Long Grappling Poems
Long Grappling Poems. Below are the most popular long Grappling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Grappling poems by poem length and keyword.
PIECES TOGETHER
realisation
influences
multiplied
& a genuine
opportunity
fresh
elements
look elsewhere
to reimaginings
blending
a transcription
with a sense
of the precarious
encouraged to drift
among
a multitude
of deviations
&grappling
to find&
probe
&breathe
in the
meditative quality
encounter & be
refreshed
by
the
lyrical
&unexpected visual
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
In This Brief Moment In Time
Intriguing thoughts race within my hurried mind
A moment of retrospect, perhaps lost in a memory
Grappling with many strange emotions of all kinds
These memoirs I hold dear, echoes of my own story
In this brief moment in time
Light of day beams into my sleepy closed eyes
In the realm between reality or lost in a dreamscape
Body quivers from the cold, dreaming slowly dies
Awareness slowly creeps into my mind as I awake
In this brief moment in time
Memories of past events forever lost in time
As I struggle with the voices within my mind
As If the shadows of my soul would define
The answers to such queries I should find
In this brief moment in time
The deafening quiet that envelops this room and my soul
Effigies of who I have become, in this universal womb
Of all of life’s lessons that may have taken their toll
Encased in all thoughts in my subconscious entombed
In this brief moment in time
Sitting alone with my thoughts, no aspersions to be cast
Confidence eludes me, too many questions that I ask
My mind races with the worrying mistakes of the past
To carry this burden I do is such a worrisome task
In this brief moment in time
grappling thoughts
on the edges of dusk
my mind as full
as this moon
rising up
I watch
mesmerized
from the window's panes
as the sky erupts
in crimson and mauve hues
as the blushed moon rises
beyond the skirt
of sloped hills
just above the curves
of the river's beds
i can almost hear
the swiftness of its current
in frames of mind
as i watch the eagle
swooping downward
for a fresh meal
memories escape
from the corners of lips
as i reminisce
in the breaks
of waves and smiles
suddenly i transcend
to another time
another place
frolicking
from deep within
like a mudlark
unearthing treasures
long ago lost
somehow
finding peace
in the dusk
of this evening
i escape
the reality
of solitude
before darkness falls
upon me again
in the shadows
of yesterday
April 6, 2020
Mary Moorman took a Polaroid snap of
John Kennedy at the exact moment he
received his fatal head wound. Her
picture has fuelled many conspiracy
theories.
I’m inclined to opine
(it’s a passion of mine –
to conclusions you’ll think me
a jumper)
that assassins abound,
widely scattered around,
and they’re thicker than bugs
on a bumper!
In this photo alone
sniper gunmen unknown,
and it only takes looking
to nail ‘em.
(Boy, if I’d been around
when those witches were found,
they’d a made me the mayor
of Salem!)
Take that guy on the stairs
who’s been snapped unawares
(you would see, if we had him
in slo-mo):
he’s a pal of Rosselli,
‘cos I’ve seen him on telly,
and I’m outing him now – Perry Como!
And the perp on the plinth
with the sleazebag named Cynth –
he’s a Russian, with codename
“Zapruder”.
Wait – she’s “Marilyn”, yes?
Geez, why didn’t I guess?
Then he obviously must be …
Ry Cooder!
Between Badge Man and Ry
there’s a big hairy guy,
who is clearly preparing
to shoot.
Why can’t anyone see?
Ngo Dinh Diem, obviously –
he’s disguised in a chimpanzee suit!
Where the pergola ends –
it screams out at you, friends –
near where Cynth and Zapruder
are grappling,
waits a killer from Cuba
with poison-dart tuba,
dressed up as a sycamore sapling.
I’m alerting the Pope
to conspiracy dope
that’s contained in this
Polaroid snap –
What? The sapling is lush?
It’s a Texas-type bush?
Why’d you give me that
paranoid crap?
Basically I am lead, whose am I
Energized particles of energy
And if I embrace a tree
I'm engagement In energy
Spiraling from Heaven toward Earth
Like a lightning volt placed in the vessel
Define gravity group growth
Like a grappling hook suspended over the edge of a building engagement rains
I am light encased in the trees
Yet this vessel I not be
Graphite I am black comely I weave
Living energy I am
Who am I write what am I
A ? pencil wording words written messages
U C I wrote words I speak
I write my mouth speaks
My hand writes words, sentences
I am ? pencil "
11/17/24
Written words by James Edward Lee (c)2024
It passed him by how much he spent to card tap happenings
old school drunk home found wrapped on the mat again
Take it back sacks honour cracks hes grappling tryna build facts past just like he clasp vasline
How's a man last with the past world grasping him
Stuck and holding fast only things flasks masking him
Sorrows or the horrors of his making turn directions
Choosing life or exit signs emergency protection
Last glass was half assed let's make this one a winner
No rent goodbye when roof is sky a bentos pie for dinner
Tryna lean to something just to calm his own beliefs
Knowing that to pass the time
he sleeps as light release
Laugh I at the games that life plays on me
Even if sometimes I do feel like I'm drowning in misery
Totally immersed in a dark ocean
Totally immersed in my past, my past grappling my soul like a vicious demon
I wish not to let it go, for my past shall be my tomorrow
Naked does be my soul, in this love, for in it, I do feel life's genuine flow
Gainless shall you be, says to me life, but, say I to life, this love does be my logo
Gaining shall I be, in the next life, pray, this one life does be a woe
Owe I to it though, my awakening, owe I to it, the dawning that futile is even sorrow
My strength does lie in my belief
My path does be only my own
My love does be unique, it does be my faith
Of it, I shall not let go, I shall rather fall deeper in its web, of such I do be prone
Lasting divine love
Stronger than life and death
Never to let go
I’ve lived here my whole life.
I work here.
Wearing slippers to work.
So fuzzy and nice.
My manager is tearing through.
Every word is nothing.
Grappling at every pause.
This room is dizzy.
Computer keyboards.
Pens and pencils.
Typing for hours.
And nothing goes my way.
Printing out blank sheets of paper.
Lunch.
Open a lunchbox.
I packed five slices of bread and a spoon.
Tiredness.
I think I left the lamp on at home.
So I drove to some town in Ohio.
A new life attached to me.
Two hours ago, I lived in Michigan my whole life.
And I was tired.
Now I’m totally awake.
My eyes are biting everything.
Everything burns.
Ohio is where you go.
On a little lunch break.
Everything is whimsical.
When you think you’ve lived in Ohio.
And no one believes you.
When autumn winds begin their whispered call
The leaves of green turn golden as they slip
Into a cycle ancient, they soon rip
From every branch, and gently start to fall
Deciduous, they shed, graceful and tall
And sleep through winter’s glacial grappling grip
As spring revives them from their frozen trip
But in this rest, new life grows strong for all
Their wisdom lies in knowing when to part
Accepting change, as beauty fades away
The cycle translates the story retold
As every ending yields a brand new start
In their loss, there’s promise of a new day
From deciduous trees that bear the cold
The grandstand is gelid by a sharp wintry breeze
Carried off from the field are the last of dead leaves
The shrill of the whistle, muffled calls from the crowd
From the tunnel stampede, metal studs echo loud.
With high, flick-tossing coin each Captain his reason
To kick-off with his mates a new rugby season.
The kicker announces starting ball high and long
And on lumbering wind sings a rugby man’s song.
Fifteen players below impatient stand waiting
Eyes fixed to the heavens, the ball falls rotating.
To arms of the hardest with sweetest possession
Grueling match has begun— the rugby obsession!
Steaming bodies in scrums, deep grunt of engagement
Weary boots grappling earth now frozen like pavement
By tackle-ruck-lineout, each man one-and-for-all
With a powerful push a try-bound rolling maul.
Players leaping for joy, heads of others hang low
Elation, deception such do rugby games go.
So Grand Final is here, a long winter has passed
The crowd and the speaker say it happened too fast;
Cut-throat right to the last; Wing, Second Row to Prop
A try, then conversion, to make every heart stop.
(Far left of the uprights flew last quiet ball spent
but with westerly drift over black dot she went!)
…
And with sweet summer grass blowing crisp in the sun
where butterflies frolic, spider webbing is spun
White sidelines are missing, fields all ripe, rich ‘n’ green
Rugby season has passed, but young spirits are keen
A rugby ball punted, a lone boy, polished boots
To play for his country, his dream built on grass roots.
-------------------
Alexandrine Poem in balanced six syllable cesurae for each 12 syllable line