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.
Sophisticated
Simply superb in sensitive situations
Obviously oblivious to opulent objects
Particularly passionate pondering petulance
Happy at home having guests in her humble haven
Irresistible impressions of immaculate elegance
Softly silently sophisticated in simplicity
Touching tenderly tremendously tempting
Image always impeccably inviting imitation
Curiously calm at calamities culmination
Always appreciates affectionate attention
Traveling together tasting tempting tidbits
Effervescent emotions energizing everyone
Diamonds diminished displayed dangling delicately
John Derek Hamilton
March 29,2016
—Before Love Could Count—
The youngest lingered when the household's breath
Had lapsed into nocturnal quietude,
As one who bears, not petulance, but truth
Too weighty for the custody of years,
And with a countenance unfortified
By any artifice of elder grief,
Preferred at last this visitation plain:
"Which one dost love the more?"
I made no answer; for thy syllables
Transgressed the jurisdiction of reply,
Descending where the inmost conscience keeps
Those unarraigned derelictions of the heart
Whose very innocence condemns the more.
What imperceptible diminishment,
What inadvertent sequestration of
My presence, or what uncommemorated hour,
Had germinated this clandestine dread
Until it flowered beneath thy faithful voice?
No chronicle restored that hidden dawn.
Remembrance chronicles the visible wound,
Yet leaves uncatalogued those noiseless griefs
Whose first inception passes unobserved,
Until one guileless question rends the veil.
Then all my children rose—not serially,
As history enumerates mortal years,
But in one simultaneous radiance,
Each the inaugurator of a love
The antecedent self could not conceive.
Before you were born, my love had no plural.
Not poorer then, but yet inchoate still,
For every birth annulled the man before
And consecrated one unprecedented,
Whose heart acquired, by each nativity,
Another unsuspected mode of grace.
Come hither.
Let no arithmetic profane
What Providence hath never taught to count.
The rain fell once.
The leaves received it separately.
Retrospective Inclinations
Inclinations toward the philosophical nature of mankind
Imitations of awe and wonder and the subtly refined
Insinuations of an action that is considered ill-defined
Illuminations of the atmosphere that circulates in her mind
Catastrophic consequences for those who refuse to consider cost
Misanthropic measures as they contemplate what they have lost
Philharmonic overtures that adorn the cultured and the loft
Telescopic telomeres that combine technology as she seems soft
Incorporations of conversations that imply a sense of dread
Consolidations of invitations that leave the bride unwed
Palpitations of consecrations that conjure inside her head
Affirmations of visitations that come and go from her bed
Luminous possibility among the distorted convolution
Furious credibility that promotes a transfigured delusion
Spurious eligibility as she writhed about in confusion
Injurious sensibilities that draw unnecessary conclusions
Awakening contemplations that preside in elevated thought
Mistaking conversations for something that can be bought
Berating intonations for a concept that needs to be fought
Negating imitations of a notion that is over wrought
Visionary eloquence forming from the twighlight sky
I am weary of the inference as the tears well in my eyes
Timothy Leary fades into irrelevance as the earth begins to die
Commissary for the petulance I feel from the nature of mankind
Radiance and insight fight for grace and kindness to emerge undefeated
The gradients of light that fractal outwards when repeated
Innocence and delight combine to have the malevolent deleted
Convalesce inside the retrospective thought that you have completed
The End Copyright Elizabeth Moroz 2025
(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.
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.
I came in to your apartment entrance
In someone's clothes to celebrate a happy
Circumstance.
Even though you didn't finance
This reliance
There was complaisance
No definance
Because of your continuance
I soon had dominance.
When you didn't have me you showed petulance
And discordance.
You had no chance
Of deliverance
From the death dance.
Gone from your face is the radiance
Of life as the ambulance
Team loaded up your body with no utterance.
You sent a message loud and clear as life
Goes on that there are people who will always
Want to enhance
And advance
Their life for an empty significant extravagance.
It has long ceased to rain here.
The embers of drought are fanned by the merciless
Hands of hell.
The air is stifling,
The heat insufferable.
I cringe from a long wait on a queue in the narrow
Trench at a fast-drying
Brook.
I wait from the crack of dawn to vespers time,
But not an iota of liquid
The size of miniaturised Sri Lanka in a children’s atlas,
Has creased my aching tongue.
Not one drop.
My chances are scuppered by the returning terns
Who must refuel in readiness for
Another chaotic Atlantic crossing.
A mild squall renews hopes for a pluvial onslaught,
But clouds chose not to weep.
The petulance of spring tempts our fortitude.
As the days stretch with sloth’s speed
In the face of a prickling drought,
I could only drink from an hourglass....
The jaw of Time has broken.
Waves of seas clash on each other and welter
By way of crimson froths.
Bleached by salt,
They taste like mordant fruits,
Biting and scourging my cheeks to the
Fulfilment of stalking and waiting.
There should never be any time that matters
More than any season, no matter the name of
The Calendar — Caesar or Gregory.
As I wait, I finger my hair,
Now whittled by damnation.
I dream according to my visions....
If only opportunities came as regularly as the
Milkman!
It feels muted.
Like a bubbling ache, miming the mince of my patronising murk.
The peevish petulance of my prejudice prompts an abandoned frugality so thinned to a destined demise.
Unlaced.
Untied.
Undone.
A portal so honed to the residual refine of my extinction.
The sterling silver glints off the ashen sheds of my abandoned flesh; she looks like a platter.
Each serving an amortisation to the segments of my pestilent seethe.
Every atom of her making nurtures a barbaric famine to the fester of her feud.
Each larceny a sacrificial suckle for the prosperity of her condemn.
I feel my ruins spewing in a sovereign decay of a cataclysm so heinous in its destruction.
So sinister in its devaluation.
So predatory in its death.
It feels muted; all my days blending one.
All my days blending into the countdown to my censure.
My day of reckoning.
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:
All hail to a noble saviour of low birth
who lies in a cradle surrounded by beasts.
The chants of joy and gladness from all the earth
mark his lowly birth with wonderful feasts.
All hail to our Lord whose lowly birth brings hope
to the rabble, elite, priest, friar, and pope.
The seed of David who is sure to set men
free from the bondage of sin's evil omen.
All hail to our meek and gentle Christ child
whose childlike moods are ever temperate and mild.
The gift to a virgin who never once bore
childish petulance from a child to adore.
All hail to a great and charming infant king
of whose lowly birth all kingdoms on earth sing.
Men of every tribe and tongue come to adore
the Christ child who will their dignity restore.