Long Haltingly Poems
Long Haltingly Poems. Below are the most popular long Haltingly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Haltingly poems by poem length and keyword.
I dream fragments of poetry,
my pen balanced in my hand,
journal opened to that page
already darkened
with blots of frustration,
asterisks for seemingly important ideas,
collections of words and phrases
intended for collage and inspiration,
pleas for clarity.
My poems appear haltingly,
in bits and pieces
written in several colors of ink,
each suited to the nature
of the several ideas that flit
through my paper mind:
vermillion extracted from cinnabar,
thinned with vodka for my good days;
palest sky-blue from the seed of the avocado
bathed in water and lye,
for those times when I know I can fly;
ocean-blue ultramarine
ground from lapis lazuli,
used carefully when I feel a need for absence;
brown leached from oak galls
steeped in acidic water,
yielding ink such that when employed,
dissolves the paper
beneath the words I have written,
leaving a lacework of poetry;
yellow from crushed petals of the marigold,
soaked in tears for when I am confused,
noir-black dipped from the depths
of my melancholy.
The final poems,
the ones I can live with,
come into focus
only after passage through
the fermentation of language
essential for developing notes
of flowers, stones, and juniper.
Only then are they shared.
.
She laid poised
'pon mine bedroll
Eyne beaming
lips
displaying
with sweet wide smile
hern pearls
My kneez were buckling
whilst mine eyne slithered
her twisted torso
‘Exposing with relish she wuz
hern hale haunch
Cocksure’
What lover uv write
Would ignore
This share
Uv i
“mine two digits
tap tap
tapping
‘pon this machine
Whilst mine other
duke’s two digits
pulled
Haltingly with excite
her
bikini bottom’s bowed
string”
*Cocksure: overly confident
Hale: sound; free from defect
I’ve started getting emails
That I cannot read a word of.
They’re written in a language
That perhaps I’ve never heard of.
The writing looks like Arabic,
Not in my realm of knowledge.
In high school I learned Spanish
And a little French in college.
I read some Hebrew haltingly,
But this is not related.
I wonder how to get
This enigma investigated.
For why is someone sending me
A message in a tongue
That’s alien to me and
Other emails it’s among?
I’m getting these from several names,
All sounding vaguely Persian.
To read one single word, I’d need
Rosetta Stone immersion.
I’m pretty sure this isn’t Spam,
But I wish they’d recede.
I’d rather open emails
With a message I can read!
Unblinking reflexive opinions lean
indubitably, favorably and certifiably
with minimal pandering soliciting
uber voodoo yawping woos
socially quintessentially obviously markedly
consciousness brakes alignment
defining mine political views
loosely yet not strictly, jerry-rigged,
hidebound Democratic
fealty haltingly pledged ones and twos
to roster of candidates
slated to challenge incumbent Republicans
all to quickly accused,
sans participating sinister ruse
this active voter puzzled at controversial
eye opening ex post facto
fractious, governmental
harmfully injuriously jaw-dropping
suppression within top secret queues
during nasty donkey kong braying p's and q's
(case in point) scurrilous, opprobrious,
and malodorous Clinton administration,
where (based upon my recent perusing
"The Peoples History” –
me strongly endorses
(authored by Howard Zinn news
worthy revelation, (whose recounting
atrocious, calumnious, egregious
glaring ignominious knowledge
jackbooted, mandated, predicated
on blind trust, essentially billeted
charade, facade, inlaid faux Hope loose
bandied cutthroat gratuity legislation
favoring pandering "pork" via
pretentiousness to wealthy gentiles Jews
abandoning average civilians snuffing out
sputtering, grousing, and hoo's
flick erring tapering fuse
whereat this news worthy informed citizen
totally tubularly unaware of any clues
pertaining to antithetical maneuvers,
(loo win ski) shenanigans, and undertakings
today yields genuine boo's
toward Clinton, where I despondently feel
he renegged promises
made to electorate (except top 1 %) got souled
(sold) to remaining 99% cheapest bidders
as-sized thirteen duff heated no nothing
sneezing Schnorrers
spluttering phelgm at me at-chews.
The whole of my life is rather mundane, endured only until those few minutes gained; Yes, granted reprieve from this daily drudge, and allowed for the nonce, even if begrudged, to hold a feather,very sharp, to write with the tip. Slow and steady like a man taking sips…from the water of life after a long weary trip.
When all the gears are lubricated, operating efficiently, and the needs of the world weigh on someone else, the mechanism of creativity connects with the crenelated cog of self.
Dominoesk works cause my hand to haltingly write. Heart to mind, mind to body, body to hand, hand to quill…okay, so it's a keyboard, alright.
Emotion, like sand after a beach trip, pours forth from places usually dark, not seen, unlit.
Using that water of life and the sands of emotion, I build my castle with words and notions.
Intricate battlements, portcullis, bailey , and arrow loops. Protection from arrows of interruption, darts of responsibility, and soldiers of the Soup.
Until, Inevitably the drawbridge is breached, the end of my time finally reached.
Slowly I surrender my feather sword, in this messy, mixed metaphorical world.
The oven timer beeps and the phone rings, bringing me back to my life of mundane things.
Stripped of the one
Whose existence gave his life
Its energy, shape and motivation
There he sat with curtains drawn
The flickering screen his sole companion
Trying to blot out
The monotonous thrum of mourning
Murmuring in his mind
Painful and prolonged.
The pharmacy.
He had to go to the local pharmacy
Heaving himself heavily from his chair
And hauling on his white coat
Now seeming more like a spectral shroud
He took his stick before opening the door
When the sunlight struck his eyes.
Haltingly and woodenly walking
Knowing in his heart
That he was going through the motions
Like a well rehearsed but tired actor
Reciting his oft repeated lines
And obeying the stage directions
There in the pharmacy
To receive his medication
For his physical pain
With nothing for his inner emptiness
Of soul.
Back he hobbled home
Dreading the closing of his door.
It’s a five-hour round trip,
What with the ferry, shuttle, a
Twenty-minute walk, sometimes the bus,
Just to see him for a couple of hours.
Sometimes he’s not doing well
Or is sleeping while I’m there.
It’s been such a long time!
First there was the back operation.
They said it went well, that soon I
Could see him in the recovery room.
But then he had the stroke!
Those weeks in intensive care
When they kept asking him
Every hour if he knew his name,
His birthday, his middle name,
The president, the year!
At least he could answer, if
Only haltingly. When the pain
Was dulled, he slept,
So lethargic it was scary!
He developed pneumonia,
Fluid around the lungs, too,
And had to have a drain,
Along with all the IVs,
And so many tests! EEGs,
X-rays, scans, ultrasounds,
Over and over again!
Finally, release to a room
Out of the ICU, but still tubes
And tests and more tests!
We sat by his bed, day after day,
Watching him sleep or trying
To engage him in conversation.
Putting his bed up, putting it down,
Getting nurses to reposition him,
Wetting his mouth with sponges,
Taking turns to get a break.
Then, after thirty-one days,
At last, to the rehab hospital!
Progress, pain, setbacks, complaints
(Who wouldn’t complain?)
At present he’s making small steps.
He is able to swallow all right,
So no more pureed food!
He can stand for a short time
In the standing frame,
A little longer this week than last!
The physical therapy is slow and
Sometimes discouraging,
Retraining those unused muscles.
Certainly it will be many weeks yet,
But now I can see a future when
He will come back home to us,
To me and to his beloved
Bernese Mountain Dog, Andy,
And his cats, Sweetie Pie and Sophie,
And he’ll be back to his old self again!
A splintering wood staircase, a dilapidated door to an old Gothic-type mansion. I stood before an unfamiliar dwelling, totally betwixt as to how I had gotten there. Startled, I began to rise, floated up, the entrance seeming immediately to dissolve, allowing me free unfettered ingress. Then I began walking haltingly down a dismal corridor, eerily lit; passing illuminated cutouts in the walls, both sides of me, unnerving windowed enclosures. Scenes one would expect to see at a serpent or spider exhibit. A dimly lit, cave-like atmosphere. A funnel of consuming darkness. View after view, were accompanied by hideous cries of pain, a grotesque harmony. Each theme was of a similar skeletal landscape, which I surveyed in pitiful sequence. Topography where leafless trees, with elongated trunks and limbs that were the extremities of once independent, living beings, had become trapped, rooted in an otherwise barren, forsaken dimension. Desolate. Suffering, emaciated creatures struggling to free themselves from what appeared a hellish captivity. Reptilian hisses...desperate articulations demanded of me: "Priest, why are you here!? Light as we have never seen before." My reply, "I do not know... I mean you no harm. Please, do not fear this intrusion." At the end of the hall unaided parted a curtain, myself feeling propelled deeper into unfathomable terror, pushed forward by an unseen protagonist with the evil essence of a far-bleaker, danker, unholy colony. In the center of the room, on the floor swiveled a medusa head, with undulating serpents for hair, gaping mouths dripping venom. "What do you want with us," authoritatively questioned the hideous amputation. I responded, "Please, do not fear me. I mean you harm. I don’t have the slightest idea as to how I arrived here, nor why I was sent. "Paul Lucius David. Do you know this name?" More sternly, the fiend demanded: "Paul Lucius David, do you know this name?"-- seeming now perplexed as I. "I truly do not know of whom you speak," my honest response. "Hmm…you will come to know this name. You will come to know this name." And just as mysteriously, I was back, seated on the edge of my bed.
A tree in the hills felled by the summer storm
river in spate carries from cascade to cascade.
Deskinned trunk haltingly moves to the bank,
sticks in mud and boulder the water deposits.
Next rains come, the river sweeps the banks.
The log floats in delight, starts to travel again,
likes to reach adrift the destination unknown.
Unanchored, it doesn’t know what the past is.
My life uprooted by the squall of rough times
drifts like a floating log, finds no hands to hold,
seeks new course for an uncertain end to reach.
Unpossessed, I don’t know what attachment is.
I float on freedom, time takes me in its course,
I make my mooring, hold on as long as I want.
People say I am a vagabond, a fallen drift wood.
Unbound, I’m glad, my memory has no memory.
September 24, 2017.
Contest : Form V - Verse Me a Poem.
Sponsor : Broken Wings.
Weak and tired I fall on rough cobbled stones.
Blood oozed down my face across my cheekbones.
My knees are bruised and pain spreads from my brain,
The wooden bar hurt my back again.
Man must learn as I accept my bad fall.
The time must come for you to confess all.
I fall but sinless I still bear your sins,
Get up, repent and a new life begins.
Still, I suffer as lashes hit my back,
For soldiers hate and like a wolfish pack
They just wish me to arrive up on the hill
Whilst Pharisaic zealots curse me ill.
Yet I speak not one sole word nor complain.
I suffer pain and pray all are not in vain.
Sturdy hands roughly urge and lift me up.
Gives me my cross, and I drink my bitter cup.
I came to save humanity from hell,
That I might see you all in Heaven dwell.
Haltingly I trudge on the cobbled rocks,
Die on a cross. O happy paradox.