment,
there is no time for him to reload
and he starts running to the canoe faster than a fuse
several of us take aim and unleash a crossfire of lead
pegging the bear every which way halting it's chase
and with the speed of a two horse wagon it's running to the brush,
we forgo the hunt and evacuate to the canoes,
enough has been seen here,
J.A.B.
O’ fair Adrenaline
Oh, powerful you make me strong;
I can’t do wrong
Beautiful Adrenaline
You got my heart pumping
Got my breath in my chest
I’m just sweating
Biceps protruding bulging;
I stand next to you Adrenaline
Strong
Come
You secreted me
Hormonally
You’re stress,
You take my breath
Excited exertions do you brew
I belong to you
Beautiful Adrenaline
You got my heart pumping
Got my breath in my chest
I’m just sweating
Biceps protruding bulging;
I can’t do wrong
Oh, powerful you make me strong;
O’ fair Adrenaline
1/30/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©
January 28, 2020 Assignment
Written for class assignment (WIPS) North Omaha Writers Group (NOW)
A cacophony of cheers
Sand sprays like fireworks
From feet, hands, ball, hair.
Four women, two-a-side,
In a battle for the ages.
A motion of fluidity and a
Knowledge brought forth
From years in the fray.
Sun, rain, the elements,
Just more adversaries
In a long procession of
Combatants put asunder
By their clear dominance
Of a gritty game of volleys.
The Americans had few
Times met with struggle
Along their long journey
Toward the gilded yellow
Badge of Olympic honor,
But this night the glint in
The eye, the coordinate
Movements of limbs and
Lengths and deliberations,
The perfection of intents
And wiles and exertions,
Would not birth triumph,
But instead place a bitter
Pill flat on their tongues.
But such is the bare truth
Of warfare, and such is
The coming of wisdom ...
For without that sour taste
And constricting swallow,
We have no estimation
Of the finer, sweeter things
That the battlements of
Life hold within their walls.
Gold knows no favorite,
Nor does it gleam in the
Eyes of the fortunate only.
Momentum true is the key
And this night it flowed
For the sake of those
Whose feet knew this
Beach as their own ...
Who felt their home and
Peoples and affinities all
In the grainy coursing of
Cold granules underfoot,
And sometimes, when
The heart has the peace
Of its OWN around it, that's
All the difference needed.
But character outshines
The most precious ores,
And in that bold and true
Respect, our wonderfully
Beautiful and courageous
Girls of Stars and Stripes,
Shall ALWAYS stand at
The top of the podium,
And the anthem of our
Appreciation and pride
Will always play in their
Ears ...
We love you, Kerri
Walsh Jennings and April
Ross, and you are, without
Question or argument,
The very BEST.
Anti-Poem — “Baxter Street Monday”
me trudging walking
gripping onward forward
traipsing baxter street monday
and its steep inclines
going up like a dizzy sparrow
passing vertical merry go rounds
the sly moulin rouge turnabouts
that sip spit with maraschino endives
scanning thighs ripe with hard-ons
the stoner pink boys
lost in rainbow cul-de-sacs
lost amidst the traffic tirades
the propelling grind of accelerators
up up and onward everlasting
floating hovering over shy ascensions
in ravenous echo park
me scratching grinding like steel death
holding tight the skin wheel
trudging baxter street monday
the morning reality suspensions
the daily cyclotron of kidney exertions
of ascending footsteps moving skinward
now racing down baxter street monday
descending and plummeting
passing vertical merry go rounds
the sly moulin rouge turnabouts
i see my sista rosa gonzalez
she be screaming down with wet wings
sending love bouquets to my los angeles
Such Innocent Madness
Listening to KHJ with the Real Don Steele,
playing it straight and loud on Boss Radio, with an
Elusive Butterfly wafting about, inside the tan ’68 Caprice,
when his secret journey of a thousand eye blinks,
commenced painstakingly and torturously,
like a dead glacier on fire.
To the left there, by her brown-skinned sternum,
with her young heartbone cleaving through snail-paced determinations,
he found her tender button throbbing,
beneath the cotton cover and the bleach,
there, in the excruciating darkness of teenage intensities;
You and he were reaching for the soul of an hour,
not stopping until constant time achieved the impossible stare off,
between them and it,
between the air, and the touching;
between the voicing of electronic controllings,
and the perennial reaching for another red apple,
served au jus, with croutons, earwax and studied leanings.
Now, it is just another pause in the exertions of young existence,
another heaving mindmelt in the suburban fog,
where you and him once sat fifty years ago,
at the big oaken table beyond the archway there,
inside his mother’s old musty house on Hoover street,
amidst the closed bedroom doors, the bougainvillea,
and the tacky green carpet with a dozen dog stains.
You sat there alluringly and decidedly silent,
with your long smooth legs opening and closing,
like a panting mouth, sucking in cigarette smoke in the dry wind.
But it was such innocent madness,
what was done and said that distant night in 1969,
with you and him sitting decidedly close in the darkness,
within the secure, locked confines of the tan ’68 Caprice.
Listen. Can you hear his bellowing voice through the speaker?
The Real Don Steele said it was April, when
all elusive butterflies swarm to the beat of the night,
the elusive time for young lovers to learn, and sigh.
.
.