Long Mislaid Poems
Long Mislaid Poems. Below are the most popular long Mislaid by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mislaid poems by poem length and keyword.
The older I get, the more I forget the names of colors.
Would you call this paint amber, burnt ochre, or clay?
Would it were the same with all of my dolors.
But age hasn’t washed any of my dolors away.
I finally saw hills as old as me,
and it was a pitiful sight to see,
with many a crevice and facial scar,
and so, pointing at the hills,
I asked my dearest wife, Shar,
"Is that what I look like?"
She said, “No, that's is not what you look like.
That’s what you are."
Only two o'clock ~ still an hour till it's three.
Time's passing slower than eternity.
Now it's four, and as even the clock's cuckoo can see ~
I'm having trouble with this end-of-life monotony.
How much longer till it's five o'clock ~
and I can put this head of lettuce on the chopping block?
Tick ~ tock ~
tick ~ tock ~
tick~ tock...
That's life ~ in a game with grandpa ~
running down the clock.
As I reflect on my old body’s daily decay,
I wonder ~ did God really mean to do it this way?
Couldn't He have let me journey to life's end, whole and entire,
instead of having part after part of me periodically misfire?
You assert emphatically, "Yes! He really meant to do it this way!"
Okay.
When you're old, you know what's really insane?
It's when you're going down memory lane,
but you find nobody there
with whom a memory to share.
And you wonder ~ am I in the right brain?
My route home seems to have been mislaid.
I have a feeling I've walked way past the Fire Brigade.
And where's that street
where the park and the bicycle path meet?
I'm completely lost! ~ My God!
I'm so afraid.
One thing when you get this old
is that your body can get so unbearably cold,
because your skin gets so thin,
it lets all the iciness in,
and then a hot partner is worth their weight in gold.
You know how it is
when cola loses its fizz.
That's kinda what happened here.
And what can I say but, 'Sorry, my dear?'
I kinda feel like I've flunked the pop quiz.
No longer mourn for me when I am dead.
Rather have everyone don a motley party hat.
And if anyone's inclined to cry,
please say, "Don't shed a tear for this old guy,
cuz he's gonna live it up ~ in the sweet bye and bye.
The Ghost Train
North Wind, it was a howling, the sky was black as guilt
Malevolent the sheen, where upon her moonbeams spilt
Through the murky distance, her belly glowing bright
Roaring down the line, she was roaring down the line
Charging down the line, the Ghost Train rolls tonight
She glides along the platform, where haunted faces wait
With dreams of grand ambition, that only she can slate
The driver in his blood red suit, turns a skeletal grin
Toward the hungry hopefuls, then ushers each one in
From store to fire, his actions deft
The fireman twisting on his plate
Stokes the engine right to left
He fuels the fire of fate
He mutters and stutters, “We can’t be late”
For time is money and money won’t wait
With shovels full of human desire
He fuels the fire of hate
The whistle cord is pulled, the flag flutters all clear
The engine she is plied, starts the journey into fear
On it goes a rumbling,
On it’s round iron feet
Inside the folk are tumbling
From every leathered seat
Amid the laughter and the chants
What life, what love, what times
Everyone is held entranced
By ghostly railway lines
Tittle tattle chatter, ash from the chimney pours
Natter rattle clatter, onward the Ghost Train roars
Strange games are played
Some win some lose
Sincere thank you’s become mislaid
As each the other use
Beneath the load the earth she quakes
As all aboard debauch
Done deals and shady handshakes
On every carriage porch
Kerching-kerching-kerching, the till bell rings
More-more-more, the engine softly sings
From store to fire, his actions deft
The fireman twisting on his plate
Stokes the engine, right to left
He fuels the fire of fate
He mutters and stutters, “we can’t be late”
For power is waiting and power is great
With shovels full of human remains
He fuels the fire of hate
In never ending search, she roams across the land
Controlled by the evil, of the blood red suited hand
Through the murky distance, her belly glowing bright
Charging down the line, the Ghost train rolls tonight
If it pulls into your station
Will you jump upon its frame?
Will you lose all inhibition?
On your way to wealth and fame
For when the ride is done
There’s no-one else to blame
If you find you become
Another furnace flame.
Night of the full moon
Whale fish are most adept at swimming around in a shot glass but glass goblets are preferred by dolphins whose long dorsal fin opts for wide open rimmed spaces. Stingrays desire to be seen in the most finest crystal glasses but the flat fish is only ever seen in a tumbler. Often tumbling. And giggling with pure delight. But what of ambition from all these creatures. Would they not want to swap? Are they ever content with their locations? Omnipresent octopi often offer octagonal orifices. The vertical verb of a naughty little variegated platy can vary a variant victoriously. How rather marvellous that is isn't it?
Instinct ink can inform. But ink that is mislaid, misinformed and generally mundane is confused and confusion can offer creations canopies of catastrophic chasms. Mingle in a mangle then. Up and down the threads. Obviously a straight ironed trousers. Hemmed. Could see straight through 27 pairs of skirts in rows and point out the pin marks.
Awkward antelope answering apostle ants?How quite amazing! Well it is isn't it? And the gathering of the buds upon the washing line can hang out in all weathers. Thus ensuring an even radius of elements to dry, wet then dry again. Broad shoulders of a bean. Big bloated buffalo's beating banging bongo's. Baboon laughs and laughs and laughs and lingers on leaves no more for the beat is too amazing to place himself in such a confined positional place but heated propositions from a piglet often sway the breezes. And the backwards running tap always laughs at the dandelion in flight. Because it is very very very funny indeed!
WOW
Running ruining radii ravish radishes ridiculing realities. Such reduction in a nylon beaded glove. And gloves of a geranium are often glowing and glowering at the same time. Such a simultaneous display of floral fragrant feats.
WOW
Fiddle fathoms fish fetching forks finely.
Z at the X lauwiliwilinukunuku?oi?oi Z to X
At 46 mealworms chatting over a nice cup of tea at a garden fete to 19 cackling teapots dressed in wintry jumpers smoking.
X
Form:
“Stroke-a-back
stroke-a-back
someone’s going to touch you
in a moment from now,
I’ll draw the snake
but I won’t end it.”
The old gas light flickers
above the old school wall,
a game of “Stroke-a-back”
To the song of the Swan waterfall.
Pastoral faces full of laughter
innocence disembogue,
a time to relish
this evanescent vogue.
A fall pipe to clamber
a railway bank to view,
our cottage upon Sugar Hill
Where the flowers once grew.
Pea-shooting bobbins
From Town head Mill,
A Burnside clangour
from a spinning shed of skill.
In unison sincere looms clatter
Gates Of head scarves bobbing up and down,
Reed-Hook used with aptitude
a woven piece for “Half-a-crown.”
Eternity for the shuttle
Weft and Warp intertwine,
mortal weaver in traction
for that packet of “Woodbine.”
The mighty Oak and Sycamore
shaking off the morning dew,
mist that mingled undaunted
footprints that followed the view.
For there, where twilight kisses the breeze
behold carpets of Lavender Blue,
The sweet scent of the Honeysuckle
Clement “Nesfield” Grew.
If one could walk within a memory
caress a perpetual dream,
then one would have to believe in miracles
a mislaid youth to redeem.
'Stroke-a-Back' is a hide and seek game'
© Harry J Horsman 1995
Book cause I spend an inordinate amount of time reading...
out loud.
As a hypothetical argument
yours truly doth not aim
to be unfortunate recipient
of misguided, misjudged, and mislaid blame,
nevertheless I make dubious claim
and baldly recede (ha – hair ye, here ye)
from heady assertion
to make bold statement
such that literacy supersedes numeracy,
between said measurable
ambiguous, exiguous, and irriguous
confusing, perplexing, puzzling pillars
of cognitive, demonstrative, emotive,
facilitative, generative... intelligence,
hence not consonant
far from the madding crowd,
until the return of the native
and perchance ludicrous
to some above average dame,
who might be prone to exclaim
contrariwise, and squarely frame
mathematics more powerfully
(id est - greater than)
basically versus stringing words together
yielding cogent, decent,
effulgent, fluent... result
(that may not add up to a hill of beans)
crafting supreme unequaled poem
predicated upon cockamamie scribe,
(one whose unexcusable
laughable puerile mien
modestly trumpeting his outstanding talent,
hence he expects and deserves
posthumous lettered fame),
née, he already
appropriated, leveraged, wielded
volumes of his speculated worthless material
synchronized to be broadcast
immediately upon his demise
(after the grim reaper
steals dem lovely bones
to avoid self embarrassment)
avast treasure trove awaiting
distribution across webbed wide world
(including all manner
of social media platforms)
after discover re:
visa vis artificial intelligence
courtesy agency of smart machine
to custom make similar
facsimile thereof brilliant literature
where good things come to life
to emulate and evoke
mental landscape and thought processes
of one humble human
Matthew Scott Harris
while supremely, soundlessly, seamlessly,
echoing beloved refrains
from computer generated verses
that would be indistinguishable
from Joni Mitchell's
original song titled the circle game.
Once called a fairy tale, it endures the test of time,
While man’s reason falters and philosophers resign.
From Epicureans lost and ancient pagans gone,
Christianity’s story steadfastly marches on.
Once called atheists by the Romans
Ironically they have the doldrums
Its plot, its heart, cannot be stripped away,
No morals, no miracles, no truth without its sway.
Other faiths may linger when the wonders have begun,
Yet strip the Bible’s marvels, and its story is undone.
God become Man the tale that makes (not breaks) our rules,
No legend or teaching from any other wise or ancient schools
Dares claim Incarnation, love descending from the skies
A philosopher’s tale for children, but for grown and searching eyes.
Where are these philosophers today? Have they not all gone away:
Lucretius, Julian the Apostate, Averroes, The Gnostics of the ancient world
Voltaire, La Mettrie, Ayer and those who reason in a destructive whirl?
No Buddha, no Socrates, nor prophet in the East,
Would dare declare themselves as God, or take on this Holy Paraclete:
If you ask the Buddha, "Are you the son of Brahma?"
He would have said "You’re in the veil of illusion to even ask” comma
If you would have asked Socrates, are you Zeus?"
he would have scowled then laughed at you
If you ask Confucius, "Are you in heaven, Tien?
“It is bad taste in a polite society to ask.” He would have said
If you would ask Muhammad, "Are you Allah?" he would have rent
his clothes in rage and then probably cut off your head.
Yet Jesus, among all others, declared divinity,
So the tale persists, a mystery for eternity.
Reason remains but doubters pass, their systems now mislaid,
But the tale of Incarnation this miracle remains unswayed.
A philosopher’s tale that lives as fact, a story hard to sever,
The heart of faith and meaning, enduring now, forever.
On the Christian anvil many hammers have been exhausted
Just precisely because of what it costed
“What is it?” said Raisin. Rum said, “I don’t know,
Let’s find us a hill and watch that thing go.”
Walnut said, “Hold up; I’ve seen one of these,
It looks like a wheel, but it is, in fact, cheese.”
“It’s normally cut into portions to sell
Whoever mislaid it will be mad as hell.”
Rum said, “Are you saying this thing is food,
It don’t smell like something that I ever chewed.”
Raisin was tentative, sniffing it quick,
“Crikey, it’s putrid… I wanna be sick.”
Walnut said, “Mum and dad love it… I’m in.”
He bit off a chunk and bits stuck to his chin.
His eyes soon glazed over, and poor Walnut cringed
“That stuff really packs quite a punch,” Walnut whinged
He tried to suck cheese from his gums and he slobbered.
“Boy that stuff’s sticky, my taste buds are clobbered"”
A man in a chef’s hat and curled up moustache
Came up and bellowed, “C’est Mon fromage!”
Walnut said, “I think he’s after our cheese.”
And Rum said, “For heaven’s sake, give him it…PLEASE!”
The chef headed off with the cheese he’d mislaid
While Walnut was praying the bad taste would fade
Both Rum and Raisin had covered their noses
Rum said, “You sure ain’t a bouquet of roses.”
And so they walked home and at Raisin’s insistence
Walnut was made to walk at quite a distance
Rum said, “If anyone stands in our way,
Your foul, rotten-egg breath will keep them at bay.”
And so as they walked, ally cats let them be
A woodpecker squawked and fell out of a tree
A tree surgeon gagged and he might well have fled
But the branch he’d been sawing fell down on his head
A man on a bike steered it into a brook
Pedestrians went to help out or just look
They all jumped as one for the impulse was strong
The brook seemed a good place to hide from the pong
Once home, Walnut, Raisin and Rum had a doze
Then woke to the sound of their mum’s sniffy nose
She was knelt with her head in the washing machine…
“There’s rancid socks somewhere… the stench is obscene!”
Behold the abominable annals of the Storm domicile,
A living, groaning edifice of lumber and bureaucratic despair—
Where Allen Storm, the paternal prodigal of procedural pedantry,
Treads upon its creaking floors with the rigor of a misfiled memo,
And Betty Storm, matron of mundane mismanagement,
Douses its sentient walls with detergents of dire discontent,
While young Charles Storm, a cherubic herald of domestic disarray,
Lobs rancid vegetables at its trembling windows in a fit of unreason.
O disconsolate domicile, thou art no mere inert structure,
But a quivering, sulking house of living, loathsome lament—
Its beams and banisters pulse with the bureaucratic heartbeat of neglected archives,
And from its secret cellar, a staccato drip of mislaid paperwork emerges,
Each drop a damning note in the dissonant dirge of decay,
A relentless reminder of a dwelling abused by its custodians.
In a most uncouth and disquieting retort,
The living house retaliates with vile vibratos of revolt:
Its walls emit a stifled, staccato sigh of overripe despair,
As doors creak open like the groaning lament of discarded forms,
And corridors exude a miasma of forgotten memos and administrative regret,
So that the very air around it becomes thick with repugnant, repressed bureaucracy—
A spectacle so discomforting that even the sturdiest sensibilities recoil
In revulsion at the unholy union of living architecture and domestic abuse.
Thus, in the annals of the universe where Vogon verse is vile and void,
The Storm family's treatment of their sentient, suffering house
Breeds an unutterable and visceral reaction in the heart of any unfortunate listener,
A poetic penance of pulsating pain and perturbed paper trails,
That leaves one pondering in nauseous wonder the tragic farce
Of a house that lives—and dies—under the oppressive hand of the Storms.
She crept through darkness
In the graveyard she dug
Looking for her love
Her one and only love
Her heart pumps scarlet drops
As her eyes search for the sorrow
Of black birds flying
Soaring through the gray clouds
She walks alone
In an unfilled world
Trotting in the damp soil
That was once passed by zombies
Once there was a girl
So beautiful and fair
Her father told her
To learn and love life and death
Life is clear
But death is turbid
She met life
But now she had met death
Death is too dark to learn
Too sinister to love
Agonized by a dream
She walks alone…
Once there were two lovers
Untouched by entangled veins
Unbound by moist paste
They live within each other
They met life
But now they had met death
One has flew away
Leaving the other still entangled
A crow flew by a window sill
Over the head of a dark castle
It stormed
It rained
Within the fortress of torture
Lies a curtailed statue
With a mislaid heart
And a missing soul
It thunders
It lights
Crimson water flows like wine
Over the unfinished effigy
She walks alone
In the dark deep grave
Digging and digging
Wailing and weeping
After centuries of search
She found the life with no soul
She caught the crow flying
She found the missing heart
She uncover the puzzle
Of life and death
She sew her body with it
And bound it within herself
She started to sip on the crimson juice
She unplug the entangled veins
And gobbled it up like a grand gorge
While she sang her bleeding song
The material is finished
With nothing left but the frame
It then rained
Her heart stormed with pain
She walks alone again
On the empty damp earth
Raised her head to view the sky
And found the crow flying again
Years gone by
The frame rots into ash
She now found herself flying
But now, still with the partial bronze
I endure the pang of solitude...the sigh of a forlorn love
Time is no healer, every sand of time brings in moments
I hasten to go- halves with none but You,
My confidant, my best soul mate
To lose the man I had relied on for so long
Is utterly devastating...
Never was life bed of roses,
But all that mattered when you were around
Only you can understand the depths of my pain
Only you can feel my deafening silent tears
People say you left in a hurry... so untrue...!
You're right here in full flesh and blood as me.
You made me strong and I will move on as you
See the care, courage and peace in my eyes
That bejewelled in you... oh yes,
You had all the time in the world to transform me into you
You did leave without a hint, but you were not in a hurry
The credence gets stronger in my heart,
As I gaze into the eyes of our progeny... yes,
They look at me the way I used to look at you
Eyes crammed with dream, faith and selfless love
My heart skips some beats that moment
To stand stronger than we had begun.
Ultimately, I discern that, it is not you who is lost!
You're right here in full flesh and blood as me.
It's me who is mislaid, lost in search of the refuge called you
When you've sapped all my tears and heart sunk in mourning
I realize... You're right here in full flesh and blood as me
I don't need me... I have your job to do
They're your legacy and I will bring them up as best I can
As a leopardess can't change her spots...
so as I remain who I am!
And you are the Apple of my eye forever!
Whatever I am today has come from you...
I am told, the pain will ease in time...
Time is no healer but I have learnt running along with time!
As of me, my lonely love shall find its way to you !!!
( In tribute to my beloved husband (late) Mr. Zakir Hussain)