Long Petulance Poems
Long Petulance Poems. Below are the most popular long Petulance by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Petulance poems by poem length and keyword.
Clad in his double-breasted royal toga
Filled of nothing but pride and anger
His face as grim as a Pallbearer’s
His gaze dreadful and fearful like that of
A raging rattlesnake about to strike
His eyes crackling charcoal fire-red
His dancing tummy under his “Agbada”
Reminds me of a dancing Porcupine
He paces round his palace
A house built on a Rock in the Niger-Area
He fumes and puffs like a spitting Cobra . . .
“My eyes of pity had gone blinded
Only those of nakedness built on wickedness
Shone in my vibrating Golgotha
Let no man speak of hunger with anger
For I find people not scavenging on the garbage
Let no one talk of thirst in a haste
For our River Niger is like that of River Marah
It brings only taste of grouchiness and sullenness
Let men in the Niger-Area speak not of hoarding of food
For Farming is the only way to more days of famine
Speak not of hike in the Oil from our ground
For its very dear in the other neighbouring lands
Rejoice my people for the benevolence have shown you
I shall rule and rule forever till there are people to rule no more”
Our King is indeed insane for sanity left him long ago
A vivaciously looking Chimpanzee in the Niger-Area Forest
A chirpy Chimera of the Black Race, unto him I bow piously
I have impatiently listened to his drunken fits of eloquence
My king smells like a gouard of wine full of petulance
As I bore the sting of his unrivaled drunken ribaldry
I weep for a King who is as old as Methuselah
I wonder whether he had ever smell childhood
For he looks as if he had always been old from
The very scaring day he was let out of his Mother’s womb
His Majesty old and worn out like a dry hell
Let him run into the Market with nakedness on his head
Let our people beat and stone insanity out of him
Let the people in the Niger- Area Arise and thread
Like the Strong and the Mighty with history of Victory
And arrest our oppressors and other fanatical Kingpins
And let them be taken like urchin for their tyranny
And turpitude has attained untold heights
Alayande Stephen .T
5th December, 2005
12.45pm
Conceptualized after the furore of OBJ’s
Third term bid for continuity of hunger ,
Anger and excruciating Poverty for mass of the people.
Form:
Staring, vapor locked, at my Hammond B-3 console organ, which dominates my
kitchen. Surely a symbol of my madness. I can't help, but think, if the keys were
the days of my life, and the black ones represented the bad days, are there
enough black keys?? Fighting petulance, self-pity...losing...
Wondering if I can stand another minute alone. Atop my organ, music books,
and the complete works of Edgar Allan Poe, another mad poet.
Plagued by physical agonies that merely complete a perfect circle of anguish
and distress. Even to worrying of misspelling a word again. Pure lunacy.
Remembrance of my 1863 death at Missionary Ridge, something I became
aware of as a young child before I'd ever heard of reincarnation. Or just an early
sign of the madness to come??
I am lost in a befouling miasma of deep despair. My life's hopes down to 2
desires; one last music band, and taking my son to Disneyworld. Money is
meaningless to me.
I am well aware that death is as natural as life. And I would venture to guess
that the loss of my father, my young cousin Billy, my dear friend Mark Trotiner, and
too many others, are "Business As Usual" in this universe. But not for me.
Being terminally ill myself is something I have long since come to terms with.
And what a reunion it will be!! But I must continue to go on surviving as though I
cherish this long and barren life.
My writing, especially my poetry, my poet friends, my music, my musician
friends, and a few relatives and others; these are the meds that work for me; not
the 30 or so pills I must deal with everyday. So thank you all.
And now an addendum, one which brightened my day:
Mark Trotiner long maintained that he gave Mark Knoffler (Dire Straights) the
idea for his hit song "Money For Nothing", when Mark Knoffler came into the
appliance chain store he worked in way back then, where he bought, and drove
off with several T.V.s, singing the prototype words he'd gotten from Mark Trotiner.
Over the years, I tested him repeatedly, looking for the tale-tell deviation in the
story one finds in a false tale. He never faltered, he never failed.
Continued.....
Filched Physiognomy - Mine!
Absolute zero escape
velocity guts dance
sing days (contra and square),
cuz metabolic full abundance
abdominal adipose tissue acceptance
not in accordance
with light as a feather
miss lost acquaintance
the boy within forced admittance
as sure man tanks of fat did advance
shotgun marriage demanded allegiance
to pledge lifetime alliance
no room for allowance
crushing lightness of being ambiance
nor allies to help me combat
battle fatigue require
ring superman endurance
to muster strength
to stand erect else ambulance
will whisk away husky
embarrassing appearance
loose fitting clothing
jelly roll appurtenance
overnight digital readout,
asper body mass index
scaled quick ascendance,
thus when showering,
I look askance
fearing bulging balloon
will necessitate assistance
else... diet of worms
as only assurance
safeguarding body electric
against hecklers at open casket
no matter, a small perchance
crowd in attendance
yea... eventual cremation
after life only fat chance
to alleviate present circumstance
heavy matter fails security clearance
the price for astute cognizance
weak willpower alighting countenance
esse pie ying sweet treats
now measures taken to counterbalance
to fight temptation and dalliance
overruling feasting craving delectation
to restore trim deliverance
love handles around equator
no magician can render disappearance
yes the discontinuance
of just dessert must maintain distance
without being weighed
down with disturbance
by heaviest haunch
ain't no elegance
lugging extra encumbrance
when throughout my early life,
skinny, yet able to steel glance
mirrored reflection now grievance,
where wistful memory
ha...ironic insouciance
more so than
today finds intolerance,
thus woebegone issuance
thorn in muss hide
to experience jubilance
hmm...maybe a strong
arm can lance
excess flab quite a nuisance
to defy gravity, why penance
sans unsightly paunch
yours truly laments skin
tight fit, thus petulance
lame excuse unwanted protuberance
necessitates dedicated pursuance
recollection of washboard
abdomen impossible, yes
nothing accomplished by remonstrance!
A Plea to the Charioteer
My prayers to you Charioteer
To guide me to the path full of light,
To lead me to the road that is right
And drive me to the route that is bright.
Let not the heat of anger besiege me
Nor the pangs of pride assail me,
Keep me clear from the sin of arrogance,
And free from the whiffs of petulance.
Should my mind ever go astray
Or should my faith in you ever sway,
Do refresh my veins with your flame
And goad me to the noble way.
Should hurdles be laid on my lanes,
Steer your chariot to evade them
Without inflicting any strain
Or any pain on anyone.
Should I ever wish to quit the field
Instil in me the strength and the will
To inner foes never to yield
Until I reach my last station.
I pray that you ever be by my side
And brace me with courage enough
To confront every stormy tide,
To vanquish every hidden foe
In battles within, though rough and tough.
When the final breath I will heave,
My plea that you fly me in your chariot
To your bright heavenly abode
My most cherished goal to achieve
To serve you at your wish and will.
In times of petulance,
fate is persecuted in a silent storm.
Through troublesome chapters,
where words remain unspoken,
sacred scriptures become
mindless memoirs.
Shades of black discolour
visions of rising ripples,
as love stories slowly sour and
are cast away like lost poems.
Can it all be resolved through a simple musing?
In sentences where you were
once my most devoted noun,
ink of my heart became an unwritten verb,
forming a titanium shield covered with thorns.
I could hear the pangs of my muse,
but there were no more metaphors to
portray my angst through alliterations.
Nor abstract adjectives to describe those
forgotten fields we promised to prowl.
What power does a poet possess without
romantic rhymes for a sonnet of love?
So... I lost the lust to write.
In the repetition of darkness,
to cure the sickness of the soul,
I stumbled upon the words of Rumi.
Yearning to swirl like a Dervish,
my only desire was to create poetry
within my beloved's flower garden,
inscribing blank fibres into revered verses.
In your absence little makes sense.
If only I was a tropic bird,
flying among sandpipers
in an island of golden rays,
where turquoise waves meet
ivory shores and the blessed sun,
in sapphires skies glows upon your face.
If I was to embrace your warmth
our petals of passion would
immerse like honeysuckle
and jasmine blossoms.
As you play my flute in your garnet lips,
wandering stars adore your moonstone eyes.
Upon the return of romance,
we will rewrite a new journal in
a poetic province of manifestation.
Upon the dawn of soft pastel flames,
a plethora of flowers will fall from the sky,
colouring a path of saffron, sakura and scarlet,
as this metallic hardness softens
in the sweetness of your sighs.
DON’T THE COUNTLESS COUNT?
What if “what if” didn’t matter at all?
What if the word “if” didn’t exist?
Would madness and sadness continued to call?
And would disdain, pain and petulance persist?
There are countless millions of people waiting to see if……….
If…. the world implicates impotence in the imposition of an implosion
And an explosion of exponential proportions
If….. children will still suffer starvation with a lack of elation
While adults liberate libation from the arms of repudiation and renunciation
Without the justification of abjuration
If…… politicians will persistently pontificate to people with platitudes and perforate their dreams with dreariness and dread
If…..The Bible continues to be a book believers were born for
And sinners in sanctimonious seclusion harbor only scorn for
If…gun metal will be melted down to make buckles for children’s shoes and no longer create ornaments of atrocious armaments
With supplemental supplication and subjugation is no longer sorrow’s creation
If……love’s loquaciousness leads to a land where lamentable liars are held liable for their lies
And become predisposed and prone to sincerity and integrity that is integral to intelligent and incisive ideology
If…..the universe will rise above a curse with the consistency of cantankerous and consternating cruelty
If…...the collective mind of mankind will conceive of conviviality and make merciless malice a triviality
If…..we will ever answer all these “ifs”
What if no one need ask if this or that will be?
What if calm champions and honest campaigns trumps over combat and war?
What if calmness finally comes to you and me,
and those countless millions who find battling a beleaguering bore?
© 2008…..free cee!
DON’T THE COUNTLESS COUNT?
What if “what if” didn’t matter at all?
What if the word “if” didn’t exist?
Would madness and sadness continued to call?
And would disdain, pain and petulance persist?
There are countless millions of people waiting to see if……….
If…. the world implicates impotence in the imposition of an implosion
And an explosion of exponential proportions
If….. children will still suffer starvation with a lack of elation
While adults liberate libation from the arms of repudiation and renunciation
Without the justification of abjuration
If…… politicians will persistently pontificate to people with platitudes and perforate their dreams with dreariness and dread
If…..The Bible continues to be a book believers were born for
And sinners in sanctimonious seclusion harbor only scorn for
If…gun metal will be melted down to make buckles for children’s shoes and no longer create ornaments of atrocious armaments
With supplemental supplication and subjugation is no longer sorrow’s creation
If……love’s loquaciousness leads to a land where lamentable liars are held liable for their lies
And become predisposed and prone to sincerity and integrity that is integral to intelligent and incisive ideology
If…..the universe will rise above a curse with the consistency of cantankerous and consternating cruelty
If…...the collective mind of mankind will conceive of conviviality and make merciless malice a triviality
If…..we will ever answer all these “ifs”
What if no one need ask if this or that will be?
What if calm champions and honest campaigns trumps over combat and war?
What if calmness finally comes to you and me,
and those countless millions who find battling a beleaguering bore?
© 2012copyright PHREEPOETREE …..~free cee!~
"Until an hour before the Devil fell, God thought him beautiful in heaven."
A thousand, million years had fled
then thousand million more,
yet it was still the morning.
And there stood one, Transcendent,
whom we call God and the Divine,
whose reasoned might
stretched to clutch infinity—
and embraced eternity’s nether bounds
to fashion perfect round—
beginning's instant fused
with very end of things
that time endured no more.
Thus evening interlaced with morning,
from whose conjugative spawn emerged
a cosmic realm, its structure fine,
yet restive, taut and yearning.
Here coherence mingled self with
destiny, and thus arose intelligence.
Among its legion offspring,
daughters of the light
and one the son of morning,
a paragon of intellect—
in depth and reason boundless,
beautiful and firm, named Lucifer.
Beloved of Transcendence and
from whom the mighty angels
fled, nobility confounded.
Across mighty heaven’s parapets
he reasoned and opined.
And many thought him noble.
Yet temerity cannot assail wisdom
nor petulance conjure faith.
He, his mighty acolytes then stood
and cried aloud, trumpeting insistence,
and became among the first
whose grasp did not exceed their reach.
And war ensued—
A war of vaunted intellect,
but also narcissistic,
and rooted in deceit.
For he would exercise free will to battle,
then in victory rob all of its gift.
Therefore a quandary stood
that would not reconcile with reason.
Defeated, Satan stood no more in heaven.
Godly was their sorrow when he fell.
Now in our eyes and hearts and minds
do not echoes of the war resound?
First Place: Julia Ward's Contest: Expand Arthur Miller's Thought from The Crucible (quote above).
Written: January 24, 2025 For contest Sponsored by: Brian Strand
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the galumph of morning breath
a chandelier of dew,
Barely inching through the cobwebs
dreams hammock in gleaming light
A jaded heart finds solace
in this tangled respite,
Lummox magpies whisper tales
crisp with truth renewed.
Magic twilight dolphins
swim through esoteric skies,
Flummoxed by the palette hues
purple crocus and yellow celandine,
Surly winds sweep through vastness
where shadows intertwine
Trapped beneath a cloak of darkness
spying on sighs.
Brambled paths lead to riddles
a sharp needle piercing skin,
Bleak wilderness unfolds its wings
reckless thoughts bear flight,
In abyssal thrall to katabatic winds
that howl at night,
Fodder for desolation grip
where slithy worms start.
A reckoning draft reasons
in cosmic dust and glowing flame,
Juggling shadows and whispers
with each breath eternity bestows,
Bright brambling duets waltzing
where sapphire waters flow,
Obsession's echoes in an alder
tarn untamed by shame.
Straddling the edge precariously
puckered lips exhale pure art,
the trickster stalks among obsidian trees
weaving lucid dreams unraveled tight;
a goldfinch’s trill alchemizes
into hope’s flickering candlelight -
each note dissolving petulance
from placid hearts
in these moments as I wander through
the glistening morning hue
surmounting plummet throes
where orchids boost
raw life on a hopeless slope.
(Just for fun, folks - and a nod to Old English)
Wat?!?
No jovial banter? No easy give-and-take of rivalry? Naught there be a good-natur'd ribbing between courteous competitors? Nay a rusty-edg'd petulance on propriety's behalf? No acrimonious innuendo f'r the sake of the game? Nay there a parry and thrusteth of verbal interaction, given eagrly in the hon'r of athletic engagement? Not yea a poison-ting'd barb-or-two f'r a corky adversary?
Ah well, I s'pose 'tis f'r the best, lest naught gallant Prince Brady springeth from the ramparts and striketh said foes to the quick . . . dark h'rse ye sayeth? Aye, I grant ye such, but such darkness yea the fires of Hades himself shant cleave in their most earnest reakoning, n'r shall thither be any who abscond the ire of it's somb'r intent.
Hearken ye anon to the soundeth of the armorer's accomplishments . . . the busy hammereth closing cold the rivets, as valiant Sir Thomas shall likewise closeth the lighteth from his foes' furth'r days. Seekest thou mercy? Dost thy heart thump with the rhythm of a calleth f'r clemency? Dost thy eyes endeavor to findeth the spark of benevolence in Prince Brady's gaze?
No one - nay, not yea I - can knoweth of such things . . . but ye can, as all creatures of similar acumen art apt, prayeth. Thou shalt findeth eventual attainment on thy boney knubs anyway, best prepareth f'r such ends willfully, hands clasp'd and eyes to the heavens . . . thy doom is thy salvation, as is the glint of Sir Thomas Patrick Edward Brady's salient blade!
Consid'rest thou admonish'd.