Long Ill equipped Poems
Long Ill equipped Poems. Below are the most popular long Ill equipped by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ill equipped poems by poem length and keyword.
Eyes pucker and swell
Erupting with tears
Of pleasure or joy?
But who is to know?
The quivering lips
And trembling hands
Equipped with cotton
To swab the overflowing
Excretions from eyes and nose
Of pleasure or joy?
Is it for me to be
The analytical master
Of this robust emotional
Human puppeteer.
Alas alone struggling
With unbridled emotions
Of pleasure or joy?
Why some choose to cull
All emotion for private
Yet others ill equipped
With self control cannot
Quell the tearjerking
And public displays
Of pleasure or joy?
The loveless and the lonely
The defeated and lost
No one to judge
No cross to bare
But I surmise at times
Through life's unparalleled
Roller coaster it is to be not
Rejected not ignored but
Simply admired from afar
As an uncontrollable impulse
Of pleasure or joy?
The result of which commands
The same tearful over dramatized
Actions whether private or on
Display for passers by to discern.
My eyes swim up from a tangled seaweed
of long forgotten data.
Now I remember that instead of going home
I stayed on at that topless bar.
I am unprepared for future-shock, ill-equipped
to decipher questions, that like shaggy owls
hoot in a darkening lecture hall.
I used to panic myself awake at such times
but this reoccurring dream has become a parody,
a Dahliesque floor show of every
melting pants-down moment.
I have been dreaming
of my post-graduate thesis
it rides still on a city bus,
where I carelessly left it.
Passengers sit on it as they come and go;
the unfinished manuscript
is deeply indented with butt cheeks.
From far North Vikings came in ships,
to plunder the church's gold
and monks in fear were ill-equipped
only peace since days of old
These Vikings came to English soil
brought death and shattered bone
with horns to blow that cause turmoil
as misery was at home
To the forest dark twelve monks had ran
to flee the Viking pain
A lonely Knight would make a stand
no question of monk's shame
Firm and fierce as death comes toward
he stood on sacred ground
with prayer's wish and sharpened sword
he drew his blade around
An axe in Viking hands convey
a fear within the church
The evil came without delay
to vanquish peasants from the earth
With blood, they rid the church of gold
left dead across the ground
and body of a Knight so bold
before they cut him down
With a sword upon his chest, he died
to save the monks who'd run
The honor did his anguished cries
attends the setting sun
Within the burning English walls
did lay a virgin bride
In her last breath, she grasps the hand
of her Knight, who bravely died
contest Form B
12/18/16
Wind plots path confronts tree micro-mass mole,
Legions of leaves, twigs, armored branches whole,
Ill-equipped convictions were extensive,
Stamina, held, losses were intensive.
Sun floats freely above and takes delight,
Wielding its rays, every way, all its might,
Shines through numerous limbs abandoned truth,
Dries foundation, steep its fingers, soiled root.
Rain downpours, floods, futile and unyielding,
Guilty stands accused, exposed, unfeeling,
Its decay, branch, leaves fall, full exposure,
Typical tree, being plain, disclosure.
Commonality as being a tree,
Frail, hail, fail, sail, parts of my history.
2019 October 06
From the North, they came in wooden longboats,
to the monastery of Lindisfarne. A Kingdom of Northern Brine
to plunder the church and steal its gold.
The priests had their blood splattered too ill-equipped to fight
as they were fragile and old.
A marriage was taking place at the time of the raid,
between a Noble Knight and his bride. There was no place
to run no place to hide, no one to give them aid.
The Vikings brought death and a horrifying day, they
caused a wailing that chilled to the bone. The stench from
the dead danced on the wind where the bodies lay, as misery
and torment were never alone.
A battle axe in a Vikings hands brought fear to the priests
and their church, they spared none, splattered their blood
onto the stone floor, set fire to the door.
The Knight stood alone as his death came toward him,
as he faced the axe in mail-covered skin and never retreated
as his death rushed in.
He died...his blood-soaked blade lay across his chest, and his
honor held through his anguished cry of pride.
Within the burning walls of the church's death knell
lay his bride, next to her Knight where her body fell.
This was the day when two worlds would collide
and sent shockwaves through the Kingdom land-wide.
The wrapes of Grath adorn the path that slammer klingks had tread
when turning spades in everglades to flosticate the dead.
Along the way the snorbels bay at freebled sprutelned
that boogeymen had once again uphove above the shed.
The buildings tall that housed the krawl are pictured carved in stone
and all that’s left is now bereft of wrapes that might atone
for scabs that feed our wrinkled breed, distraught and lying prone.
Yes, flonk replaces merpeled traces deep inside, alone.
There’s no retreat from incomplete, so durbies never dared,
but streaped instead beneath their bed with franjent fangs unbeared;
they knew the past could never last although the trumpets blared,
for doogies, stripped, were ill equipped, no longer bald or haired.
Like cavaliers with gougejent spears, well triggered for a tiff,
slank vankulures with silver spurs embussed for grimp and griff
(no question why, for “we can’t die”, the oft regleated riff);
with little fuss the blunder bus krunged glimpfly off the cliff
and fetid breet of grim defeat gave Grath its final whiff;
the catapult had one result, all life lay lazelled stiff.
The plastic waves that washed the graves, now homeland for the rutch,
though faring worse when quenching thirst with warples in the hutch
were nonetheless, as frunks confess, so pleasant to the touch
exturbing sinks that watered wynx and onetime life as such.
Like burning blotters slurping waters, skindles sipped their fill
from koozing cracks between the tracks inhumed beneath the hill,
then spawned the spores of Grathic wars that profit from the kill;
their victory tales, like crimson crails, reside in dung and dill.
Those scrilly clouds that cowed the crowds neath radiation snapes
left little less than watercress beneath their coffin’s drapes;
yes, those unborn cannot adorn the pallor of the prapes
so scrundlemun tinge bibberun, we ones who reap the wrapes.
Yes, now-abandoned hetzelspan were once in time embroiled
with merikained that firps extained until the weather roiled.
What more, perchance, can happenstance inflict upon the koiled
when pendlesnips are in eclipse and wrapes of Grath are soiled?
Introspection (fiction)
It is my fault that I am now here alone, puzzled, and afraid.
No one else plus a million others could have brought me here.
Terror is an understatement for what I feel inside my troubled soul.
Reeling like an ill equipped water vessel on the high seas of never land.
Only God in His infinite wisdom and mercy could alter this dreaded course.
Speeding through caves, gutters, valleys, and pits, I'm like bats out of hell;
Pain has attached itself like glue, and now renders me hopeless and void.
Excitement does not reside here; peace and harmony are prowling ghosts.
Comedy is like curses that strike like deadly snakes; no one laughs here.
Time has forgotten its role and left me ticking in a timeless tunnel of memories.
I can only plea for God’s mercy, because no kind souls would ever be caught here.
Only the bad and the ugly ever reach the depths to which I have fallen, but I keep calling.
No, not never, did I expect to arrive in this place, this state, or in this deep hole of doom and gloom
06242016 PS Contest, Introspection by John Hamilton
The ill-equipped revolutionaries fought and died to set this nation free.
Against all odds they triumphed sending George's troops back across the sea!
The precious freedoms we cherish today were won due to their staying power.
It can truly be said of those courageous men that - "This Was Their Finest Hour!"
Men in Yankee blue held the line at Gettysburg with unwavering resolve.
Mr. Lincoln steered a steady course that a united nation might again evolve.
Alas, it took a fearful toll and bled the nation of its youthful flower.
Valiant men died to make others free - "This Was Their Finest Hour!"
In June of Forty-four, brave men stormed Normandy's shore to force a breach.
Heroic American soldiers forfeited life and limb upon that crimson beach.
They took a noble stance in order to knock the tyrannical Axis out of power.
History books will record forevermore that - "This Was Their Finest Hour!"
During the tense decades of the Cold War, dauntless warriors were on alert,
To protect and defend our priceless liberties that others sought to subvert.
Like a sturdy oak they didn't bend nor did they deign to cower!
A grateful nation will ever proclaim that - "This Was Their Finest Hour!"
Valorous American troopers yet today strive to uphold freedom's cause,
To stem the tide of terrorism that seeks to impose its despotic laws,
To bring peace to embattled peoples and install just leaders to power.
'Twill be told in generations to come that - "This Was Their Finest Hour!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
My eyes swim up from a tangled seaweed
of long forgotten data.
Now I remember that instead of going home
I stayed on at that topless bar.
I am unprepared for future-shock, ill-equipped
to decipher questions, that like shaggy owls
hoot in a darkening lecture hall.
I used to panic myself awake at such times
but this reoccurring dream has become a parody,
a Dahliesque floor show of every
melting pants down moment.
I have been dreaming
of my post-graduate thesis
it rides still on a city bus,
passengers sit on it as they come and go;
the manuscript is deeply indented
with butt cheeks.
Ukraine is putting up a brave fight and is not giving in
A two finger salute to that murderer, Vladimar Putin
For eight months now they've held out in their cities
Dispite missiles, murder, rape and other atrocities.
Putin thought he had the most powerful and efficient army
If you believe that garbage you'd be bordering on barmy
They're inefficient, ill equipped, and cowardly in battle
When Ukraine advances they quickly retreat from trouble.
As winter approaches he's trying to demoralise the nation
By sending orders to his vile Orcs to bomb a power station
The west must send generators to help ease their plight
Along with more weapons to help, brave Ukrainians fight.
The grain shipments to poor nations is now under threat
That man is sub human and how much lower can he get?
Like the Roman empire and the Nazis big cracks will appear
Putins Russian empire will crumble and eventually disappear.
The Russian army has a long yellow streak down its back
It fires missiles indiscriminately when it's under attack
No thought for human life be it kids, women or old men
Sanctioned in that scum ridden place, they call the Kremlin.
Putins campaign for more troops is not going too well
No decent minded Russian wants to go into that hell
He's recruiting in prisons, along with the old and the lame
Putins cannon fodder and for Ukraine they're fair game.
We must not let Putin succeed, with his 'special operation'
He must think we're stupid; it's war against a peaceful nation
I have every faith in brave Ukraine and in the end they will win
There will be no Russian victory, and hopefully the end of Putin.
Victory to Ukraine.
Written on 1st November 2022.