Long Harping Poems
Long Harping Poems. Below are the most popular long Harping by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Harping poems by poem length and keyword.
For twenty years of nearly happy married life
he heard the harping voice of high decibel wife,
and in the process lost half of his hearing sense,
the other half now gets tense in wife’s presence.
He wouldn’t start any conversation with her ever,
for over the years the ears have become clever.
They have learnt to save the strained ear drums
from the cracking sound of wife’s vocal drums.
She once asked him to buy a kilo of tiny potato.
He rushed to the shop, bought a bag of ripe tomato.
When he found himself flushed in a hot soup bowl
the failed ears silently fanned his head to console.
When are you going to fix the garage door?
He had just gotten home from an eight-hour-day.
Was barely in the house when she began harping.
Can I please put on my comfy clothes first? He wondered.
She followed him into the bedroom.
You said you would fix it this week, she said.
He shut his eyes, trying to shut her words out.
She yipped like a dog when she was on a little roll like this.
Can I get a little snack first? He asked.
You are going to sit in that recliner all evening, she accused.
He said “I might,” and sat down with his remote.
Her mouth was yapping like a swim pool filter cover.
She was a professional hound. She could never have silence.
He had no idea of this when he fell in love with her.
Could I have just a bit of silence tonight? He asked her.
They ate their supper, and his eyes began to close.
What about the garage door? She asked him.
I don’t have the right parts, he said. It was a quick lie.
Then what is stopping you from changing the filters in the furnace?
He thought back to their dating days. She was never like this back then.
If she had been, would he have fallen in love? He did not know.
Or you could clean off that work bench of yours, she suggested.
Why did she want him to constantly do something?
He thought of the couch out in his garage, and he made his escape.
I know it is my wedding day
but I need to study the sharks a bit longer
Her mother left her then.
Her sister kept harping for a bit
Eventually wandering away too
What am I getting into? She asked the sharks.
Is he a good man, or will the evil side come out?
She had a friend whose husband turned into an abuser
The sharks swam past at a leisurely pace
She stood there for a long time, communing
They answered her in the best way they could.
I am ready, she told her father.
Are we going up the aisle or out the back door? He asked.
She loved him so, he knew her better than all the others.
She used the pretty sentences, the perfect little verbs.
People saw her smile and thought she was a sweetheart, true.
She used the proper language, careful darling lady words.
Inside she was raging mad, thoroughly angry through and through.
She woke up hard the morning of the big day with salty, sweaty blood on her lips, satisfied at last.
With the feral animal she was allowed to transform into, after the wolf howls died down.
The moon was her inspiration; allowing her feral side to come out, her soul ratified and cast.
She stalked into the kitchen, a hungry she-wolf, ready to rip her parents apart up and down.
How are you this morning? Her father asked her, not looking up from his coffee or thumb.
This infuriated her, made her want to start with him. But she was not ready yet.
Did you want some toast? Her mother asked, having no idea what was yet to come.
She decided to let them have one more hour, before the rampage of their favorite pet.
She was her glorious feral self, and it was enough for now that it was who she was and what she knew.
It was the only thing that still made sense, her being thirteen, and angry, and mad, always confused.
Her mother started harping about cheerleading practice and other stuff, she did not give credence to.
Her father looked up., smiled, and gave her a conspiratory wink, looking a bit bemused.
She was about to let them off the hook, settle down and enjoy their day.
When her wild woman side rose up and said something that made sense all around,
So she took out her choppers, and her slicers, and her dicers, and went on a hay-day.
Her parents’ screams of fright delighted her soul, as they were the kitchen’s final sounds.
Her crazy, insane feral side laughed at the frenzied mayhem she had caused, feeling happy one way or another.
She sighed loudly, releasing her imagination. “I guess I could have a piece of toast,” she told her mother.
Written July 31, 2018 Entered Feral Contest Sponsor: Anthony Slausen
Disorderly,
His confusion organized,
Grotesquely haphazard.
She never stopped complaining,
Harping him to distraction.
Even now, he had to search
For a miserable hammer.
Cellar dark,
Hands outstretched,
Light switch elusive,
He hit his head,
Against a beam.
Till he found
That for which he needed.
He hung her portrait
Smack in the middle
Of a bare wall,
Above her beloved dresser,
An antique piece which he abhorred.
He bought a lamp
And vowed it would be lit
Below the face
That looked at him
From high above,
Imploring urgently,
Almost begging him
To do better.
He took up the hammer again
He fixed the small bronze plaque
As level as he only knew how
And read the words there written:
"My beloved Mother".
He smiled.
There was no glee in my reticence
While my silence fought the bard
The heavens opened and
I peered into Poe's past
The lilies in this valley
Could not bear my harping
For they too had verses and lyres
Strung stuck on them like wasps
I was that wistful summer
And winter bore not my weight
The cold blue sky day
Was my tryst and my dreams
For surely as the moon, Poe's muse came by night
And left in a huff, like a leaf broken in half
There was no wrong or right
Just my fight broken daily
My melancholy was my morsel by day
And my reverie was no breaker of ice
For who could mend this muse
Who swam in my every heart and bruise
Who broke hearts of jade
Who was a blue lily, a stare, and a snare
It was every jackals day come
Even then, who could mend this muse
Who stared back at the mess
Of many a jackals haunt
Of broken jade and men
Everyone is forever searching for love
Some find it, then lose it, for some it lasts a lifetime
They are the fortunate ones waking up each morning
Knowing that special person will always be there
Through all that life has to offer
Rainy days as well as those bright sun filled days
When it feels like absolutely nothing
Will ever bring us down from our high
I often feel these wonderful days
Days of love, happiness, and quiet contentment
Nothing will ever equal them
They make up for all the days of turmoil and strife
I am a very loving, passionate man
Overly sensitive at times but that's not a bad way to be
If you can tolerate my constant harping on love
Then we will definitely get along swimmingly
They say it makes the world go around
Don't think a truer phrase has ever been uttered!
Here's to love!!!
© Jack Ellison 2015
Being of a nervous disposition
soothing sounds bring me calm
trapping the nerves to be still
so receive a real healing balm
The harp is my absolute fav
of all musical instruments by far
it's so therapeutic to one's body
makes one feel a real star
So melodic and quietly sounding
it lifts one's spirit way up high
makes you forget all your troubles
bringing peace even to faintest sigh
Harping so sound this truly is
my experience of it makes me glow
the world stands still as one listens
to this mellow air effortlessly does flow
Truly beautiful one can only say
the sweetest sound that can record
such bliss takes you in a dream
to cut your stress by this sword
HUSBAND IN HOT SOUP
For twenty years of nearly happy married life
He heard the harping voice of high decibel wife
And in the process lost half of his hearing sense
The other half now gets tense in wife’s presence.
He would not start any conversation never
Over the years the ears have become clever
They have learnt to save the strained drums
From the cracking sound of wife’s vocal drum.
She once asked him to buy a kilo of tiny potato
He rushed to shop bought a bag of ripe tomato
When he found himself in a bowl of hot soup
The failed ears silently fanned his head nonstop.
February 26, 2018
No! Cut this piece here!
No! Not there!
Why didn't you cut it right?
says Princess StepSister's
hyper-ventilated syndrome,
jonesing for her next pork chop.
I would have finished
but you bellowed me away
in your Ugly StepSister voice
demanding from open refrigerator door
that collard greens must stop evaporating
behind your eyes.
Ugly StepSister?
Did you just call me a StepSister?
I'm just saying
you think you're a Whatever Princess
but you don't act like one
because, as you know,
princesses are always kind
and say please and thank you
and not whatever,
and seldom if ever bark and bite
at the hands created to lovingly feed them
for the next several years;
while Ugly StepSisters
act like whatever bullies,
talk like ballistic assault weapons.
Which is why
Cinderellas are selected to dance
with Prince Charmings,
and thereby become kind Princesses,
rather than stuck in Ugly StepSister roles and rules,
harping at Prince Charming Dads
to cut their pork chops faster,
and better,
and now,
if not yesterday.
Oh...
Would you cut my pork please, in smaller pieces?
and not take your usual gimpy time, thank you.
Why of course my Princess,
I love to live your Prince Clumsy.