Long Listlessness Poems
Long Listlessness Poems. Below are the most popular long Listlessness by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Listlessness poems by poem length and keyword.
“Three, 300, or 3,000 - these are the number of unknown days, each far too little and yet too much at the same time, to see an irrevocably declined loved one languish and suffer, with that bittersweet release lingering in the doorway, but never quite being sent all the way in, to comfort and carry our loved one to that Better Place.”? Connie Kerbs
Laughter – her sweet laughter – has gone away.
As she leaves our space, I wonder why she sometimes gets this way.
Nothing can we do for her then, unfortunately.
Growing numb, she distances herself from family.
Unrelenting for some days is she with apathy and gloom.
In utter listlessness, she stays up in her room.
Somehow she snaps out of it - though it may take a while.
Happy we become again to see our dear teen daughter smile!
March 15, 2023
For the Writing Challenge 'L' Words
By Constance La France
to be in the state of weariness
you need to comprehend
that you're way beyond tired
fatigue at your very end
It matters not your position
weariness at some point will prevail
it matters not the season
as listlessness will eventually travail
empty from always giving
getting nothing in return
null and avoid from reliving
those hard lessons you didn't learn
patience and tolerance are exhausted relinquished and now resigned
in a state of enervation
drained because you've put it all on the line
we all desire to be free of weariness
we all desire to be free to soar
God wants to ease our burdens
so we can fly like eagles forevermore
freedom from weariness is to know God freedom to soar is to have Him in your heart freedom to run and not grow tired nor weary freedom to walk and not faint nor be dreary
allow God's keeping power
in you to manifest
allow God to know who you are
so that to you He can give his best
now understanding and expecting
that weariness will eventually come
now trusting God to deliver you from it
when all is said and done
So be not dismayed
and go sit at the feet of Christ
and don't allow that weariness
to take over your whole life
operate with the expectation
that freedom from weariness will occur
operating with a biblical hope
knowing that godly deliverance will concur
freedom from weariness
freedom to now soar
knowing that this God will fight our battles and we will be weary no more
and like an eagle lifted by the wind
the Holy Spirit in flight
freedom from weariness now soaring forward as we walk in the ways of Christ
My love is like a corpse
Upon the gothic floor
Where I have wept till soul is dry
With eyes like corpses when they rise
Behold the sun which melts away
Dying daily with no shame
What shone what found I cannot say
But love is cruel in its way
A kiss like vampires delight
To feed so rabidly at night
As lips of tender crimson drip
Strange man should pine to die like this
And low a shadow in the trees
With moon—and sun upon her knees
Tis darkness in its velvet garb
The mother of my morbid heart
For there are shadows like to trees
They grow surplanting us beneath
Their roots are sorrow in our heart
Such is the macabre of their art
As when upon the listlessness of world
I roam or linger and the breeze
Has coughed and spat its mist on me
A kiss oh naiad of the night
Those lips have cursed my mortal plight
A kiss as soft as corpses breath
Imparting unto me
Some faint but mellow memory
Of love-as love is tragically
*
Everyone grieves in their own way ~ time will only tell if healing comes, * for some, deaths blanket; unbearable and Thanatos is nearby —poetess
*
*
Despair? so be it. *
If else, is there? how does one bear *
the cold loss, dooming despair
sadness deepens * when *
first breath taken, Reaped, listlessness creeps *
Lethargic fate what does it rate on a splinting scale?
Repress with a paralyzing scalpel *
severing deaths pathway to a pining lobe
Incase powerless, * with a lack,
while lactating breasts bleed tears
Depress with Thanatos’s betrayal *
As nipples * drip with nourishment in a holy grail *
wetted reminders that youth itself hold no leniency
The warm blanket of death betrays
a death wish, ineffectual this death drive strays
a young mother’s dreams vanish *
in thin air, * one too frail, grows pail
numbness, quietness, * and repetition,
The warm blanket of death betrays
Yet she is not * alone, but lonely
They watch the despair she holds
These spirits, soulful * a family's
surrounding * with love’s repair
*carrying * the warmth that fans
of a love true * God's plan
*
*
*
As day progresses,
her spirits begin to sink
as if on command.
When did it begin,
this feeling of listlessness,
of being useless?
Not so long ago,
her days were filled with the joy
of being needed.
Now the grandchildren
she cared for daily for years
are grown, on their own.
She has no desire
to walk or write a poem
when she feels this down.
Do they think of her--
she hears a knock at the door.
The grandkids have come.
They lift her spirits
reminiscing, expressing
gratitude to her.
The next day, she walks,
cleans house, and writes three poems.
She can’t stop smiling.
Kind words are a sweet serum.
It is good to be alive.
The date and time on a digital clock
sings me a sotto voce halleluiah
as I roll over into the surf
of a shallow listlessness.
This is how a poem arrives,
In a leaky boat loaded with refugees
all slowly coming ashore.
Some refuse to shout out,
some clamor for attention.
I am threading ghosts through
the eye of a needle – not easy
unless you are a blatherskite.
The voices come nearer.
I am multilingual
in a non-vocal way.
Poets need to be rescued from
their own silence.
Then maybe, the birds will sing out,
the sky will be born again,
and the maker will make coffee
and write something.
From sunrise in the morning, to sunset at night,
concerning knowledge, I have an insatiable appetite.
For the body and soul, there is ambrosia in a bowl.
Generous servings have me attaining my goal.
Progressive thought, both systematic and arbitrary,
have all of my faculties in solidarity.
I must not succumb to facts with mawkishness.
Tediousness can lead one to soporific listlessness.
I can attain truth and success through perseverance.
The key to the lock is maintaining diligence.
All that is illuminated, I can see through open eyes.
Only with alert consciousness for living can I realize,
I am in propinquity to attaining life’s ultimate prize.
Great men return from war - though boys they went
In eager confidence – and permanent
To meet a foe with ‘mutual intent’
‘Til body, spirit, mind are stained and spent
Brief Victory! One day, one battle won
Grim ruin and remnants like the setting sun
Are painted red as blood of those now gone
‘Til shadows and Night’s bleak oblivion come
The listlessness of death infects the mind
It sears the soul and burns emotion blind
To all the things mankind does to mankind
‘Til better part of each is left behind
When war is done to home do warriors strain
To leave behind the vanquished and the slain
Yet part of every soldier still remains
At war ... ‘Til memory finds peace again
An occasional gust of wind will lift the translucent white voile curtains and then drop them like a child losing interest. The effect is like flash photography, a burst of sudden sunlight that paints our irises, then quickly fades.
It’s a cool Paris morning. In the low 50s. The windows are open and we forgot to turn on the heat. It’s perfect ‘under the covers’ weather. We’ve succumbed to laziness, refusing to get out of bed. Lazing-in is new enough to us that we’re defining it with a gamut of synonyms.
“Listlessness, torpor,” Peter says, his index finger tracking the slow twirl of the ceiling fan.
“Stupor, slumberous, supineness, ” I updog.
“Ooh! total submissiveness,” Peter said, drawing the last word out like it’s dirty.
“Every man’s dream,” I confirm.
“Inertia,” he says, triumphant in finding an engineering word.
“Good one,” I compliment. “Lifeless, loafing laggard,” I add.
There’s a knock at the door.
We look at each other guiltily, like we’ve been caught.
“We ordered breakfast last night,” Peter remembers.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, “you get it,” I suggested.
“Why me?” he whined.
“Because you can wear less and because what if it’s an ax murderer?”
“These people work for your grandmother, she employs ax murderers?”
“It could be a revolution - this is France - it happens.”
There’s another knock.
“Get it!,” I bleated, like a helpless goat.
“Am I expendable?” he asked, as a man might plead to a jury.
“Women and children first,” I remind him.
There’s a third knock.
“Ok,” he says resignedly, as he rises, draws on shorts and heads for the door.
“You’re my hero,” I assure him, before I pull the sheet up over my head in case it IS an ax murderer.
.
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slang: updogged = to continue a conversation trend and maybe improve it.
"Every age yearns for a more beautiful world. The deeper the desperation and the depression about the confusing present, the more intense that yearning."
- Johan Huizinga
Within these white walls of wellness and weakness
lie labyrinths of life changing lies
Needless needles nip like nuisance nettles
Scary scans scrupulously scrutinize
Doctors dressed in drab garbs declare dreadful news
making moody me feel all the more miserable
Circumstances circle with cyst-like certainty
Persistent problems promote psychological pandemonium
Yearnings of yesterday yell and yammer for youthfulness
Lost in listlessness, I lament in laboured longing