Long Faculties Poems
Long Faculties Poems. Below are the most popular long Faculties by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Faculties poems by poem length and keyword.
*Image of Tony Dow by News.
AUDIO
VIDEO of 500 Miles by Peter, Paul & Mary
Take Care Wally Cleaver
Wally: Watch the hair!
My faculties are under arrest!
I have been subpoenaed by a Board of Inquiry!
Namely, Mr. & Mrs. Parents of OMgoodness Boy!
Begins the questioning! (blah, blah, blah)
Ward: WHY!
Retorts!
Wally: But dad (blah, blah, blah)
Empathetic.
June: Well, why not?
In-kind.
Wally: Well, mom (blah, blah, blah)
Backroom deliberations begin!
Ward: Ohh! Don't give me that look!
June: But my dear he's just a kid?
Ward: I'll even accept the concept of a Billy the outlaw
as there is some hopeful measure of action,
good or bad, but that's not the conclusion you're
drawing is it, sweetheart?
June: I know I've been turning my back on this, and
once I've turned around, there you are, not a
happy camper, our families, friends, and
neighbors, are all staring back at me, so I've
decided to let you deal with him and I'll stand
by whatever the ruling you decide to enact.
Ward: Well, Mr. OMgoodness, we hereby sentence you
to collect all of your electronic devices and game
cartridges and put them in a large box, then
you're going to clean your room, the garage,
and the yard, then mow the lawn, rake the yard,
then water the plants, after you're done, take a
shower and come down for dinner.
Wally: Wow, that's what an execution feels like.
Ward: No, think of it as a life sentence.
Wally: (sigh!)
June: We love you, honey.
Wally: I know that mom.
Ward: Oh, and by the way, I want to see your computer
keyboard in that box and I'll come around when
you're showering to lock it up in the attic.
(Later that night)
Ward: Good night son.
Wally: Good night dad.
June: Good night honey.
Wally: Good night mom.
(Bedroom doors close, and a computer light comes
on as a young MIT wannabe, clicks on settings and
presses "Online Keyboard")
Whatta day! Brutal, just ... brutal!
It'll be a long night ...
Good night Beav!
2022 July 27
Ode to Erato
“Hear, hear!” What’s this poppycock all about?
“Get rid of St. Valentine’s Day… you say — I say naught!”
Brave Britannia, are we losing our faculties?
I’d give my life for God, king, and country,
but to give up St. Valentine’s Day? “Preposterous!”
A night with Erato is an experience like no other.
Painfully erotic, overwhelming, and barbaric,
or tenderly smothering, so Oedipal complex,
as passion guides your heart’s desire in words.
'Tis to die satisfied, knowing the utmost pleasure.
So, to this chicanery, I say, let us sing
out in an overture, from soprano high to basso low,
with mid-range baritone in between,
to fragile Eros’s joy in avoiding Chronos’s eye,
and follow Erato and not be dismayed by Thanatos,
but let the sexes engage intimately
in the propagation of the species.
unearthly liminal subsistence.
unable to detach entirely,
fettered by forlorn sanguinity
that one among the mob
will wrest and ground me down
from bereft marginal despair…
one might catch my néant, spectral eyes
accursed to stare, and capsize
in reality’s inconspicuous lacunas.
saturnine and desultory I roam.
uncannily, habitually noclipping
through habituating atmospherics,
existing on lower planes,
levels much too sunken,
much too forthright, kenopsic,
to be wanted to drag free from—
a “killjoy” holloway, victimised,
sempiternally marred and dejected.
bellowing for commiserating glances
that, inevitably, reverberates
off the substantial ramparts
I laboriously raised around myself,
back into my aural faculties—
the most callous of witticism;
abruptly, through the glassiness,
I want silence and subtlety back
as the bulwarks founder ruinously.
monachopsic anomalousness stabs;
meandering through hollow shell,
searching for something impactful.
piercing torpidly, double-edged rapier,
remaining internal to prolong
meaningless, fading life, concurrently
coercing me a threat to listless crowd,
constraining remoteness to ensure
my legacy a quiet and forgotten myth.
unlinked, I locomote airborne,
punctured by student cohort
yet now, at long last, on their plane.
peering through student bodies,
studying cliques I yearned for,
observing pure disinterest.
however I comprehend my opaqueness
and take in my weak extremities.
but the ataraxic peacefulness?
the cessation of a lifetime of pain?
following few heartless penetrations
passing through my vacant vessel,
I harshly, finally fathom my inconsequence.
erased in the minds of all,
indiscernible in the mind of mine.
Our Star The Sun
We hither, simultaneously exposed, upon this earth go merrily around it,
As a star amidst the number's relinquished half of the energetic lifetime,
Life well-spent, we're part of its reciprocal beneficiaries earning a profit,
Business, as usual, might be its script, nonetheless, survival be sublime,
Truth is betold in chaptered verses, its inception in trailing breaths emit,
Our symbiotic relevance, correctly, born to an unknown future only time,
Pans out that a tale be realized, and venture should a future time permit,
Transport said souls, whatever we and others have enjoined a paradigm,
Prognosis ne'er descends well, forever is a measured interim, ne'er befit,
A permanent residence, as is, for a phasing bold chapter, be anew climb,
The essence of us presently possess both flee and flight, have a go at it,
Perchance by way of evidence be naught in the stars played pantomime,
Guesstimates permeate our baffled faculties, observationally its cockpit,
Muted by our scaled pretenses that limit our conjecturing via fault crime,
Sorts regulated support of vast liken stars, gathered data do at its tidbit,
Its wayward subtle glide per universe, few of us begs a ride of its prime,
Indistinct, effortlessly wanderings about, tagging star via hooked outfit.
2020 March 14
My beautiful hair is now turning grey -
a sign of age that I cannot deny.
But I’ll fight it until my dying day …
I have huge stocks of my titian hair dye!
My waterworks don’t behave as they should,
I laugh or sneeze and I dribble some wee.
Pelvic exercises don’t do much good -
I wear ‘Depends’ pads that no one can see!
My memory is now getting quite bad
I repeat words, I repeat words I say.
As long as I live I’ll be very glad …
until they carry my coffin away!
Failing health and faculties, are my fears
I may live to regret my twilight years!
A fictional write – I am admitting to nothing apart from dyeing my hair !!!
Which of the four would you choose Contest
Sponsored by Sara Kendrick
08~21~16
© Francis Maugo
Try not to trust my words;
they're lies that I manufacture to
project an ideal life and
persuade you I'm OK.
Try not to believe my words
For I was once enslaved into
Drinking and drugs.
Furthermore, the isolation
I received from my fellow
Teaching staffs, the excommunication
Stigmatization was the order of the day.
Try not to believe the grin you see;
it's a veneer to hide
burning agony, intense disgrace,
sheer despair.
Its the scars i got from the depression
I suffered.
Try not to get tricked by my chuckling;
it is just a reverberation
of empty internal parts, longing
for faculties to return.
Try not to get persuaded by my lucidity and request;
borne in endeavor to
control the disarray
furthermore conciliate the situation unfolding inside.
Try not to be dazed by
The flawlessness I radiate,
The boldness I counterfeit,
The honesty I fake,
The certainty I wear
For I'm broken into pieces
I'm not a shapeshifter or a drifter searching for a home,
one who's weary of roaming like a song on the wind
that no ears can hear except for mine alone.
I'm not a gypsy cursed by a binding spell, but worse,
one who seems not able to move as time passes by.
I'm in a realm of consciousness, spiritually tethered to life,
but filled with a sense of being alone and disconnected.
I feel somewhat rejected from others of the same ilk,
unable to emerge from a maze where each turn ends in strife,
or wrapped in the webbing of spider spun silk.
There is no suffering in this place, this space where I exist.
I hesitate to call it a journey, perhaps it's understood best
if I describe it as a relocation or a transient quest.
Did some twist of fate lead me through a dark tunnel
where there's an illuminated path waiting for me to take?
It's blurred, but I have the vision that it's not a prison,
but I'm sitting in Zen position, inside an opaque shell,
immersed in perceptual thoughts, where sapience starts.
At once I understood that my life is interwoven with others.
That shell, like a balloon, burst and I was awed in oneness
with the Earth, awakened as though I'd just discovered
a universe where spiritual acceptance hovers like clouds.
I recovered my cognitive faculties... what will be, will be.
Not the que sera, sera kind found in lyrical song.
One that everyone hears, a harmonic symphony of souls.
Much clearer now, there are sights and sounds,
a different kind of oneness that left me vacuous as before.
This one is substantially more essential. It's more real,
for I feel a certain kind of camaraderie, an urgent zeal
that appeals to me to belong, to be one with something
that lies over the threshold of an opened door.
December 2, 2022 ~ Journey Without Movement Contest
Sponsored by Unseeking Seeker
Staring into the abyss of crises’ appearance
I’m stricken with panic, disclosing my unbelief and ignorance…
Yet with God’s radiance, I can behold His gracious sustenance
Indeed assuring His provisions of bountiful abundance
Midst wellness of healthy satisfaction-extravagance;
Thus, I thank Him for His timely deliverance.
Staring into the abyss of insecurity’s disillusionment
I’m gripped with anxiety’s tormenting predicament…
Yet with God’s vision, I can perceive thru His enlightenment
Indeed opening my sight to His sufficing contentment
Midst His blessings for spiritual fulfillment;
Thus, I praise Him for His compassionate engagement.
Staring into the abyss of uncertain future
I’m attacked by doubt’s torture…
Yet with God’s illumination, I can see His grace-gesture
Indeed expressed by His Scripture
Midst His promises for triumphant faith’s venture;
Thus, I worship Him along holiness virtues’ posture.
Staring into the abyss of life’s grueling difficulties
I’m paralyzed, confronted along terrorism’s realities…
Yet with God’s lens, I can see His miraculous verities
Indeed highlighting His mighty goodness-certainties
Midst His power* controlling universe entities;
Thus, I trust Him with my yielded faculties.
*1Corinthians 2:5 That your faith should not stand in the wisdom of men, but in the power of God.
March 11, 2019
3rd place, "Pick A Title, Vol. 2 - Rhyme" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Edward; judged on 3/23/2019.
The weighty hand of Death crushes the core of your being,
sending a shiver, slithering up your spine like a cold chill.
And an empathic moon silently slips away,
as darkness conceals the tears pooling in your eyes.
Your heart is numb; you feel nothing:
there is no anger, no hate, no feeling at all:
just an all-consuming emptiness,
where your heart should be.
Abandoned to your worst nightmare:
life has lost its meaning; it just is.
Death has reduced your heart to a hollowed-out
shell, that's falling apart, piece by piece.
Love receded into memory's maze
of bittersweet moments and forever dreams.
And acid tears burn your cheeks like rivers of fire;
corrosive enough to dissolve hope and tarnish your soul.
Crumbling into a fetal position, you hug your knees
and rhythmically rock back and forth;
teetering on the edge of despair.
Your soulmate died, leaving a gaping hole in your heart:
that time will never be able to fill.
Your breathing is erratic as panic wrestles for control:
but you fight back, slowly regaining your faculties.
Yet, your heart harbors pain,
and the tears spontaneously flow once again.
You can't see how you'll continue your life:
there are no more tomorrows to share, only yesterdays to recall.
And you've never felt so helpless and vulnerable:
a part of you died; now grief consumes the rest.
Come here, my dear, and have no fear, I'm here,
Mom loved her grandkids, but she loved us first,
We're her trials, hid behind smiles, she rehearsed,
Mom had The Word, and the Lord--knew naught fear
Scriptures and song, sing along, she's well versed
Come here, my dear, and have no fear, I'm here,
Words I used -- as she endured ... Alzheimer,
Faculties ... difficulties ... mom my dear,
Kind words passing people ... social climber,
Believed in Heaven--I hear her ... "I'm HERE!"
"Be along shortly", says this old-timer.
2020 January 31
Rhyme Time 8 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Lu Loo
2.) Come here, my dear, and have no fear