Long Goad Poems
Long Goad Poems. Below are the most popular long Goad by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Goad poems by poem length and keyword.
My gorge rises, my blood boils.
Exasperated I bite my envenomed tongue.
Incensed I spout mad words
that have no meaning
defending my attitude,
maintain my poise.
I bait, fret and nag,
like a tantalizing volcano
that has yet to decide
whether to erupt or not.
Don't answer me back,
Twill only fan the flames
of my irritable ire.
For if I erupt, then
there is no going back.
Don't goad me into a quarrel,
my lava burns.
So beware.
She leaves never to return.
Good.
After all what is she?
A lazy domestic cleaner
that performs half the work assigned
And get paid in full for it.
My wife smiles.
She’s glad the cleaner is gone for good.
She is too sexy for comfort.
And we have the prophetic word more fully confirmed, to which you will do well to pay attention as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts. (2 Peter 1:19)
And where, my dearest, where might your star be?
We spend our days afloat and rudderless -
have no true sense of north, nor light to see.
The intellect engages to assess
prophetic writings there within God’s
word, which does not penetrate, we must confess.
More often though, we find ourselves at odds,
fully convinced the path we choose is right;
confirmed within our minds, we need no rods
to goad us from the darkness toward the light.
Which star up in the sky commands your eyes?
You must look up to keep it in your sight!
Will you place trust in that which rusts or dies?
Do you prefer the company of fools?
Well spent, would seem, a consult with the wise.
To live a life like this is but a trap;
pay not the pharisee for his advice.
Attention to the shoulds and oughts can sap
as much as draining blood from turnips twice.
To what or whom might our attention turn?
A star of greatest worth, of course - a
lamp thus filled and trimmed, prepared to burn,
shining a small reflection of its source.
In truth, all scripture points us to this star -
a light come to a world in greatest need.
Dark is man, and darker still, his heart:
place the Morning Star would have set free.
Until the light breaks forth, in trespass lost,
the true depth of his need not understood,
day after day, he fails to count the cost,
dawns not on his small thoughts, or even could.
And then, in but an instant, he is changed:
the monergistic workings of our God.
Morning brings mercies new, no more estranged;
star bright and lifted high, his visage awed,
rises bright, majestic in his power.
In a day stretched toward eternity,
your blood, once shed, illuminates our
hearts; El Elyon, the only star for me.
I confess, no deliberate intent, yet often wonder
what spurs me to nudge, goad, coax, et cetera
despite modesty regarding
ably linkedin words for others to ponder
more often than not experiencing nonresponder.
Without lofty literary ambitions,
more so stream of consciousness abandonment
yours truly rests content
to cobble, gamble, noodle... courtesy
swifty tailored stylishly harried element
mild mannered modest gent
bumbling along boulevard of
broken (po' whet) dreams intent
far less superman than Clark Kent
exercising mental cogs and wheels meant
merely to liberate momentary overconfident
zealous spontaneous inspiration,
albeit ordinarily quiescent
ex post facto concluding
equals time most salient
direct object lesson learned
lame, insipid, feeble resultant
effort generates undercurrent
aghast how rapid (think lightspeed) went.
Yours truly his own worst critic aware
how avast mein kampf replete with bare
inducent to tap into latent fledgling clear
propensity to express creatively, I declare
bonafide potential to join pantheon excelsior
reserved for established authors within their
respective canon, genre, league...,
nonetheless an obvious flair
seemed evident perhaps coalesced
when in utero biological gear
yielded wiggly, ugly, scrawny,
quirky Harris heir
(sole son and second of three offspring)
an older and younger sister,
which introverted brother bullies
did constantly jeer
token scapegoat suffered
one after another kingly leer
pushing psychological state near
precipice off into dock side of moon,
who sought (wharf far art grim reaper) to pier
without naked qualm evincing
one very bony rear
without sympathy merely spells severely
pockmarked psyche therefore
impossible mission to set tattered self esteem
tacked toward in opposite direct where
dark shadow of doubt doth not veer
me into apathetic, horrific, pathetic...
suicidal mental state of yesteryear.
The best poetry stays silent and deep
It cries for attention below still waters
Each one melting into oceans weeping
I still fish poorly in infinity’s pool
With no reward that satisfies
How the fishees goad me cruelly
Titles of poems swim beneath
Above this captain surrendering
Then fragments of stanzas bequeath
I take in my morning catch
Fillet and debone them into lines
Till the blade parse thoughts
My unskilled lines always snap
But the hours in between recede
Tugging fruitlessly my line's gaps
The more I go fishing with a net
Tempting manic thoughts gather
Inspire me as Jesus did to Peter
The best poetry needs no hook
Leave the white whale port side
Cast starboard into faith’s pools
But I doubt the Lord’s mastery
Bereft without empty nets or baits
I dive without wit into the mystery
If I pull up a catch each dour day
Perhaps I will tire of idle fishing
Careless of a spare haul turning gray
I’ll hang tunas and shrimps on a board
Hoping not to care if poems are unsold
Catching and releasing every word
Becoming a fine fishmonger fishing his soul
** Sorry for the deluge of poems. I'm trying to write a poem a day this month just to hammer down each poem straighter. I'm obsessive about getting it just right and hating nails that stick out.
Everyone has a place they are coming from
Don't goad the horse when it won't run.
I detect sorrow in your eyes
Because there were no alibis.
(chorus)
All the reasons why
You gave it your last try
The only way to forgive yourself
is to take the past off the shelf
It's worthwhile when you pause
Trace the roots, trace the cause
Find a peace under God's sky:
When you know the reasons why.
Our mind is a spectator, but we're also on the stage
We adlib the lines, when we can't find the page.
There's a gap between who we are and who we wish to be.
Who we are is how we deal with that discrepancy.
Some blame others for that gap
Some blame it on fortunes mishap
Some say they meant it all along
Convince themselves there's nothing wrong.
You can replay the movie in your mind
Facing facts can feel unkind
Still, tracing causes breaks the chain,
So you won't show that side again.
All the reasons why,
The thoughts we hide, the truths we deny.
And if your heart can heal again,
It starts with seeing where it’s been.
We’re all just travelers on our own
Kicking ourselves for what we should have known.
At least we have to try.
To find out the reasons why.
Poetry has left me again
I’ve bled the hills and trees for words
I’ve searched for verbs in the hours
When someone fills the emptiness
I will have no need for pronouns
No talk or fragments fulfills you
I woke frenzied in the morning
Put on headphones to muzzle thoughts
Anything but to hear your silence
When coffers are empty of nouns
I scrape the bottom of the barrel
Hoping for slick prepositions
You goad me to write an opus
To paint my vain adjectives true
To color not wanting replies
Resurrect wordly as Jesus did
Real as adverbs without fullness
To ascend to servers in glory
Craft a mind razor-sharp each day
Cutting through pronoun’s bull
Swinging conjunctions as swords
This poem has hemorrhaged me
I’ve bled for you till nothing’s left
Grammar paler with my emptiness
Careless of my prideful sharpening
Decimating mourning subjects
Fill me when objects go empty
*** Ecclesiastes 1:2
'Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher, vanity of vanities! All is vanity.'
He stumbles toward the neon light,
shoulders hunched, face out of sight.
It's not respect he seeks, but space
to rest awhile, just need a place.
"But don't get Jeeter's place, he's mean,
and Mary Sue ain't all that keen."
There's hieararachy out on the streets,
abandonment in all he meets.
His life is played from score to score;
it doesn't goad him anymore.
He held the world but let it slip
while grasping for another hit
of that white bliss it always gave
while seeking its next hungry slave.
He'll make his bed on winter's street,
buy some pills for a sweet sleep;
with week-old news to keep him warm,
moonlight to kiss his tortured arm.
“Strings of thoughts in my mind oft stream,
Asleep or half awake, like a dream
That soars in a while to the sky
Soon after I open my eyes.” By Author
*****************************************************************************************************************************
My Dream Within a Dream
Lost in slumber, deep and still
I dream of a journey uphill
Strewn with thick thorns on the way
A scorching sun all through the day
Wild winds whirling without cease
Oft slogging with bruised knees
Left to my own destiny
With no soul to goad me
As to brave the storms I strive
And at day`s end to survive
The view ahead of me is bright
Offering a picturesque sight
Each step I trudge raises me up
Leaving worries in a cup
With each step up, the air grows sweet
Though heavier become my feet
Yet I move, pulled by rays of hope
As the peak beams with new scope
Just when at top of the hill
Wild winds hurl me downhill
I quite wake up in sweats, with fright
Half asleep, under the moon`s light
I wonder with a soft scream
If life is a dream in a dream
An uphill battle to wage with steam.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.
And I stood there, wondering which one to peruse.
One was less traveled, and the other one looked good.
But which one would lead me to my muse?
I looked to the left, I looked to the right,
Both paths seemed to stretch on to no extend.
I pondered and pondered with all my might.
Which road would be my ultimate friend?
The one to the left was dark and unknown.
A challenge that I couldn't resist,
The one to the right was well-worn and shown.
A safe bet that I couldn't dismiss.
I weighed the pros and cons of each road.
And finally, I made my final choice.
I followed the one that seemed to goad
My adventurous spirit rejoices.
As I walked down the path less traveled,
I felt my heart start to sing.
The journey ahead may be unraveled,
But it was the path that made my soul ring.
Written: June 06, 2023
You are a divine creative inspiration to me, one that never ceases to amaze
all encouragement is mine when you catalyse my poetry with your displays
of guiding light, you are like a vaccine shot in the arm when you goad my ways
Motivated to the hilt you rouse my stimulus and help me to present myself
you are my lift, my boost, my perfect little helper kind, my secret magic elf
and thanks to you I own a happy flow, a writers afterglow an inspo self
You are my incitement and my provocation, my little willful spirit of excel
sweeter then honey more scented then Channel No 5 on the wrist pell-mell
you got something I cannot live without , something I can touch and smell
You're an afflatus of divinity a subterfuge and there is no monkey business with you
you put intent in all that you do and each time I write you come to visit me anew
we follow each other in parallel route, and there is no mistaking what we can do
You blow onto my senses like breath on a feather and you tether my creative passions
an impelling mental force that you are, you are right as rain without portion or ration
when you bestow and offer all you got, you enable me to write with thought and action.
Feb. 27, 2020
Pick-A-Title, Vol 14 - Tristich -