Long Feckless Poems
Long Feckless Poems. Below are the most popular long Feckless by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Feckless poems by poem length and keyword.
Better to be on the end
Of feckless bullying
Than to give into the virus
Of childish trolling
Because no 1 likes
When a hater triumphs
It's the 8th most deadly sin
And gives credence to those
No 1 should give a damn about
Because if they were to be ignored
Would anyone miss them ?
Would they not crawl back under
the rock they troll from
And god willing paper covers rock
And scissors cut through Bull Ship
Bullying comments
This is for the Members you forced to leave
By those who thrive on stirring mischief
Devoid of empathy
And human feelings
Jealousy is unbecoming
And is in fact
The greatest form of compliment
Because if you are worthy of trolling
You have obviously hit a nerve
Far more deserving
Than the wrath you may have incurred
And cuts deeper
Than their patent cry for help reply
As sticks and Stone's may break my bones
But your comments do not phase me
They merely raise pose more questions
Than sadly you provide answers
The most feckless corrupt Pres in living memory pardons his grifter son.
But not just for deliberately evading taxes and firearms violations. No, Joe went further. His pardon includes all offences he may or may not have committed back to Jan 1 2014 which coincidentally gives him immunity for his time as a Burisma board member as a crackhead earning millions of dollars in Ukraine and millions more influence peddling selling access deals to Russian oligarchs and Chinese companies aligned with the Chinese Communist Party. All with daddy’s knowledge and approval.
Well pardon my French but that is a f***in’ disgrace!
There's no other phrase that will get a lad's total attention,
And fill a young feller's soul with dread apprehension,
Than to hear the phrase Moms have used since time began,
"Just wait 'til your Pa gets home, young man!"
Cain became envious of his brother Abel and did him in.
This cowardly deed was done much to his Ma's chagrin!
"How dare thee slay thy brother, bringing disgrace to thy clan?"
"Just wait 'til thy Pa gets home, young man!"
As a lad even Jesus was not immune from this threat.
On one occasion He had His Ma in a most terrible fret,
When he dawdled at the temple expounding on God's plan!
"Just wait 'til thy Pa gets home, young man!"
Young Washington, it is alleged, went on a hacking spree,
Chopping down his Pa's favorite cherry tree.
Ma attempted to box his ears, but her he outran.
"Just wait 'til your Pa gets home, young man!"
Feckless youths from their Ma's have heard that dire phrase.
Any denial of their transgressions, 'tis useless to raise.
They'd prefer to hear their Ma utter any other expression than,
"Just wait 'til your Pa gets home, young man!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Come join me in the religion of the well wishing fool
We meet once a month at the toe dipping pool
Where we reaffirm our mission to uphold the tradition
Of championing that reckless and rash, impetuous and crass
imperative of all human inanity. The keen assurety, whose
heights may only be scaled in proportion to the rarity
of their intellectual scarcity. We wholeheartedly cheer the pursuit
of the age old query of grasp and reach by those whose sole reward
seemingly is calamity. We stand here safe in our cloak of non participatory
scrupulosity and outrageously cheer the feckless audacity of those that advance the
sum total of human wisdom by dint of intellectual incapacity.
"Dream Bug"
Hour glass
rainbows sparkling
crystal grainy rapids
sliding intrepidly through life’s fingers
their coloured sands speak in tones
they are obtuse and vapid
like snowflakes they fall
confetti on my hands
Writing you
between there
and here again
a feckless court jester
fearless sometimes
walking handstands
painting portraits
in pedantic rhyme
then a page stained,
you're thumb-licked and turning
metaphors gliding ghosting
a snail trail planchette
words miss spelled
they are moulting
like white feathers from cooing doves
we are back in grades of one
singled out on school parade
while the band plays on
we are all caught
like grounded gefilte fish in class
when the saints
go marching in
we’re stopped
for covert mingling
In the office a Nosferatu principal
ignores the grief
behind his two spectacles
two sets of hands are requested straight
knuckles down and held out
the bamboo cane
coaxed no passing
secrets out,
automata face
scream time put on delay
the clock to midnight
on his crypt's wall, hidden
strikes still a braille mind
doesn't once drop the ball
it smiles ruthfully
dialling up the forbidden
chemistry of tears,
a juxtoposition
from the internal well
My opal sky suspended
heaving dreams falling slow mo
through foggy clouds
are breathed in like lavender rain
antiseptic are all
our polished stories
rehearsed repetitively
then delayed and side courted
tennis left hand
lucid inarticulate
backhanded
Love all
candy hearted
is a fresh game
pulled swiftly
from a side pocket
refuting singing flutes
whistling and caressed
by a tongue flirtatiously wetting lips
a regular, pulsating change of pitch
a romantic vibrato
recalled
he calls me
a witch
Scent of a woman
once je t'adore
now her true essence leaking
their personalities mirror switched
bloodied and cut
pieces of peace
stolen by a foolish matador
she’s holding open the exit door
Dream Bug
walks across a
marked and sullied page
lines bleeding right
Melting
dissolved
to the far corner
lid sealed
in a glass jar
left-brained
Dream Bug
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
"Why is it that everyone seems younger to me these days?", I muse.
'Tis enough to give a feller a serious bout of the blues!
Wasn't that long ago that everyone looked so old to me.
My! How times have changed! I wonder how that can be?
When I was a young lad struggling to get through school,
Schoolmarms looked so old and dour (as a general rule).
Nowadays, they seem so young, chic and so engaging!
(Alas, could this be because it is me who's aging?)
The other day I saw my doctor for my annual screen.
To my alarm he looked to be about the age of seventeen!
His credentials I viewed, so I guess he knew what he was doing.
(Is my jaundiced view due to all these years I'm accruing?)
I recall white-maned preachers I knew as a wayward youth.
My preacher is so young he should be in Sunday School, forsooth!
But I admit that he stirs my lethargic soul with masterful skill.
(Lord! Forgive my acerbic views - is it because I'm over the hill?)
Even the admirals, generals and presidents look so young today.
I reckon there ain't no use in fretting about it anyway.
'Tis some consolation that they'll all lose their youth so dear.
(Oh! How I yearn for the carefree, feckless days of yesteryear!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Retirement from community development,
facilitating cooperative economic justice
in this post-millennial time of climate crisis,
feels like being put out to pasture
with the rest of us toothless and feckless horses
Stalking senior centers
and gated communities
to weather the fade-out storm
of physical
and mental,
natural
and spiritual encroaching unease
and disease.
This was not my fade away intent
to graze quietly
with quivering and lame
retired race horses;
although worse company
is readily at hand.
I do like pastures,
meadows,
forest and ocean beach trails,
grains and crunchy carrots
and apples.
But, I also like song and dance
and restorative justice more than retributive injustice,
and skilled multicultural mediation
rather than monopolistic invasion,
and economic cooperative win/win public health investment
and politically empowering regeneration
more than competitively disempowering degeneration,
and polypathic compassionate therapies,
and polyphonic healing designs
and listening with healthy young bicamerally balanced
connected
attached
integral
holistic lives of active hope.
It has taken me so long to get here
in this valley of the shadow of climate death,
and I am so grateful for this vulnerable moment
to share all I can compassionately hear
in multicultural mediation pastures,
including senior health-discernment circles,
of course,
but also echoing off granite bold walls
of win/win ego/eco-historic bicameral mountains,
polycultural peaks
cooperatively grateful
for bilaterally resonant river valleys
of ancient wealthiest memory.
Old nags never die.
We just keep gumming
around Earth's double-binaries,
longing to speak compassionately
as we have learned to curiously hear,
remember
resonate
reweave
regenerate
seasonal pasture space
of all Earth's pastoral reasoned time.
With the minting of the Lincoln Penny coming to its sorrowful end,
It'll now cost you a 'Nickle For Your Thoughts', my miserly friend!
Or consider the phrase 'That's My Two Cents For What It's Worth', old chum;
It'll now cost you two nickles or a dime - that's the new rule of thumb!
Alas, no more penny candy for the little tykes - forget the penny arcade;
These are just a few things that'll vex us since pennies are no longer made!
I reckon they'll have to mint more nickles to accommodate this feckless nation!
Oft', I ponder how Honest Abe would feel about 'his loss of face' and inflation!
the saltiness of love
a riveting fall
unlike other tears
this solitary shed
like a drip of life-blood
the lance of each freckle
an almost feckless drive over the sallow cheek
finally landing on the lump of her throat
the last tear stains her pillow
tasted by encompassing family
a lovely bouquet
the aroma of memories
likewise a splash of a storm
lashing against the window pain
softly moaning wind
as she exhales one more breath
like the shake of a baby’s rattle
as the sun shines
a doe with a sparkling eye
and her fawn
through the window pane
her family exhales
and holds the snapshot
of her death
2/4/2019
Silent One’s One Last Tear Contest
Within thou secret heart I dared to peek,
but entry to thee twas not meant to be.
Searching for answers that doth I do seek
No avail, thy heart locked and I no key.
I'd oft pondered what in thee would I find.
Thy love for me, wrapped in finely spun silk?
I pray no tidings of a feckless mind.
Some hindreth fault of your heritage ilk.
If only my treasure you wouldst plunder,
In my virgin garden, you shall n'ere pluck
If thee shall not put my heart asunder
This maid shall be the doe and you her buck.
O! Sweet life, hurry forth thy hands of time.
Shouldst death sing to thee from bird on the wing,
Captured then I shall n'ere put word to rhyme
Tis death shall rob my voice of words to sing.
Wrapped in finely spun silk, love hath no fear
In my verse, we shall e're be young, my dear.