Long Mustering Poems
Long Mustering Poems. Below are the most popular long Mustering by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mustering poems by poem length and keyword.
So much I wish to do
But to myself I must always be true
Stepping above self doubt I feel
Close my eyes my nerves become steel
Just mustering up the will
So far I wish to go
So much I wish to know
First step is all it will take
A new life you could make
Meeting head on any fear
A open heart means an open ear
Daring to find your own way
In the robotic world of today
On different they frown
Put you down
Hard to step from
Bur still , so far I have come
Past the well from which I started
Kept going when all hope had parted
The fire
That fuels my desire
To reach ever hire
Burns deep
Even times I weep
Don't know
Still I go
Onwards
Fowards
Blazing my own trail
Can't fail.
Time will tell
I jumped on my bike as fast as i could
but not fast enough, it did me no good
The bully kid was big and mean and acted very tough
laughing all the while he quickly knocked me on my duff
Rubbing grass in my mouth, slapping me in the face
him laughing at me, me feeling so disgraced
He punched me so hard then left me crying on the ground
I slowly stood up, was there no one else around?
I gathered up my books and jumped on my bike
and pedaled straight home mustering all of my might
"What happened to you, son?" Mom was the first to see
I cried as I replied "i got beat by a bully!"
"I'm so sorry for you son, I'm so sad that you were harmed"
just then my dad walked in and immediately looked alarmed
Dad quickly asked me "Son, did you give him back the same?"
I sheepishly said "no" re-experiencing the shame.
Dad just stared awhile then said "I don't like what you're becoming.
Next time you better fight, give the bully what he's got coming!
First you punch him in the stomach then you hit him in the face
He won't hurt you any more, when you put him in his place!"
i slowly nodded as he left, Mom quickly gave my cheek a kiss
"I'm so proud of you son for not fighting with your fists
The Lord's servant doesn’t fight but should be gentle instead"
"Yes ma'am" i quickly said as conflicting counsel twirled round my head
The next 5 years when tensions flared i was a gentle talker
but as a bully approached my sophomore year i threw him against his locker!
Thank you Mom and Dad!
***
October 26, 2019
F T I series 9 childhood
Brian Strand, sponsor
Poetry knows no age, as thee Marcia
Abramsohn write (by hand nonetheless,
a long lost art) inlaid with ambidextrous
zealousness impossible to identify,
which hand crafted artistically colorful
epigrammatic ghostly hint emblematic
of former exuberance toward English
Language..., perhaps other once
vibrantly familiar tongues wagging
less as tempus fugit slithers unseen
stealing most cherished, prized, savored...
commodity set to countdown immediately
post parturition, yet blessed for thee
to be gifted your four score plus four
amazingly graceful journeys celebrating
your existence replete with handmaid's
tales chronicling quotidian trials and
tribulations, yet still adept, buoyant,
cogent, diligent, eloquent, fervent,
gallant, hellbent, intent, jimmying,
kindling, loving, mustering, nursing,
outlasting...Methuselah (ha...if only)
lucid moments nudging awake
memorialized occasions, where once
upon a time (seems bajillion years ago)
innocence concomitant with naivete
throve, wherein unfettered dalliances
found untrammeled lasses and lads
absorbed with natural unbridled virgin
love whispering sweet nothings strictly
for respective paramour, (this of course
hearsay and speculation) promising each
other moon and stars ah...dusty fading
memories, yours truly can never recount,
(cuz mental illness co-opted, hijacked,
up-ended...adolescent maturation,
whereby agonizing crippling forfeiture jabs
silhouetted illusory oasis peopled with
all the golden opportunities left to wither
on the vine o'mine youth, which mirage
mocks escapist attempt into literary realm
invisible dead poets society regale an
existence bereft (nope, no App could
ever even virtually duplicate (even
approximate) sidelined unrequited love,
and no this marriage yields scant
satisfaction, which fantasy life as
Norwegian bachelor farmer could solve,
where living off the grid could remedy
forever being pennilessness, day late
dollar short dime a dozen dirt poor
dude dulling dufus...that's the news from
my Lake Woebegone...where all the
women...and children above the law
never get reprimanded.
He fought
Strong and hard
He did
Especially since
He got that letter
He fought
As if
There was no tomorrow
Worth living for
It changed him
It saddened him
He used to laugh
Like a Kookaburra
Even among
All the whistles
Of impending death
Over there
On the Dardanelles
He’d be the one
To cheer the boys up
With a quick Joke
And a smoke
As he passed
In the trenches
But that soon changed
After he got
The letter
He didn’t speak of it
And I
Knew not to ask
It changed him
He fought with more
Vigour, bravery
After he got it
Always the first
To go over the top
Or to run the Nek
How he survived
God only knows
He once said
While he pattered
His breast
If I’m to die
It will tell you
And I knew
He meant
The letter
That sad day came
Not there
But on the fields of Flanders
I lay next to him
In the mud and misery
Shacking
Shacking him
“mate
Come on mate
We’ve come so far
Don’t leave me now
What am I to tell Nellie
I cried
Above the screams
Of shells and yells
On the fields of Flanders
It was only after
He was buried
That I took out
The letter
And read
Tis with great regret
We wish to inform you
Nellie has passed away
She fell from her horse
Mustering a mob
Down by the course
Was then
That I understood
The change
That came over him
Way back then
On the Dardanelles
I turn the letter
Over in my hands
To see
That he had written
If I
Am to die
A forlorn
And forgotten
Death
Upon a foreign shore
Please make sure
You return me
For
I wish
For you
To lay me
Upon
My dear Nellie’s
Breast
I remembered
After I had
Shakenly read
That I
Wanted to cry
But I
Had nothing left
To share or shed
Upon the fields of Flanders
I refold
The letter
And place it
Gently
At the base
Of Nellie’s
Headstone
As close I could
To her Breast
Eyes open, Mouth yarns,
Arm stretched.
Yet, my feet haven't touched the ground.
Heart beats, Ears itch.
Still mustering up the energy to put my feet on the ground.
Sun shines in between the lines of the blinds
Feeling refreshed
Another strong day,
So, get up!
Another day alive
Get up!
No more yarning and stretching.
Now my eyes are open wide
One foot on the floor
The second foot soon falls behind
Reach up to give thanks to
The ability to still rise...
So wake up and stand up
No matter the stress
Get up and stand up
Walk strong and continue to
Do your best.
Even when it gets hard
Remember to get up and stand up,
And let god do the rest..
Lost in gravity’s pull, unleashing are iniquitous racing rot,
obscure entities rush through, connecting the dots
pilfering, extracting inventory, my intestines in knots
distant incense fumes a conscious canopy, petals wafting open-air,
I sense an antediluvian forest, aflame, circling there
Gazebo’s trapezoid holds captive, naked, probed and jarred
A sceptic- doubting Thomas vanishing, broken in shards
fragments of glass banishing, misfit mosaic alters as prey
Trembling colors my core stripping to bone greys,
stumbling over intercranial eddies, whispering “This is not an SOS fortess”
I lift my listless body from off the whitened Kalli bench rest,
mustering up brawn to leave this camouflaged spaceship
gaining is the exotic and final trip
escaping shades of jade and eschewing a repetitive rot
at last, rejoining the existing world’s ongoing ellipsis—living dot dot dot
Let me share with you a shrilling moment, one I dreaded most. 'Twas another beautiful summer day, and a visiting day, at the beach steps away, the Lake Shrine. The layout an inexplicable charm, monks in saffron and garnet tinted robes draping each body, had welcomed me. I must have been aligned with the stratospheric, a nefarious nebula inside the meditation gazebo, I thought inviting and safe. Past mistakes had laid heavy in this dome, this world a jungle, pent up nerves generated, nerves stretched taut. The line inked about intercranial eddies who seemed to have spoken to me, was most difficult to pen. As a child hungry for the opaque curtains of mystery to be drawn, in which 'lamplights strange to these eyes', within my late-night shadowy bedroom, appeared. As an adult I seek answers, therefore removing the line. I’ve always been entertained by mind's photograph, I reflect upon.
The Gazebo
I Am Anaya
2/22/26
It's raining and the sun has returned home
although I am by myself, yet I am not alone
mind engages intellect, with time to consider
how this heart of mine, has grown so bitter
Not long ago, reflections of the past were a delight
then in a brief moment, my happiness took flight
once having a life with meaning, love and security
now with remorse and desire, for a heart with purity
Continuing to pursue life normally, while anxieties drown the mind
no matter what I might do, any sense of happiness seems confined
confused with mixed emotions, and knowing that they are both true
yet despite my conflict, still mustering the will to tell her, I love you
With each and every passing day, I look forward to behold
once again to greet those yesterdays, those yesterdays of old
but those yesterdays are buried, the fear of the future takes hold
all of what now remains, are those few tomorrows left to unfold
Worries must stem from this lack of control, how not to consider
thinking of how few years are left to live, could anyone not be bitter
the unknown of what the rest of your life will bring, an awesome fear
when you advance in years, only then does it become all too clear
Times passes, the body ages, memories flounder, and reality sets in
maybe tomorrow the mail will arrive, addressed to: The Next of Kin
finding yourself in an emotional upheaval, there is but one thing to do
forage deep down inside, and uncover your faith, your only rescue
Faith will give you the strength, it will guide you to trust in the One above
fears of the future and of the unknown, disappear in this world called love
experiencing midlife crisis, something you can and will successfully overcome
but first never stop searching, trusting in G-d, and to depression never succumb
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A place we call Home
By
Kevin L Fairbrother
The cold westerly winds rolls down the hills and across the plains
The frost on the ground as thick as a man’s hand
The air drawn in chills the body to the bone
This is the Central Plateau, the place we call home
…
Living here you need to be strong and resilient
Prepared to take what- ever Mother Nature brings
Wake to a snow blanket or biting winds and freezing rain
Or just maybe experience a hot sunny day
…
Life is hard for the high country people
Work to be done what-ever the weather
Wood to cut to keep the home fires burning
Feeding out or mustering or maybe a hunt
Keeps meat on the table and the dogs with a full gut
…
We choose to live and work in the high country
For the place is special, gives us a natural high
No place for the hustle and bustle of towns and cities
This place so peaceful, serine and quite
…
A visit to the high country an experience you will never forget
The extremes of weather, the rolling plains and the craggy mountains
The glistening waters of the streams, the rivers and lakes
The majestic Cider Gum, the snow gums and mountain heath
…
For the Central Plateau is like nowhere else on earth
For the dream time of old, the pristine wilderness
The night sky glistening and sparkling so very close
I love the high country, the place I call home
Form:
Heaven help
The unfortunate bloke
Who got caught
By a big Jim joke
I heard laughing voices and wondered why
Then surfaced from gonk under open sky
Didn’t take very long to understand it
In the cookhouse queue still in my pit
Now in those days I slept in the raw
(Not these days, not any more)
Grabbed a blanket grabbed a sheet
Scooted off on my bare feet
Mustering any the dignity I could find
And showing all my bare behind
The girls all laughed for weeks and weeks
With jokes about my dimpled cheeks
And nobody knew how I got there
And by and by I didn’t care
And when Big Jim shook my hand
I forgot any revenge that I had planned
For I could see the funny side
Of my embarrassing sleepy ride
And I drank his beer in its stead
And ever after wore keks in bed
Heaven help
The unfortunate bloke
Who got caught
By a Big Jim joke
In skies of gray I dwell
inside of clouds,
keeping company with mugginess
and sweltering heat.
People who labor underneath me
perspire profusely; some curse.
Others pray for me
to cut their labor short.
Yes, they pray for rain.
I hear their cries,
for I’ve been mustering steam
during days and days of dreadful drought.
Pitter patter pitter patter
Their plaintive pleas I answer teasingly.
Starting slow. I dole out droplets
drop by drop by tiny drop
The droplets increase . . . plop plop plop.
Wind joins in - wailing.
Trees tremble as I splatter them
with wonderful wetness for the prayerful.
Swoosh! Ker-plunk!
I’m drumming and drumming,
pouring myself down
on thirsting flowers with heads bowed
to reverently receive me.
Umbrellas appear all over the streets.
Gleefully, I pound them, hammering away.
I pounce on the heads of uncovered people.
Soaking grass and soil,
filling rain gutters, and
sliding joyously off many hard surfaces,
I saturate every place that I’m able to outside.
I am rain, and unceasingly
this summer day,
I reign
supreme.