Long Grudgingly Poems
Long Grudgingly Poems. Below are the most popular long Grudgingly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Grudgingly poems by poem length and keyword.
Some social obligations must be observed, I suppose,
But some leave me unnerved and somewhat morose.
One such tribal ritual is the dreaded hospital visitation,
A social call that I approach with very little anticipation!
Usually its some guy who's a friend of a friend of my spouse,
So I grudgingly traipse along to please the lady of my house.
The hapless guy doesn't want to be there, neither do I.
I'd rather be fishing on a placid lake with my rod and fly!
Sprawled upon the bed he resembles a mummy wound in sheets,
Sprouting tubes and needles, bandaged from chin to feets.
To make conversation, I exclaim, "Gee, you're looking swell!"
My wife kicked my shin - I could barely suppress a yell!
Nursey comes by to give a shot that sets his head a-reeling.
In his stupored state he just stares blankly at the ceiling.
I can think of no words of hope or sick humor to impart.
Lord, ain't there a way I can quickly, tactfully depart?
I've oft wondered if the patient dreads the visit as much as me,
Tho' I think there's one thing on which we can both agree.
Rather than trying to cheer his soul with inane trumpery,
Just smile a lot, hold his hand and cease the humbuggery!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Tears of the past invoke frozen footprints
When fears rekindle flares of dire misery
Feeling the ache, straining blood streams
As wrinkles pop up swelling deep worries,
Holding dialogue with sustained poverty
Attempting to traverse shuttered streets--
Bent, but not broken, in grip of tragedies
Trapped in the pathos of agonizing grief
Building escape still, flexing meager means.
When in my solitude, these images I’ve seen
Awaken me hauntingly in frightening dreams,
Grudgingly I go there, where I used to be
And see a child deep in hapless poignancy
Bleeding profusely from veins melancholy
Revisiting relentlessly orphaned memories.
Time unconsciously releases those feelings
When ode to new morn happy robin sings
As sun rises gleefully from deep blue seas
And life illuminates in golden hued beams
Oscillating winds, gleaming through trees,
And I walk with pride on the bridges I built
And thank my bright stars that lit my path
Twinkling diligently to show me the light
When obscure was the face of my dark night.
Silhouettes of yesteryear are purging now
Cleansing dread with vibrancy of spring
And jitters of nightmares in aspiring dreams
Seeing new growth in parched winter land
Like flowers rise through remains of ashes
Confronting what was, with what could be.
I have staged my play to my own melodies
And the rhythms I set to my own music
No longer evoke the prompt life gave me
As I write new chapters, create new scenes
I’m planning the ending as I wish to see it:
The story that was past, my future won’t be.
December 7, 2020
Placed 1st: Catharsis poetry contest by Silent One
A rhetorical question finds me ask
king (to no one in particular) why I bask
with recollection the names of blank
exclamatory staid grade school crank
key teachers approximately
42,0480,000 breaths aye drank
fifty years ago (most whose names frank
lee listed below),
when the need to access
and retrieve
immediate necessary information
analogously interleaved
among coaxial bracts
during examinations relegated
as hopelessly lost
into interstitial invisible cranial cracks
irretrievably buried
during examinations, which age
(feels like a million years ago)
often found me seized and caged
with sudden inability to remember
any vital answers as gauged
evidenced by nothing writ
ten on paper (even including my name),
thus loosely similar as aye sit
to compose poetry,
and/or prose tempted to quit
asper defeated by resignation,
and sinking sensation in the pit
of my stomach (more so regarding orbit
ting like an unsound garden
black hole son around cold (mit
ten necessary) awful days grudgingly
handing over like a lit
till insignificant being,
a test paper devoid of academic grit
analogously surrendering
(while feeling fit
tubby tied, sense internally emit
ting abnegation sans chafing at the bit,
2.
yet no sooner did buzzer indicated test
time over, then (of course),
an instantaneous pest
that blocked chunk dramatically
flowered gloriously invoking nest
head treasured mother lode
of learned information invest
ment accounting for principle ball lanced
formerly figuratively barricaded facts
suddenly at my behest
ironically retaining to this day
dogged details amazingly,
now gracing lix spittle fist size gray
dictating academic failure
forcing laying down pen hay
for ma forgotten requisite thoughts may
king skepticism about self thrive, ray
zing mailer demons impossible to slay.
rock bottom a euphemism at best
sunken feeling of a leaden balloon
deflated burst into shrapnel of fears
they say it’s when you stop digging
the circumference of the black hole
larger than your inflated Ego mania
and then the trap door opened for more
the chisel engaged in vigorous overdrive
what a life to be had or thrown away
a rescue team waited concerned and patiently
maybe they knew better than the protagonist
of his own demise at the crossroad of pain
philosophy studies had not prepared him
nor had his grandma with her solid advice
lonely and dejected he continued to slip
out of reach even the abyss seemed distant
in dreams of death not entirely unpleasant
he understood that control was inaccessible
letting God became the only viable option
reluctantly he considered faith and acceptance
grudgingly at first let go of selfish command
Like a jelly fish, I quake
It came as the biggest blow
With a volcanic outburst
That almost broke my heart into ashes
I sneeze while shivering
My mouth aches, as my ribs quiver
Do I hear you well ma?
I echoed within and aloud at once
It was 12.48am of a May 19th, 2007
“I am fed up” she threw caution into the wind
It is the signal to end a seven years sojourn
With my once loving Thuja.
Still my ears far off my mind
Was this happening to me I soliloquy?
Reality dawn on me instantly
It was the end of a reign of my Arkhaggelos
My Thuja, of the beautiful
Lovely and lively African tree
Whom I promised to hold tighter
Without withering, until we roll in the alter
Indeed, she just altered the alter promise
I wept from my very within
Tears of which was not seen outside
It was a dream shattered
Suddenly all plans seems scattered
As I refused to be flattered
By my kinsmen’s on the said matter
What a cruel world, I ponder
Why someone would shut a door of a house
We had lived for seven years
Without blinking an eye for love
I think aloud as her voice re-echoes in my mind
“Sorry, I am fed up with everything”
I took solace within
No cause advanced for shutting the door
May be, she can’t wait no more
May be, she had my love replaced in her heart
May be and may be . . .
Still wandering in a manger of no love.
I saw the owl smiling
But still looking ugly
She pretended as If all was well
At last, the owl warbled in a fusty voice
Here comes the echo of the evil omen
On this day 19th May,2007
I grudgingly took up the gauntlet
As I close the book of my dottings
My promise to Thuja wane with fury
Alayande Stephen T.
2.45am
19th May, 2007
My personal experience, indeed, a true life story.
Axed dent of circumstances
finds yours truly liberated,
whereby no obligatory constraints
obliges forcible adherence
synchronizing Circadian rhythm
forcibly linkedin within paradigm
minutely crafting, daisy chaining
involuntarily ceding cradle to grave
man made artificial construct
(dismissing one living away
off the gridlock)
co-opting every precious moment
comprising hour quotidian existence
to sustain swiftly styled
harry tailored lifestyle
affording bajillion *****sapiens
luxury to scold frantic scramble,
freedom to scurry frantically
twenty four seven madcap rat race
formerly existing (millenniums ago)
as "noble savage"
ah...remember those glory days
now, grudgingly,
niggardly... unwittingly
compromising pleasant dreams
jarring deeply slumbering
body electric groggily awake
liberty, courtesy alarming wake up
to toil away making dem
big dearly beloved bucks
essentially entering holy grail
searching made more worthwhile
thankless fracas, fray, fraught
pitting one beasty boy against t'other
survival of fittest in overdrive
(Charles Darwin taken aback),
how origin of most ruthless species
went a courtin for dazzling,
jazzy, regal trappings
supposedly to ease
grueling laboring mind numbing
lumpenproletariat, when after
devoting, sacrificing, venerating...
prime mating years
take respite, and
hire oneself out
as independent contractor,
versus sedately pathetic mundane...
you bet your life
in relation to this
self ostracized scrivener.
Surfacing from troubled dreams
becomes a hasty reshuffling of plausible realties.
One by one, flimsy fibs are tested,
then grudgingly rejected as improbable.
There are always reasons to arise
and remain perpendicular
even though we may be still following
a horizontal dysfunctional track or trace.
Time to chew over a few words,
let flow the in-the-know and bluff
until enough is done, said, published,
bruited abroad, proclaimed
as a hear-ye ambulating truth.
Proclamations and declarations,
that indeed we are all here
listening to each other
explaining away our on-going
disorderly mental ponderings -
for of course,
psychoanalysis is far less revealing
that our daily abstracted, distracted,
rambling perambulations.
Where sleeps upon the shelf his violin
that in past with mournful tone he plucked
who woo'd a maiden fair and shaped within
the aria upon which ears had wanton supped
For now that hollow wood become an empty thing
and days her strings had sang so lovingly
its heart now dead because of loss of dream
and want of fingers who play now grudgingly
Silent now the bow and string so smoothly licked
and caught the graceful tones upon her played
time did take its toll on misery sipped
where in past her elations joys has stayed
Gone now that audience who was his care
buried in the tomb with their mosses deep
the caress of the music they did share
where both now lay in their closets sleep
Twas grievous chords that last upon her sing
whose chorus stroked reception to the ground
since that place could not himself to bring
or bless that happy wood her joyful sound
COPYRIGHT © 2010 C Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
REM(Gail's note: This is the sequel to the Email to Subby Conscience poem.)
To: [email protected]
From: Subby Conscience
Re: Communication between You and Me
Date: February 14, 2012
While I sneak and scheme in your chaotic REM
I am doing nothing more than being a friend.
Those dream-swirls and ‘mare-tugs purge your mind’s eye
so that your psyche can grow and won’t suddenly die.
While you’re gripping tightly to antique feelings that won’t budge
I’m prying them out; giving them a strong nudge.
And as you grudgingly work through a feeling or two
I am working my hardest to make you feel what is true.
I even may help you work out a solution or two
Because during the day you are too busy to.
Who else provides perks that allow you to be
both young and old in the very same dream?
So tell me dear, and answer me this.
What would you do if many nights I missed
And was sneaking around in another soul’s REM
What would your sanity be like then?
Without my help to work out thoughts
That keep you quite sane…
Would you then turn around
And try to cast blame?
Saying Subby’s absence caused you to act like a drip?
Saying Subby’s absence caused your tongue to Freudian slip?
Instead your mind can skyrocket and cozily soar
After I recede in the A.M. and work behind your mind’s door.
Published in PS: It's Still Poetry
Volume II
Mountains with vibrant floras
Led down to fruit laden orchards
In the verdant vales below.
I heard her then, a syrupy song
Of tender love and feats of old.
I stood beneath an apple tree
As her song wafted on the breeze,
Sliding in and around the fruit trees,
Scattering aromatic fragrance around.
Serendipitously I came onto a small farm.
A small river wended its tortuous way.
A small bridge took me to several patches
Where vegetation grew. I could live there forever.
All around I enjoyed the serenity
That I had craved for but rarely found.
Swiftly night descended as the moon
Rose from beyond the low hills.
How I enjoyed the evening farm food
Where I was invited and then
A good night sleep in their spare bedroom.
But morn came, and grudgingly had to leave.
Back into the heart of the city,
Large edifices, black with age.
Everywhere the smell of stale food, burning oil,
And a hint of smoked marijuana.
O to be rich and escape forever
To my lovely vale, now so far away.