Long Off chance Poems
Long Off chance Poems. Below are the most popular long Off chance by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Off chance poems by poem length and keyword.
I've never been much of a worrier,
Others do that far better than I,
Nor am I renowned as a scurrier,
Which is not to imply I don't try.
My small circle of close friends and loved ones
Is diminishing one at a time,
And one of these days
I'll wake up to discover
That it's my turn, and I'm next in line.
But if, indeed, that's the next big adventure,
I hope it's a pleasant surprise.
I'd love to prove, or disprove,
All the theories I've had
About life and love,
And good and bad,
And wisdom and learning,
And ethics and such,
That faith is a pillar
And not just a crutch.
But, of course, I’m not worried,
I don't do that, you see.
"Que será, será",
What will be, will be.
But on the off chance that there is a hereafter,
I'd like to reserve a small space there for me.
And should any of you get there before I do,
Try to grab us a nice window seat with a view.
Chance
accidents
intricate
yet plain
in time&space
counterpoints to
tease
& float in unreal
swirl &mounds
apparent to the eyes
textures
alive
opulent adventures
flowing
without restraint
turmoil released
energetic
explosions
of
loops&sprays
rich & strange
in a mist
without precedent
flung
splattered
a random
spontaneity
of liquid flowing
motion
arrested in space
in a life
of its own
an easy harmony
dripping
drop
by
drop
short moments
in rivers
of rain
off chance
inside to out
of the
unconscious
mind
Night is pending.
Not even the most anxious
can avoid time.
Day after day I dread the
the death of nothing
that the night spawns.
The TV becomes my
best friend~
a window of light
in the abyss.
Old TV shows
are brighter than
the new.
Tonight I choose
The Andy Griffith Show.
I put my earphones in,
and turn the volume down
(on the off chance
sleep embraces me)
and I embrace my fate.
I watch.
It's strange.
I feel a peculiar force
tugging at the corners
of my mouth.
The opposite of gravity.
A sensation that pulls
upward.
I had forgotten the feeling.
I laugh inside,
but for a different reason
than my body is currently
reacting to.
It seems even the most
sleep-deprived,
fear stricken
low in life
sickos
can't keep themselves
from smiling at
the infamous
Don Knotts
On the off chance,
that I’m not swimming in those eyes,
I would swear that her beauty lies,
somewhere across that smile.
There is just something,
so pure and divine,
as if to the clouds I ascended
and my mind it is fine.
I soar.
Where the laws of this world do not apply,
Where the sun never sets.
Where the moon always shines.
Where my feet ever glide,
across a soft summers sky.
Where I, the King of time,
rule in the name of you,
queen of mine.
As I would march twelve soldiers,
in the name of you.
Pray each and every one of them,
stand true.
So please, take my crown, my throne,
take everything I own,
melt it all and forge it into hope,
that I will yet again dive within her soul.
For I swear, her smile is magical,
beautiful, heavenly, calming.
To pour ink for the divine,
seems to be my calling.
The grains of sand, they keep on rolling.
I stand in their way, though the rivers they hold me,
and just as time did, it is I now that is falling.
Buried with hope, embracing peace slowly.
With a smile,
though man’s language too poor, to answer why.
Facing spousal abuse daily;
you deal with physical brute force.
And though you feel betrayed by love,
you've never asked for a divorce.
When you look into a mirror,
you see a woman, bruised and blue.
And her vacant eyes look empty;
as she stares blankly back at you.
Living in the shadow of fear,
you bear the scars upon your flesh.
And at times, you fear he'll kill you;
when your pain is throbbing and fresh.
Yet, you can't make yourself leave him;
on the off chance that he loves you.
And you pray that he'll change someday;
you're frightened of what he might do.
Your love's not always understood;
in the depths of your broken heart.
But you're a slave to your feelings;
even though they tear you apart.
POLLOCK
Chance
accidents
intricate
yet plain
in time&space
counterpoints to
tease
& float in unreal
swirl &mounds
apparent to the eyes
textures
alive
opulent adventures
flowing
without restraint
turmoil released
energetic
explosions
of
loops&sprays
rich & strange
in a mist
without precedent
flung
splattered
a random
spontaneity
of liquid flowing
motion
arrested in space
in a life
of its own
an easy harmony
dripping
drop
by
drop
short moments
in rivers
of rain
off chance
inside to out
of the
unconscious
mind
My eyes grow heavy and my sight is blurred;
I fight for wakefulness but steadily cede ground.
I am being drawn down,
seduced into the abyssal realm of sleep.
Wandering these moonlit halls
I stumble upon oddities unending,
my slumbering mind rife with mysteries,
falsehoods and problems; no solutions in sight.
Scene after scene plays out across my field of view,
colors and sights impossible and astounding.
They obstruct my battle for consciousness,
my struggle to escape this nightmare landscape.
On the off chance I win and make my exit,
the awaiting reality grants no reprieve,
no relief from the hell
that stalks my every motion and thought.
When even the eclipsing state of sleep
provides no rest, no sanctuary,
and awareness drains you of life;
what is left?
Love arrives like a warm zephyr,
melting away reality.
And arouses dormant desires,
that erupt like molten lava.
Dying embers flare into flames,
that linger in private places.
And you experience feelings,
that surpass infatuation.
Love's such an extraordinary
sensation you can't help but smile.
For it makes you feel euphoric,
and unbelievably happy.
Love's like a rainbow of color
you exuberantly pursue.
While hope keeps fantasies alive,
on the off chance, they may come true.
Your heart fills with exaltation,
when you first start falling in love.
And anticipation leaves you
feeling breathless, yet wanting more.
You want to know its merits?
Very well, then. Daylight slants
deliciously across the boy's
inclined, thoughtful face.
His lace collar, crumpled,
houses valleys of shadow.
Or what about the Water Seller?
Look at that poncho's warm
woven woollen texture:
and isn't the rip in the shoulder fun?
And the dimples on the pot!
They scream "potness" at us.
Or the beads of water
clinging to the larger vessel,
whose horizontal striations
practically smell
of the potter's wheel.
But oh, that drinking-glass!
Does it seem possible to you
that unctuous oils and minerals
of earth, gouged from the soil,
can render the ethereal soul of glass?
It was a winter afternoon.
I'd gone along to the gallery
on the off-chance.
Standing before this marvel,
I found myself entranced.
But even as I gazed, the sun
(though never very confident in London)
stepped out coyly from behind a cloud.
Duck's-egg orange light, resplendent,
now fell aslant the canvas.
Surely this was harmful?
Sunlight bleaches (does it not?)
the colour out of things.
Alarm bells should be ringing.
I summoned a uniform attendant.
He nodded sagely as I explained
- but did nothing.
Why should he care?
Minimum wage is no great motivator.
An hour from now,
he'd be hanging up that peaked cap,
and be a person until Monday.
No point in bursting
a blood-vessel
over a silly painting. Later.
But I couldn't leave it.
If I stood just thus,
my human frame was just enough
to block the sun.
One little skirmish could be won
if I remained here
until the sun’s trajectory was done,
or the gallery closed,
whichever came the sooner.
So I did. On tip-toe,
spine inclined, quiet,
I crowded out the light of day
for more than an hour.
Pointless, you say.
I can't deny it.
The very next day,
And each subsequent foray
of Phoebus would
merely recreate the problem.
That's hardly the point.
Finding myself there,
I beat my ploughshare
into a sword and,
for that tiny slice of time,
I made the sacrifice,
bore the quizzical looks
with equanimity, quirky,
standing like a turkey
on tenterhooks
and saved the painting.
It all sparks off
With the mention of the park
Her white tail twirling
Relishing the renewal
Of her communion with nature
Her contact with her ancestral past
Then off to the park in the car
Where ,after taking her ease,
She sniffs at the sourness
Of tired vegetation
With more attractive smells
To follow.
Let off her lead,running free
Through the rustling carpet of russet,
Her paws paddling with pleasure
Until she stops ,stock still
A sentinel searching
For a lightning flash of a glimpse of grey.
Then off like a rocket in pursuit
Only to be left beaten and baffled
Beneath a tree circled several times
Letting out little yelps
Revisited every round
In the off chance
Of catching one unawares
Here it is the survival of the fastest
Off she slowly trots
Disappointed,
Her short pants the sonar
To detect where she is
When out of sight.
With every patrol around the park
Her pace begins to slacken
To be renewed at the mooting
Of a return home.
Slyly she tries to slip away
To escape having to leave
Her park paradise
With her lead finally replaced
That puts paid
To her thoughts of continued liberation
Back into the car she goes
Resignedly
And upon her return
Drifts into a deep dream
Where her ghostly yelps
And wriggling legs
Replicate her exploits
Of her daily walk.