Long Fettle Poems
Long Fettle Poems. Below are the most popular long Fettle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fettle poems by poem length and keyword.
Fate someday will determine when our days are concluded,
And those who think otherwise are sadly deluded!
Plans were made to ease my crossing with little compunction,
When I shed these earthly shackles and cease to function!
Since I like things in proper trim, regular and complete,
Plans were made in great detail to impress Old Saint Pete!
I'll enjoy a lovely mountain view from my sepulcher space.
Even a headstone with an epitaph is already set in place!
Arrangements compel me to be laid out in a slumber room,
Amid a forest of flowers that will currently be in bloom.
I wanted to be displayed in my jeans, they don't look so bad.
My spouse said, "No, I'd die of embarrassment if you were so clad!"
The funeral guy showed his caskets, each the top of the line.
I said, "Hold on there! I'd rather repose in a simple box of pine!"
"But sir" said he, "these are made with the most durable metal,
And will see you thro' your eternal bourne in very fine fettle!"
The salesman conducted the transaction with consummate skill,
But I almost died on the spot when he presented the bill!
I'd much rather have spent those bucks on an earth-bound fling!
Folks, if I could, I would just as soon forget the whole blamed thing!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Our outside road may have a billion steps, but the inward journey has just one: this step. By poet.
The geese fly back to the light over the mountain.
Starlit fettle with rapt stars, laced in velvety delight.
All must be engraved in that pure crystal fountain.
Zest is a journey, scary, and never given by might.
A wondrous realm of rough dreams, laden with vigor.
It never vows to be flawless or to lack its sole rigor.
You might spot your line: life—fully pulls her trigger.
Losing heat by flying on a hazy drift over the seawall.
Vicious swirls saw dots, and lush hope let ashes fall.
It propels and impresses us until we start to crawl.
Drop aging bones in an endless, deep pull at a curtain.
No one is flawless or ethical, yet all have a sole sight.
All people have imperfections, giving them a fine figure.
Bask your journey; the earth will glitter and lighten us all.
Written: March 04, 2023
Writing Challenge - ''J'' Words - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
This poem form is the Fragmented Rhyme invented and Conceived by Constance La France. It has 14 lines with indentation, and a rhyme scheme, as follows: ABABCCCDDDABCD
The quilt upon my bed was stitched
By someone I don’t know.
My blue ceramic fish was formed,
Most likely, by a pro.
Some watercolors on my wall
Were painted by a friend
I met on a vacation
(Such good luck I’d recommend).
A wrought-iron scene, a stained-glass moon,
A mobile made of metal
All grace my home and help my mood
Improve to finer fettle.
I wonder if the artists think
About the crafts surrendered,
If it was worth the trade-off
For the compensation tendered.
I’d like to think they’re satisfied
That what they have created
Is there displayed in someone’s house,
Their talents celebrated.
'wind is pounding in my heart'
It tears across the steppes and plain, it guides my mind and eases pain
Whithin the yurt, upon the road, it whets my mind; eases the loads
I've rode it's Breast ten thousand times,' with banner high the yak tails nine
Its of my blood, throughout my race, we hold it near'in flood; or trace
It's face is clear,, it's embrace strong, we sing it's praise riding along
The clatter of the ponys hooves, not loved by those who dwell neath rooves.!
The pallid sallow, wall surrounded.. And when we start they'll be astounded..'
We ride hard two days and nights, to charge and wheel; and ever strike.'
To clear a space, where yurts can be; then to move in travel free
To wake to different scenes around, to venture quickly into feotid towns
To take a bargain, to strike a deal; to return to the fire, and let sleep steal
And in this act, renew our mettle, to grasp each chance with finest fettle.
'For the contest of Constance Lafrance'
'Be inspired by your muse'
Written 17 8 2022
The sensitive brilliance of a lighted flame.
Yet, filled by vitality, will spark and inflame.
I had been ashes, encouraged by your presence.
At first, faint flares, yet before long propel us.
Utterly, we were talented to a calm rumble.
I was interested in the brilliant shade fettle.
Applauds such warm and compassionate eyes.
I don't cognize how you'll harm me in disguise.
Love sprouts as auld as the roses bloom in June.
The gathering happiness under the halcyon moon.
The people of yore wrote in regards to romance.
We were unable to strive to conceal our happiness.
The fire was quenched by nightfall.
Relics degraded to an opulent sprawl.
Written: October 22, 2021
I stood at the threshold
Of a promising life,
Ready to step out bold,
Face challenges and strife.
I wanted to soar,
Like an eagle in the sky.
Eager to conquer more,
To reach really high.
One fateful day I awoke,
To a painful, swollen knee,
In one terrible stroke,
It changed what I was to be.
Multiple hospital trips,
And neverending tests.
Our hearts missed a skip,
Yet we hoped for the best.
"Osteosarcoma"
Was the dreaded disease.
I felt dazed, in a coma;
My brain seemed to freeze.
My family drowned in tears,
My future looked so bleak.
Haunted by many fears,
Uncertain, depressed, meek.
My dreams torn and tattered,
A maelstrom of emotions.
My parents were shattered;
Were there any solutions?
Would I ever walk again?
Would I lose my lower limb?
Would I become a burden?
The situation was grim.
My folks offered prayers,
With devotion and fervor.
Could unkindly fate dare
Snatch their son forever?
My doctor reassured me,
On his face a kind smile;
"There's no need to worry;
You'll be fine in awhile."
He explained me the treatment,
And then asked "Is that clear?"
I was filled with resentment,
Worried for those I held dear.
They excised the tumor,
Chemotherapy began.
I was plagued by bad humor,
Wondering at God's plans.
It seemed an eternity;
Painful weeks crawling by.
I wallowed in self pity.
All alone, I would cry.
Now that is all over.
The disease has been cured.
I feel I'm in clover
I feel reassured.
The dark clouds have vanished.
I have jettisoned gloom,
My demons I have banished,
And let optimism bloom.
My life is now settled,
I like working, have fun.
I am in fine fettle.
This battle I have
The shock that I felt was enormous,
as the tab on the cat food I pulled,
a fountain of biscuits shot out of the top-
the box, it was actually full !
I stood, disbelieving, bewildered,
this never had happened before,
I finally came to my senses again
and swept all the bits off the floor.
'Contents are liable to settle',
I've seen it on loads of foodstuffs,
in some cereals, where half of it is fresh air
and what's left is just not quite enough.
And bags of crisps, don't get me started,
whatever the flavour or range,
seven flakes, powdered crumbs
which just coat both your thumbs
and then leave your tongue feeling short-changed.
Forgive me, for always believing
(and I think most folks do, by and large)
that the air we breathe in now and always has been
since the dawn of mankind, free of charge.
So why do the makers of products
include something already free?
Just give us lots more of the thing I paid for
and leave all the breathing to me.
And when my time one day is over
and no longer am in fine fettle,
the box I'm carried off in,
on the lid of the coffin
write ' contents are liable to settle'.
CLOUDY SKY
Cloudy sky
Say no more to us
About rain to come.
For acrid are your lies,
And by your rhetoric speech
No more are we enthralled.
For, this perennial drought,
On pages, in archives lies.
For rain to come,
In vain revelry the farmers wait.
For no wages, like a serf in the
Corn field they toil.
Your oath of fealty you scorned
And in the belly of sectarianism
It erodes.
Cloudy sky.
Say no more us
About rain to come
For the seedlings from drought’s
Heat wilt and by the arbor of your
Cloud eclipsed are the dreams of
The saplings, etiolated in gloom
For sunlight they grope.
Cloudy sky
Say no more to us
About rain to come.
Cloudy sky
Say no more to us
About rain to come.
For horrid are your lies.
See,
The fettle faces that cheered
You to the pinnacle now shrink
From dearth. Wane, once glaring
Eyes in their hollow socket cringe.
Languid now are those sprightly
Hands that lifted you from the craddle
To your apogee.
From your wanton revelry the thunder
Claps and into the serenity of the famished
It cuts as with parched throat for the opening
Of the sky’s door for even a trickle they wait.
Gnarled children from famine on the scrawny
Backs of their mothers berth,
And with baleful eyes for them
The scavengers wait.
Cloudy sky.
Say no more to us,
About rain to come.
Form:
Shades of grey cascades on rainy days
Petrichor reigns after each pitter patter
Radiance of earthy fragrance does flatter
Teardrops down panes.. splitter splatter
Fades to whiffs chiding riffs spit scatter
Forever about weather they do natter
Seems the one thing that does matter
Flowers cowers at showers which batter
Tiffs as petal in fine fettle does shatter
Down trodden by a sodden mad hatter
Raised bed fed on shed drops clatter
Spoils for alluvial soils a pluvial platter
Some veg in tatters others seem fatter
Folks chitter chatter.. prefer the latter
Cumulus nimbus nimbly flitter & flutter
Sunrays grasp after a last gasp stutter
Sliding gliding riding wooden shutter
Rasp of uncouth din off a roof of tin
Staccato rinse & repeat beat does utter
Burgling drains & gurgling in the gutter
Huddles of puddles cuddle and splutter
Parched Earth’s skin softens like butter
Mother Nature's own homegrown nutter
Folks groan have to clear up soaked clutter
Mumble prone to moan but not a tut tutter
Mustn't grumble need the tumble they mutter
Abide
by Michael R. Burch
after Philip Larkin's "Aubade"
It is hard to understand or accept mortality—
such an alien concept: not to be.
Perhaps unsettling enough to spawn religion,
or to scare mutant fish out of a primordial sea
boiling like goopy green tea in a kettle.
Perhaps a man should exhibit more mettle
than to admit such fear, denying Nirvana exists
simply because we are stuck here in such a fine fettle.
And so we abide...
even in life, staring out across that dark brink.
And if the thought of death makes your questioning heart sink,
it is best not to drink
(or, drinking, certainly not to think) .
Originally published by Light. Keywords/Tags: Philip Larkin, Aubade, abide, death, mortality, depression, religion, drink, drinking, drunk, drunkenness, alcohol, addiction, fear, fettle, mettle, Nirvana, solitude, curtal sonnet