Long Pared Poems
Long Pared Poems. Below are the most popular long Pared by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pared poems by poem length and keyword.
Here time unfurls old faces now,
Familiar curls in tact somehow.
Here share a meal as banquet shows,
Reminisce feel as journeys flow.
Here space and time wrought sculptures strange,
Seasons and chimes carved mortal change.
Here at this place we meet most brief,
Glimpse face to face, sum joy and grief.
Here on this date our paths align,
As if wise fate flings brand new signs.
Here for a while with catching up,
News and fond smiles to fill our cups.
Here faces fix how laughter greets,
Mingle and mix as old times meet.
Here sense the years that hurried by,
Hear eager ears share tales and sighs.
Here witness well how times wrought quest
Mellow the tell on passage fest.
Here share updates of old classmates,
Some beyond fate of mortal date.
Here sad news bring shock and surprise,
Death ever flings tears in demise.
Here as we chat, think of friends gone,
Mohan we met and Yap now death borne.
Here glad and sad and old times dodge,
Dwell joy and mad life trials now lodged.
Here feast and share fond memories,
Forty years pared since old Poly.
Here's to the Class of '75,
We had a blast, made most of life!
Here's to good health to one and all,
May peace and wealth and love heed call.
Here's to old friends from way back when,
A story blend of there and then.
Here's to fond times of happy finds,
Watch reason rhyme with peace of mind.
Here's to good cheer with lovely zest,
May wisdom steer our life path quest.
Leon Enriquez
07 January 2017
Singapore
Under the veil of twilight, in the whispering pines,
Where the sweet rain drifts through the western air,
I find myself lost in the labyrinth of my own thoughts.
Hypocrite women, how seldom we express our doubts,
While, with doubt, we care for the man in his uncertainty,
High up, among the trees in the mountains, in the thick air of poetry,
A white sweating bull of a poet declares our s are ugly,
Why didn't we admit that we’ve thought the same?
And what shame? They are not for the eye!
No, they are dark, wrinkled, hairy,
Caves of the Moon...
And when a dark humming fills us,
A coldness towards life,
We are too much women to admit to such unwomanliness.
With wantonness, we play and plead with the psychopomp,
And say nothing of it later,
Our dreams, with what frivolity we have pared them,
Like cut nails, like split ends of hair.
In moments of silence, when the world is quiet,
I wonder at the duality of our existence,
How we care and negate, love and loathe,
Lost in the labyrinth of our own creation,
Unable to speak the truths we hide so deeply.
In the shadows, under the mystical veil of night,
We are more than the sum of our parts,
More than the whispers of our doubts,
Yet bound by the silence we impose upon ourselves.
Here, in this sacred space of introspection,
Let us unearth the truths buried beneath layers of pretense,
Let us own our darkness, our coldness towards life,
For in admitting, we find the strength to transcend,
The courage to embrace our true selves,
Under the veil of twilight, in the whispering pines.
In an old briefcase
capsuled for years in a corner
of the shed, I found a rolled up wad
of poems, stalled, still looking
for something to say, frozen
in a futile gasp for air.
I should have thrown
them away.
There was also an old plane ticket,
a beer coaster from an Antwerp cafe,
and a few photographs taken
from a bridge across a canal
in Bruges with three nuns wearing
starched white cornettes
stretched out like enormous
butterfly wings perched atop
of their heads.
And tucked in a side pocket,
were letters from my mother
written more than thirty years ago.
Long dead, I could almost hear
her voice read each word.
In one, she told me how
she scored an A for English
in the HSC exam she sat
when well into her sixties.
She could recite Frost's "Birches"
off the top of her head. Stevens,
for her, made no sense. Mum liked
plain language pared down
to bone.
I am not sure why I am writing
these words about such
middling matters, much less trying
to shape them into poetry.
No matter.
Sometimes just ordinary things,
like those found in an old briefcase,
seem to find a moment
to have something to say,
at least for me.
COMMONPLACE PHRASIS 111
See behind this curtain,glimpses
into the soul,to reveal within the
heart,innermost thoughts,living
truths become the now from then.
Hidden allusions,enigmatic yet
proven by time,pared down succinct,
derivated but different,live and
breathing empirical minimalist moments
of inspiration.Everything flows so smooth
in this show of former things,casual remarks,
encaptured experience indelible impressions
contrasts yet always relevant.Vibrant
images obliterate the unnecessary,become
apparent as little songs from great
sorrow with eureka moments.
From Retrospective a commonplace book 2009
Listen to me recite this part phrasis on youtube under my pen name ichthys chiro
If That Fence Could Talk
By: Tom Wright
8/10/98
I meandered miles but did not tire,
from Cedar rails I've been made.
I came through clay, sand and mire,
through summer heat and shade.
My purpose here, not keep things in,
or keep some things without.
Quick glances back to where I've been,
can surely leave little doubt.
Young Robins may rest upon my rails,
while learning how to fly.
And I'm often visited by Scissortails,
if they should pass me by.
On lush green carpet I firmly stand,
making my owner so proud.
With post hole digger firm in hand,
he knows God has endowed.
For years this bond we have shared,
with yearly expansion you see.
From a stand of Cedar I was pared,
starting as a red Cedar tree.
If viewed afar when green the land,
I run, appearing not to stop.
I'm as strokes from a painter's hand,
with a snowy peaks backdrop.
As days sun sets and the hour is late,
I hope your eyes are seeing.
That for merely a place to hang a gate,
is not my reason for being.
This fence is located in Idaho's Saw tooth Mountains.
(scoured from dregs of me muss held head)
I shore up a vignette to free
my ("FAKE") grandfather Hymie,
whose scrunched countenanced
evinced beetle that of browed monkey
he spent his entire life at sea
his thick calloused hands
and ruddy complexion re
enforced non verbal body language
voluminous tomes smoothed
nick holed money
to countless years (spilling into decades)
exposed to salty spittle nee
where watery terrain spumed
raw elements piscine
art finest artisanal blended, crafted, nein
mean feet resources dredged reluctantly
relinguished by mother nature mean
craftily pared within each trough and crest
found thee old man with privateer mein
whose skin fiercely weatherbeaten
leathery and lean,
epidermis tanned tough
as rawhide, reptilian, prithee
chafed skin to me
not surprising, since
this mariner born, bred and near lee
schooled within briny deep ever since knee
high (or so he claimed truth
to swirling rumor), jovialy
pleased that his purportedly
learnin' myth writ tik ne'r included
NEVER settn' foot in formal classroom,
his knowledge icy
anecdotes aced, surpassed,
and trounced that of what he
referred to as grenadier landlubbers
green behind the ears – glee
fully jabbing with his
unsheathed scabbard play flea
actually downplaying any exploits,
that didst educate him, 'ee
got taut learn'n survival skills asper
pre ponder hunt via eddy fied tests frequently dee
siding a life or death outcome,
yet our Dickensian
mutually bonding friendship
via shared exploits while
he dressed not in tatters,
but self made clothes from cree
chores comfortable furs, and though
a striking appearance cut, ne'r
did this ole codger (fit as a fiddle
with tall slender build),
said middle aged man
appeared quite becoming.
An aura, charisma, dogma
amazingly graced stalwart, gestalt,
deportment aie
found added an air of charming debonair,
esteeming flair, genteel heir
which tasked guessing years old,
aye presumed him to exit the uterine lair
at least a few score tours round oblate sphere
as aspect of youthfulness played across his eyes
one colored green like a spring day in the country,
the other jetblue sans burnin'
four pearl jam oyster cult year.
A single white rose,
stark against the scar,
left on a plinth—
pale,
pierced,
and pared.
Air drips with heavy dew—
a heady sip,
thick nectar stung by wind,
a bitter elixir on the tongue.
The faint decay of autumn bloom rises.
Petals—
crushed,
capsized on iron.
Ensnared.
Entombed.
Rusting deep in the split stone—
iron teeth gripping the grim root.
Under the rust,
a secret scarlet pulse.
White thorns wake,
weaving through the wreckage.
Wild shoots shatter the cage,
rising—
raw,
radiant,
and reborn.
For deep under the bitter stone,
beneath the winter's heavy blow,
lies the silent, secret seed.
It waits for the solstice's soft sovereign warmth,
to wake,
to break,
and build the bloom anew.
When there is naught they’ve yet to taste,
when there’s no beauty in a pretty face,
when every run has already been raced,
the gods will envy death.
When mortal children, brave and bold,
with aching joints grow grey and old,
and parents watch with weathered souls,
the gods will envy death.
When worshipers dwindle in time,
find new deities for their sacred rhymes,
then cast them off for the next in line,
the gods will envy death.
When august power is pared to myth,
and used to entertain children with,
in pulpy tales spun by wordsmiths,
the gods will envy dead.
When times races on with greater speed,
when there remains no undone deed,
when blasé about fear, desire, need,
the gods will envy death.
When they stare upon our mortal fate,
and pray their own lives would abate,
to free them from their endless weight,
the gods will envy death.
But death will not be coming…
The women of Georgia are like a peach
Beautiful in all ways~ emotional,
mental, spiritual, and each will teach
skills to young women~devotionals
Peaches are versatile, fresh fruit to eat
Chopped added to milk and cream for ice cream
Pared, sliced, cooked in cobblers and pies~ a treat
Made into jam for biscuits; toast, a dream
Women of Georgia pass along their gifts
Whether homemaking or politics teach
Each one has something to share that will lift
our daughters to levels higher to reach
Women of Georgia dig deep in your well
Lift our daughters to ride the highest swell
Written: August 26, 2016
The goblins were getting the house ready for Halloween night
They had placed their creaks and crevices with sounds of fright.
The jack-o-lanterns were lit, glowing with eerie all-knowing smiles.
The trick-or-treaters would be coming to the porch with big smiles.
The witches had made a potion that would give them a scare.
The gargoyles were in their places, puffing up in the night air.
October thirty-first had never been more compellingly eerie.
This house especially was deemed spookiest by Mrs. McLeery.
She had brought her children last year and left decidedly fast.
After a poltergeist hit her with a Dracula bite and a blast.
Our house was haunted by much worse than mere ghosts.
To many spiritual entities and demons we were the hosts.
You never knew when you stepped foot on our creaky old porch
Whether you would get a face of kerosene or merely a blouse scorch.
We did not know either, we were mere goblins and such.
But we do know a lost girl has been twenty years alive in our hutch.
There are weird things happening on this night of all devilish nights.
We see so many frights, and treacherously weird sights upon sights.
It is Halloween, so sit back and relax and stay home if you are scared.
Because this is the night for children to be quartered and pared.