Long Expediency Poems
Long Expediency Poems. Below are the most popular long Expediency by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Expediency poems by poem length and keyword.
Ironed Shadows
Her hands lay smooth
the coveralls worn thin
now wrinkled
once charged with earth
Mended armor from
courageous prices paid
embossed with crosshatched mending
stands raised in triumph
A home plate remembered
by innocence long abandoned
players made humble from
a boy's first slide for life
Vapors rise
from sprinkled droplets of water
beneath handled hot steel
making ready once more
the crusted yet unknowing weave
for kneeling of a different kind
Facing forced submission to other games
a purple-robed relentless hand
feeds rewards from gilded plate
accompanied by quiet silver tongue
Such are the scoring points of yet another kind
Youth's pure white
once starched crisp
ever ready for combat
now labors thread bare
atop the shoulders and arms
riding the reach for caramel-lathered memories
chased down with silver chaliced promises of still further kinds
Where is the love-smooth ironing hand now?
Costumes of rumpled thread
made anew by ironed caresses
now like the ether of memory
drift up past the seeing eyes into untethered emptiness
Tread carefully
lest you become wrinkle-free expediency
sliding voraciously into digital home plates
forever kneeling faithfully before promised obsolescent rewards
delivered smilingly from tarnished silver platters
Micro-Feasting
by Odin Roark
To propagate the dung heap of ignorance,
Is to place on low simmer
A main course of illiteracy.
How festive the chefs of mental starvation
Make the tables of 140-character-feasting,
Luring the gullible
Along with the lazy,
The doltish
And the lost,
To gorge, then purge,
Then ignore the noxious vapor
Of sentience becoming residue waste.
So stirs this caldron of abbreviated ingredients,
Stifling taste buds for savoring delectable elocution,
Reducing vocabulary to bulimic shorthand
And expecting all to join this achromatic work-around.
Hopefully, the language of full syllabic enunciation
Will return with a vengeance,
Sending expression’s drive-by expediency
Into its all too deserving exile.
Consideration pauses in the distance.
One can hear the echoes of dismay,
“Does this mean we’re expected to read…
AGAIN?
all automatic alligators arrive arrogantly
barely behave beautifully but brazenly
carousing with creepy cruddy crocodiles
desperately denying despicable wiles
effectively expediting expediency
forever forsaking fruit flies who flee
glaring at grazing gritty grouses
hijacking horrific herbivore’s handy houses
igniting ingenious iguanas in I-o-Way
jubilantly joining jerky jaguars along the way
kibitzing kinesthetic killers from Zion
lollygagging like lively luxurious mountain lions
marvelously marking multitude of mini monkeys
notoriously noting nefarious nodules of displease
ostentatiously opening overt outages in Oregon
providing panda putrid prey Paul just spit on
quarrelsome quicksand quail
rapidly reading registered mail
saying sassing sentences swiftly
turning terrific tarantulas toenails thickly
utilizing underwater undercurrents down under
verifying valid villans' voluptuous plunder
with wild willingness and witchy wonder
‘xacting ‘xactly ‘xtreme ‘xestentialism supreme
yelling youngster’s yips on front of the queen
zinging zealous zealots into zebras galore
end of this abcedarian poem, there is no more.
I try to be humble
when it comes to evaluating poetry,
reminding myself, that my penned gems
may seem paste to others – addicted
to cuneiform glitter, my mining deeply within
our shared reality tunnels sometimes left mere holes
for better landscapers forced to fill in – the dirt
I scatter to the surface,
the rocks, thousands of years' old boulders
pulverized for dear expediency, justifying actions by
use of strong verbs and a lot of campie adjectives –
the new normal, I am told, nouns are fluid...
I guess, the rain piss, and the sun an insidious thirst
for those shunning government sanctioned kool-aid
to drink, like myself, finding shelter in the holes we
have dug for self and others, calling them natural
abodes, or bypass for an earth
desperately in need of new moral
arteries – Well...having belittled who
I am and what I do, for me, my pen yet lingers
a rod and staff of sorts, a pacifier habitually in search
of divine nipples....
Ironed Shadows
by Odin Roark
Her hands lay smooth
the coveralls worn thin
now wrinkled
once charged with earth
Mended armor from
courageous prices paid
embossed with crosshatched mending
stands raised in triumph
A home plate remembered
by innocence long abandoned
players made humble from
a boy's first slide for life
Vapors rise
from sprinkled droplets of water
beneath handled hot steel
making ready once more
the crusted wafer-thin reason
for kneeling to a non-questioned answers
Facing coerced submission to other games
a purple-robed relentless hand
feeds rewards from gilded plate
accompanied by whispering silver tongue
Such are the scoring points of yet another kind
Youth's pure white
once starched crisp
ever ready for combat
now labors thread bare
atop shoulders and arms
riding the reach for caramel-lathered memories
chased down with silver chaliced promises from still wider mouths
Where goes the love-smooth ironing hand now?
Costumes of rumpled thread
made anew by hot-pressed caresses
now like the ether of memory
drift up past the seeing eyes into untethered emptiness
Tread carefully
lest you become wrinkle-free expediency
sliding voraciously into digital home plates
forever kneeling faithfully before promised obsolescent rewards
delivered smilingly from reflective platters
tarnishing quickly
How mighty did she stand
tall and regal, stately on the land
within her branches stretched
a view along the earth's great edge
in the curve unseen lay God the architect;
but life itself is dealt within shadowed joy and tears
and the girth and sinew of more than two hundred years
birthed young saplings from the profusion of acorn seeds;
that acorn grows to saturate an earth that bleeds
bound tight, secure and snug
beneath the coverlet of earthen rugs
renewed and replenishing the gifts of life
burdened with the memories of old man winter's wife
who embellished the forests of day and night
but polluted rivers, mountains, seas- the creations of humanity
dwindle regrowth and its expediency
until surprise and recognition at last falls
the last acorn of time's concrete walls.
LEISURE FROM LISTFULNESS
A long & dreary time,exquisite
delight has passed.A perverse
unaccountable feeling.A moment’s
reflection,a store of recollections
a painful task to concentrate upon.
Questions come thronging my pen,
difficult to convey,a matter of doubtful
expediency,leisure from listfulness,
dreamy,beautiful,inconsistent,reflective.
Passion and affections a mute sense of
attachment,yet gratifying. The end of a struggle
From Letters of Charles Dickens
A Phrasis is a structured verse where the poet uses selected prose phrases of another writer’s(not a poet) to compile unique poetry therefrom as a tribute thereto,the word phrasis is Greek for phrase.
Listen to me read this phrasis on youtube under name of ichthyschiro
“The human voice can never reach the distance that is covered by the still small voice of conscience". Mahatma Gandhi
“Cowardice asks the question, 'Is it safe?' Expediency asks the question, 'Is it politic?' Vanity asks the question, 'Is it popular?' But, conscience asks the question, 'Is it right?' Martin Luther King Jr.
Veins are designed for the free flow
Of blood through our bodies, and
If there are no barriers or blockages
Clogging up the pathway to and from the heart,
Every part of our bodies should thrive and live.
Obstacles can hinder blood-flow like fear blinds the conscience.
For this reason, we must allow for the free flow of the voice of
Conscience, because it is one of the ways God chooses to speak to us.
Opposing voices will surely rise to extinguish the flames of our conviction.
Notwithstanding, like a river of life, that voice must be strong and resonate.
Silence, after hearing the voice of conscience, is no longer an option.
Consequently, we should dare to listen and heed the voice of conscience.
Indifference and hate, its arch-enemies, must be courageously resisted.
Examples of Gandhi and King are inspirations for igniting major change.
Nations are born and communities thrive as mortals listen to their conscience.
Civilizations rise as good people bravely follow the dictates of their heart.
Everyone wins when children of conscience, arise and defeat tyrants.
053021PS
There was much chatter about the new mad hatter
He is madder than the other, said my sister and brother
I want to meet him, I told them, intrigued by the new him.
He was a bit crazier than expected, nutty as suspected, on a whim.
How else would he have met the council’s approval? I said.
He was upside down backwards weird, named himself Odd Ted.
He could run for mayor of crazy town, I suggested immediately.
It was agreed upon unanimously, and delivered with expediency.
For if there is one thing we know about our delightful city, Crazy Town,
It’s undeniably the weirdest, zaniest place under, over, above or down.
Mad hatter turned down our offer to make him mayor and ran away.
The sixth crazy mad hatter mayor that had gotten away that day.
Torture’s Toxic Contagion
by Odin Roark
From where comes these perpetrators,
These conscienceless mortals
Whose senses are quashed by orders,
By fear of demotion,
By allegiance to evil?
Who demands the allegiance
To insulated Washington duplicity
Puppets adorned in suits and ties of importance
Astride fine leather chairs of authority?
What right does evil have over good?
Does assumed expediency have to trump integrity,
Stealthily burying principals beneath the quagmire of incompetence,
Adopting rules from coerced legal offices,
Where procedural override of accepted war conduct,
Creates U.S. atrocities into persecution’s bubbling vat waiting?
How acidic this brew of orifice aggression must be.
How explosive the brain’s chemistry must become.
How malodorous the waft of this barbaric wretchedness must seem.
Still…
How easy it is to ignore that such bad behavior
Is counter-international law,
Subject to accountability
To legal prosecution and punishment.
Are we so glib with our conscience
That we think “out of sight, out of mind” is an escape?
For…
Lest one forgets the pent up pay-back
Festering in the shadows of the victims’ “to do” lists,
One’s Machiavellian innocence may not even see it coming…
What ever their choice might be.
Torture’s toxic caldron continues to be stirred,
Too few daring to taste the fiery recipe before being served
What might be truly the last supper.