Long Inaudibly Poems
Long Inaudibly Poems. Below are the most popular long Inaudibly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Inaudibly poems by poem length and keyword.
Its leave fall on the garden that was never planted,
Its branches tickle the roof that was never painted.
It gives shade to the sandpit that was never christened,
Its roots encroach on the lawn that was never mowed.
It blocks the drains that were never laid.
It bears fruit that has never been tasted.
This tree that was never planted,
That inaudibly sighed,
As the people waited by the river that no longer flowed,
By a dying tree that no longer shaded,
Hoping for the rains that will never come, unaided,
Having passed them by for lands, that with trees have been upgraded,
Planted by people who were like minded,
In seeing the need for trees to be planted,
So, the rains can be taken for granted.
And Mankind not supplanted.
Foremost On My Bucket List?
Yo yo ma...though your absence
doth suddenly cause me woe,
no matter parting with
many bittersweet sorrows
long since consciousness unstrung
more'n fourteen plus years ago,
the last surviving Kuritsky
grim reaper enviously eventually snatched,
outliving demise of my Uncle Paul,
your once favorite sibling and only bro
tis grief that rankles, shackles, torments...,
thus caw zing such poetic twittering I crow
yea, this sole son bare knuckles
scraping along without dough
suddenly riven with mortal anguish -
worse fate than death - or bloated ego
willpower to live life to the max
hardened ice floe
despite promising futures
regarding thee deux daughters
that doth find me to glow
my spirit analogous to santa
deprived of his cheery, hearty
guffawing, and merry ho ho ho
yours truly seems condemned
to suffer, a worse fate
than freezing during whiteout
blizzard conditions barring
access to igloo,
brutally cold as Jupiter's Io
spirit felled by juggernaut, no
joking hence I don't feel Jew
bull, ah if yours truly knew
thee torturous emotional state threw
out every fiber upon
last fading memory...of you
unfairly condemned to suffer,
yes my lack of loo
cre immaterial, whence death
stole thee to realm afterlife queue
no doubt, a welcome reprieve aye rue
versus less cruel fate,
viz prolonged illness
comeuppance impales me
body, mind and askew
being pitched, where
adventurousness gungho fear slew,
feeling buzz with aliveness
(akin to David and Goliath)
unable to shake melancholy blue
nostalgic for underworld view
where cessation will find me
inaudibly coffin with a whew!
First Thing
The morning is quiet.
I have not yet gone outside.
I yawn inaudibly.
What will the day be like?
Will things be okay?
What should I do about?
What will happen if?
It all floods back at me.
A never ending onslaught of…
So many things I think about.
Only moments before,
peace.
Now?
Not!
I want to roll over.
I want to go back to bed.
I want to pull the covers over my head.
I want permission to stay where I am.
No one is going to give me that.
Not even me…
Work is calling.
One kind or another,
“it” knows the word or words,
used to bring me from my stupor.
Yet, I linger.
Do I have time to pray?
Four Letters Spelling Blah...
generally define mine anatomical phooey zook
corporeal status, essentially feeling like gook,
not my usual babbling brook
self, thus finds yours truly whooshing, he
could wave a magic wand (all thee
while exjaculating abra
cud dab bra, or whatever
applicable spell -
spot on - to re:),
vivify mine pathetic sluggishness,
hashtagged with nauseous
tsunami waves, and inxs,
where these nada
so lovely brittle bones,
and atrophied muscles free
quint times this day
feel robbed of lee
ping lemurs (yule
grant me hyperbolic
indulgence) spirited energy
versus experiencing hypersensitivity,
which head toot
hoe soreness analogous
(ache and burn'n ken to
contracting the Amish Flu),
where this jumpy,
manicky, persnickety, rickety,
and totally tubular ancient
tomb mess scent body
finds ordinarily endeavoring
scribe this moment tub bee,
a little horse and bug gee
(in other words), aye
experience over sizeable
(bare ten able) boots
of dizz zee
ness (as if pitched to
and fro on rough sea),
where webbed venting
helps this wordsmith
to sum men strength
tube (boo hoo)
himself from bing nsync
king mode, sans (10,000
leagues...in Dave vee
Jones locker) as a dee
pull lore hubble skidrow re
sid divest news junk kee -
do dilling with zero hap pee
go luck key
ne'er do well bummer, I...he
barely exhibits signs
of life breathe
thing inaudibly inhaling
and exhaling wei
zing all the while
with pronounced je
nais sais quois nasality
emitted racking prithee
moren slight lee
jarring with achy breaky tree
men dose skeletal pain,
thus fuhr re hiss lee,
heavily relying on wing,
and broken prayer hope fool lee
fully helping this
old codger (yepper me)
do magical wonders to re: captcha
lapsed la pas suh zoo lee
infusing this corporeal being i.e.
once again me
with spirited resurgence.
Morning Thoughts
Sunday morning, heavy mist clings to the building
the bay of Cascais is shrouded as a grief-striking widow
inaudibly her sigh, but her eyes are still sea green
Ten days ago, I made a prediction 19000 will die before Israel was sated of spilled blood,
her primitive revenge speaks of Byzantine times
Truly, Israel is a religious state
The local news tells me in the last two years
three hundred thousand Brazilians have immigrated
to Portugal this without fanfare or disapproving remark
from conservative politicians, perhaps they have yet to notice this influx, which I think is positive.
Although Brazil and Portugal are Lucio-phonic, the incomers bring more color and wake up the staid
Portugal often sinks into an abject sentimental Fado.
The Portuguese premier is suspected of corruption, has resigned but will keep his job until a new election
We suspect he will be found not guilty, although he might have had a hand in the till; other people lower in the political landscape will pay the price, but Portugal has a forgiving people, or forgetful, will see them in the assembly again
In Alentejo, there are many men-choir like in Wales, a tradition to stand under a big Carvalho clicking stones together and sing what appears sorrowful tunes
There are no Brazilians in Alentejo one wishes that some of them would come and bring music to the sad songs
Otherwise, I like Alentejo; she has the best red wine in the world, and you can't top that.
.
If a scream is left inaudibly, upon a sinking heart of confusion,
Was it to the bearer truly a scream? Or only an illusion?
If my eyes are open wide, and peeking bove' the mask,
Do others see a smiling grin, are 'smile lines' up to task?
Does a tree that falls without an ear to hear truly make a sound?
Ridiculous? I know, but see, silent heartaches now abound.
No one knows the depths but God, He see's and hears the heart,
Behind the mask, lines up to task, but deeply troubled for it's part.
What do I see, I look round me, I see a sea....humanity
In the isles of the mart, masked faces, all six feet apart,
He see's each soul right from it's start. A mind behind a wounded heart.
O God, please help me hold compassion for every soul of every fashion
Created by Your loving hand, a breath, a life You love with passion.
Can I but do one pleasant thing to help one heart, to soothe one sting?
Take the blinders from my eyes to see the sin You so despise,
That of being blind to see the pain of hurt humanity.
The corks that cause me not to hear, the silent moans of toil and fear,
That You would dwell within me here, to bless one soul, or dry one tear.
Sudden snakes in my brain
what a waste are my inaudible cries
mental welts I give myself
because I made you leave
now you hate me
screw my life
it's all just too hard to believe
Inaudibly I crumble and fall into the dirt
don't bury me, just leave me here
dead inside, inert
I died the day you left me
I'd never felt so hurt
Hope in the shape of Zoloft
just doesn't do the trick
I read our chats over and over
and the flogging bud of failure
knowing how much I lost
leaves me feeling sick
you said I was toxic maybe that's true
I only know
I've never loved anyone the way I love you
my mental mosh pit, my hodgepodge mind
I feel so much, but I'll never say
and the snakes in my brain
will probably never go away
Four Letters Spelling Blah...
generally define mine anatomical phooey zook
corporeal status, essentially feeling like gook,
not my usual babbling brook
self, thus finds yours truly whooshing, he
could wave a magic wand (all thee
while exjaculating abra
cud dab bra, or whatever
applicable spell -
spot on - to re:),
vivify mine pathetic sluggishness,
hashtagged with nauseous
tsunami waves, and inxs,
where these nada
so lovely brittle bones,
and atrophied muscles free
quint times this day
feel robbed of lee
ping lemurs (yule
grant me hyperbolic
indulgence) spirited energy
versus experiencing hypersensitivity,
which head toot
hoe soreness analogous
(ache and burn'n ken to
contracting the Amish Flu),
where this jumpy,
manicky, persnickety, rickety,
and totally tubular ancient
tomb mess scent body
finds ordinarily endeavoring
scribe this moment tub bee,
a little horse and bug gee
(in other words), aye
experience over sizeable
(bare ten able) boots
of dizz zee
ness (as if pitched to
and fro on rough sea),
where webbed venting
helps this wordsmith
to sum men strength
tube (boo hoo)
himself from bing nsync
king mode, sans (10,000
leagues...in Dave vee
Jones locker) as a dee
pull lore hubble skidrow re
sid divest news junk kee -
do dilling with zero hap pee
go luck key
ne'er do well bummer, I...he
barely exhibits signs
of life breathe
thing inaudibly inhaling
and exhaling wei
zing all the while
with pronounced je
nais sais quois nasality
emitted racking prithee
moren slight lee
jarring with achy breaky tree
men dose skeletal pain,
thus fuhr re hiss lee,
heavily relying on wing,
and broken prayer hope fool lee
fully helping this
old codger (yepper me)
do magical wonders to re: captcha
lapsed la pas suh zoo lee
infusing this corporeal being i.e.
once again me
with spirited resurgence.
Ere some three or four-odd days
Began our nature show some craze.
The people, truly afraid, to say,
Nowhere did find a place to stay.
The initial portension was a fire,
That left a pile of ashes and mire,
But no one knew whose was this ire,
That made our town a devil’s pyre.
Trembled, trembled everything!
And to and fro moved all the things,
That was bound by the earth insane,
Thus on the floor they’re strewn and lain.
I stared at the top of the furniture,
And heaved to find their stately nature,
Then moments fleeted in a quiet,
With farms and huts, being fine and trite.
No longer, though, prevailed this calm;
Crescendoed slowly omen’s hum;
Inaudibly was audible
That faintest screech of the strongest rebel.
On all directions fetish hung
To combat dread that evil flung,
And worshipped Christ’s generous hand,
“O save Thou us, our potent friend!”
But sinner must be most of them,
Or why from God did these trials stem?
Or not Him, but a freak of evil,
Did hurl a woe, so grand and ill?
There blew no air, but still fell down,
Glasses brought from a Chinese town,
A pair of steady dolls, whom loved
My cousin, she them fondly preserved.
That evil day finally came,
No man stayed outside, nor a dame;
The children too did stop their game,
Little children, hard to tame.
They all were scared, and none did dare
To foretell what was in the air,
Uncanny stench was all felt there,
In dense settlement and fields bare.
“See, quiver, quiver all the things!
The church-bell timid itself rings!”
And wandered lonely a frightened man,
Oft he strolled and oft he ran.
My mother prophesied a ghoul
That might again on mankind drool,
Had overwhelmed us with spells of terror,
And in this way our sin did mirror.
But as far as can I recall,
A graceful sphinx of the palace hall,
That burnt and turned into baleful earth,
Wrought a mishap in highest mirth!
13th February, 2020
Let the Pens Flow - Narrative Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Jenish Somadas
I am from the clan of trees
we speak in the language of nature’s hidden tongue
for our souls talk under the ground
in the roots where we are bound
we are held together with the promise of living
we cling in the dirt to hear our language found
from the years of age and circles growing within our core
without a sound we reach the impasse of great distance
to articulate our prophecy to the arbor family
the ash to the maple, the pine to the oak
by gently, ever so gently flowing
through the depths of rock and rim
in waves of whispers that reaffirm
our slivers and branch’s cloak
captured in the shedding of light and elements of soil
climbing and spreading to heaven’s design
our common perfection to refine
we hold one to the other to protect and evoke
our tangle of trials of cold and smoke
through droughts and strife
we speak with quiet magnificence
for the cluster of forests that inaudibly touch
in times of trouble and toil
March 7, 2022