Long Merest Poems
Long Merest Poems. Below are the most popular long Merest by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Merest poems by poem length and keyword.
We did not speak of rain;
only the wish that our love
could be again.
The air was bone-dry,
with only the merest glimpse,
of wispy cloud remnants,
in the sky.
But, our thoughts, hopes and wishes
coalesced to form empty
puffy, fluffy, white cloud receptacles.
That we could seed with intent,
by prying drops, one at a time,
from memories long forgotten
gone bone dry.
We tapped our reminiscences,
of the good times we shared,
buried deep in our dry parched ground.
We sent each droplet squeezed,
aloft to gather
in the clouds above.
The clouds darkened with foreboding,
reluctance and trepidation,
as their burden grew
with expectation overdue.
At last, the clouds,
topped up to brimming full,
could hold on no longer!
They burst and gushed out with raindrops.
That toppled on our heads,
sprouting our seeds,
watered from the clouds above,
seeded with our love.
CONVERSATION
Tell me Polly, what does it say?
Well, I’m not sure I wish to share
Please, I never receive letters
Ah, I’m sorry for you, Leila
Oh, Polly, is it from – him?
Yes, it is from Edmund Stanton
Ah, that man from the party last week?
You remember him then?
Alas, the merest introduction
Yes, for me too – but we talked some
Go on, read it to me, I must know
Well, it alludes to an opera we saw
During your visit to Aunt Elspeth?
Yes, in London, last Spring
And you met him at the theatre?
A most memorable production
So what is the connection, Polly?
We were seated next to each other
You never told me this before
I know, but this letter shares our secret
Unfastening clusters shining
one treasure in the mind
planted with seed of joy
you're the life within this garden
Sunlight of you absorbs into my being
petals blushing lips of truth gently whispers
Blowing in the wind beautiful flowering leaves
a warmly misting vision colors beauty in your eyes
A single flower leans into the waterfall
pulling me down under
delicately broken in a gentle silence rustling
when the cherry tree opens its blossoms
Embracing feelings in the merest touch electric
holding hands wishing in the sweetest moment forever linger
Dream you sing with the songbirds
amongst the angels chants your harmony a blessing
Sweet scent of summer hawthorn blossoms
you take me away into another world sailing on your tide
A co write by Maria Mc Laughlin and Liam Mc Daid
Rebellious hearts won fame and infamy,
And knew black nights of burgundy.
Then resisted we the merest tyranny;
For we'd so long longed to be free.
So hip and wild and young--
We touched tongue to tongue.
And to our dreams fiercely clung;
Children of the flowers we frolicked among.
In an age of such degeneration,
Blossomed the youth of my generation;
Who had a penchant for creation,
And caused very much diversification.
We graced museums with pop art,
And sang pop music from the heart.
Memories of scarlet evenings won't depart;
Naked lust never kept lovers apart.
All the world was young when I was!
Seems even the bluebird had a cause.
Our actions gave authoritarians much pause;
We broke the most rigid rules and laws.
Breath to breath, flesh to flesh, toe to toe;
Baby, tell me, where did the years go?
Of smoky rooms, black nights and disco,
And the rosy mornings of love's afterglow?
no shortage of familiar metier real
(material) aye attest
welling up within thy breast
merely a predicament how to winnow
junk bonded barnacled
accretion encrusted
amidst gems buried
within treasure chest,
yet vigilant to sift,
viz figurative fine tooth comb
uprooting excrescence laired plethora
incognito, sans faux
couture doggerel habiliment dressed
necessitating painstaking
poetic rock climbing
ala scaling Mount Everest
imbedding, hooking, grappling
fingered duple crampons
aye con fessed
to myself, the futility
to wrest Shakespearean nuggets,
which analogy hyperbole you guessed
nor does modesty allow me feeble effort
(trite) on par with August bard,
who would rank him,
the highest allotted value
upon assigned (absolute)
value of playing card,
hence tis the gold standard thee
verse a tile scribe based
at Stratford on Avon
this here wordsmith wields
his own literary might always on guard
to stave reprehensible tar tarred plaque
like encrustation glued hard
akin to a geode methodical
mother lode extraction jarred
by the slightest distraction,
thus with bold
ness sigh hermetically
seal off every cerebral fold
vectors against superfluous mind chatter
can upend fragile tenuous hold
when merest wisp of nearly
elusive mental thread escapes,
i feign scold
ding this paperback
bestseller wannabe with told
cha so Harris, thus
keep dreaming envisioning
an green acred Edenic demesne
sprawling across wide webbed wold.
There’s a Nobel Prize for Peace
There’s probably one for war
I’d like to plead the case
For adding just one more
They say he was just a hungry toff
Feeling the need of a quick snack
Between some few games of cards
Thus allowing him quickly back
To those gentlemanly pursuits
Worthy of a man of his station
But to all us modern rushed folk
He’s the benefactor of the nation.
Johnson perfected dictionaries
Wellington his really useful boots
Worthy causes there no doubt
Scarce worth the merest of hoots
Compared to Earl of Sandwich
With his eponymous fast food
Easily and quickly adapted
To every nuance and mood
So lift your glasses please
Ply toasts upon the head
Of the man who first invented
Fun with two slices of bread
All hail to thee, John Montagu
The world doth owe great debt to you
A Blue Heron unleashes itself from a
surfing wind and flowing sky.
Wings spread it rides, almost hovering,
as it seeks a nestled place to land.
There, the long reeds
have been hollowed out by its mate,
but she has gone to fish,
gone elsewhere.
The bird lands,
for a moment its long legs are buoyed
by the merest whisp of gravity.
The heron settles, folding its wings
like a cloak around him,
now as the wind ruffles its feathers
he seems only a scrawny effigy,
of the bird in flight,
a plumed twig planted in the disturbed shallows.
The pond ripples with silver whispers,
small fish dart, their heads
arrowing deeper.
The Great Blue
strides slowly to the shoreline
becomes a living statue,
a patient presence
amid the rushing blow.
That is when I saw
how the world is stirred around
by a stillness,
how an unmoving center
can turn within a heron's eye.
See I told you so
That I could somehow or other do it
It was always in my remit
Unfortunately for some or other
reason unbeknownst to me
Kept so well hidden I had to
search deep inside myself for
the merest slightest glimpse or
sense of it
But I am eternally so grateful I did
because if I didn't
I would be left without anything at
all to cling on desperately to
So if nothing else I now find myself
after and at last
In a safe happy place currently still
alive today
To right my ohh so many wrongs
of yesterday
I am ever so sorry to say I made now
enabled to live and accept responsibility
for them
Given granted graciously a second chance
Both lucky and blessed and be able
to now say
I told you so
And not especially for me and my
redemption sake
But to thank you instead and not
a fool out of you
For having and place your faith and
unaired belief in me
When everyone told you not to bother
put and save yourself first and foremost
And condemn those that have sinned
in the past and hold it forever against
them as permanently on their record
Until the day they die and so eventually
prepare to meet their
Reverand and Maker
And then let him be the judge
A week before the Armistice, you died.
They did not keep your heart like Livingstone’s,
then plant your bones near Shakespeare’s. So you lie
between two privates, sacrificed like Christ
to politics, your poetry unknown
except for that brief flurry’s: thirteen months
with Gaukroger beside you in the trench,
dismembered, as you babbled, as the stench
of gangrene filled your nostrils, till you clenched
your broken heart together and the fist
began to pulse with life, so close to death.
Or was it at Craiglockhart, in the care
of “ergotherapists” that you sensed life
is only in the work, and made despair
a thing that Yeats despised, but also breath,
a mouthful’s merest air, inspired less
than wrested from you, and which we confess
we only vaguely breathe: the troubled air
that even Sassoon failed to share, because
a man in pieces is not healed by gauze,
and breath’s transparent, unless we believe
the words are true despite their lack of weight
and float to us like chlorine—scalding eyes,
and lungs, and hearts. Your words revealed the fate
of boys who retched up life here, gagged on lies.
Published by The Chariton Review, The Neovictorian/Cochlea, Rogue Scholars, Romantics Quarterly, Mindful of Poetry, Famous Poets and Poems, Poetry Life & Times, Other Voices International
And when we reached the pearly gates
St Peter looks at us and states
Your lives have been so full of sin
There is no way you’re coming in
I’ll send you to that other place
Which isn’t any real disgrace
For many famous folk are there
Ginger Rogers, Fred Astaire
Several Popes and clergy too
Are waiting there to welcome you
You might enjoy the Hades folk
Who fornicate and drink and smoke
At their will they take their pleasure
Live a life of joy and leisure
So be off, be on your way
For at this place you cannot stay
And should one day you feel inclined
A place for me you could but find
Send a note, the merest jot
And I’ll be with you like a shot
© John W Fenn 10-01-2009
Form: