Long Piecemeal Poems
Long Piecemeal Poems. Below are the most popular long Piecemeal by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Piecemeal poems by poem length and keyword.
December rains
Hurl aqueous tears;
Salty aftertaste
~~~~~~~~~
Monsoon season
Wet and wet again;
Abrupt mood swings
~~~~~~~~~
Seek knowing
Beyond word count;
Awareness sums
~~~~~~~~~
Wet market lanes
Slippery slimy walkways;
Jerky footfalls splash
~~~~~~~~~
Bargain hunters
Black Friday sales;
Mob mentality
~~~~~~~~~
Hot tea brew
Random conversations;
Drifting away
~~~~~~~~~
Rustic tea house
Aromatic fragrance;
Poignant deluge
~~~~~~~~~
Elemental harmony
Geomancy fortifies;
Feng Shui master
~~~~~~~~~
Jigsaw puzzle
Mystery unravels;
Fumble finds fit
~~~~~~~~~
Zen garden landscape
Urban renewal;
Haiku path stillness
~~~~~~~~~
Lunch crowd loiter
Naked hunger rumbles;
Feasting interlude
~~~~~~~~~
Sexy slim cigarette
Nicotine flames flash;
Smoky surrogate
~~~~~~~~~
Wayside vendor
Newsy progress;
Piecemeal collisions
~~~~~~~~~
Boy of four
Pounding iPad universe;
Savvy disposition
~~~~~~~~~
Playmates
Playground;
Pretty paces
~~~~~~~~~
Sleepover
Makeover;
Stopover
~~~~~~~~~
Roadside vendor
Poor farmer smiles;
Empathy consolidates
~~~~~~~~~
Hibiscus flowers
Red for good luck;
Flashy sunlit smiles
~~~~~~~~~
Temple tour
Ancestors await;
Mindful conversation
~~~~~~~~~
Change manifests
Simply succinct;
Leftover memories
~~~~~~~~~
Web portal
Too much glut;
Information overload
~~~~~~~~~
How come?
Why now?
Much too late
~~~~~~~~~
Be still
Change reveals;
Transact transit
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
12 December 2016
Singapore
My father waits at his table
for my delivery
a carton of cigarettes, some booze
to patch places of laceration
his health waning, piecemeal, like a trail of crumbs
dismantled independence
the coldest solitude of age
he lifts the cigarette carton I bring, crashes it to the table
"I told you regular smokes, not King size!"
flawed purchase on my part,
catching his smoky torch of rage
my father, no longer a full self of goodness
his prostate cancer, a derailment
our scripts dysfunctional that divide us
like broken cement
still, I shop for him, a life alone in a gray wasteland
my duty, a quest for inner peace
the familiar charity in my father drifts from him
like cigarette ash, up in smoke
I kiss his cheek before I go
unguarded moment
to heal battlefield wounds
to open barricades between us
the battered stumble of hope
Poem composed: January 23/2022
Live, Don’t Exist
Written: by Miracle Man
11-16-2019
Sometimes due to age,
I’ve found others to be officious.
In refusing their help,
my refusal is capricious.
Help causes me to feel,
I’ve been delegated to the shelf.
And as long as I’m able,
I like doing things myself.
I’d prefer not answering daily,
just how it is I feel.
My new norm is never good,
so I take my days piecemeal.
Sometimes I feel others,
My condition may amplify.
I appreciate concerned friends,
But want to live until I die.*
*Ecclesiastes 7:17
“Be not over much wicked, neither be thou foolish: why shouldest thou die before thy time?”
Epigrams II
Sex Hex
by Michael R. Burch
Love's full of cute paradoxes
(and highly acute poxes).
***
Midnight Stairclimber
by Michael R. Burch
Procreation
is at first great sweaty recreation,
then—long, long after the sex dies—
the source of endless exercise.
***
The One True Poem
by Michael R. Burch
Love was not meaningless ...
nor your embrace, nor your kiss.
And though every god proved a phantom,
still you were divine to your last dying atom ...
So that when you are gone
and, yea, not a word remains of this poem,
even so,
We were One.
***
The Poem of Poems
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
This is my Poem of Poems, for you.
Every word ineluctably true:
I love you.
***
Here and Hereafter
by Michael R. Burch
Life’s saving graces are love, pleasure, laughter ...
wisdom, it seems, is for the Hereafter.
***
Meal Deal
by Michael R. Burch
Love is a splendid ideal
(at least till it costs us a meal).
***
Vice Grip
There’s no need to rant about Al-Qaeda and ISIS.
The cruelty of “civilization” suffices:
our ordinary vices.
***
Piecemeal
by Michael R. Burch
And so it begins—the ending.
The narrowing veins, the soft tissues rending.
Your final solution is pending.
***
The Whole of Wit
by Michael R. Burch
for Richard Moore
If brevity is the soul of wit
then brevity and levity
are the whole of it.
***
Redefinitions
Faith: falling into the same old claptrap.—Michael R. Burch
Religion: the ties that blind.—Michael R. Burch
Baseball: lots of spittin’ mixed with some hittin’.—Michael R. Burch
Trickle down economics: an especially pungent golden shower.—Michael R. Burch
Poetry: the art of finding the right word at the right time.—Michael R. Burch
Fundamentalist Christians row over piecemeal things,
Over whether baptism is required for heavenly sings,
Over whether baptism is needed for heaven’s welcome,
Over whether baptism is demanded by god to overcome.
I don’t know how many times I was asked about baptism,
Whether I wanted baptised, they didn’t accept my atheism,
I’d stated it to my parents but had a question in my mind,
About whether they’d told my so called friends who’d mind.
But I said no, and explained Christian atheism fair, square,
Didn’t mix my words nor hesitate to extrapolate with air,
But each one said to me I didn’t know my own mind simply,
Which left me very distressed, very much in a quandary.
They were playing the mentally ill card, when I was not,
They wanted to patronise me to chide and see what I’d got,
But I didn’t like it so withdrew from their sphere, company,
Which made me feel better, gave me dignity and harmony.
A stillness with life and a peace about my so uncertain future,
A habit of reading, even if I’d already read them in conjecture,
Since my parents restricted me to only five philosophy books,
In case for researchers and academics, thinkers, I had looks.
A fundamentalist household is not a peaceful one, stable,
But is distressed, fragmented and broken, that’s irrefutable,
You suffer displacement because your atheist leaves you,
To ruminate upon his interjection which is to see you through.
I think it’s better today, atheists in god families have voice,
They can be respected for devious acts of normality, choice,
They can refer to teachers for love, for secularist edification,
And have access to the medical profession for an adulation.
History sounds – billions of muffled voices, vying to be heard.
The loudest ones rise to the top, while others are doomed to silence.
But even among those heard and remembered,
We will never truly know them.
We may gather their notes and letters,
Dig up their dusty bones,
Resurrect their hopes and fears,
Rebuild their childhood homes,
Learn of their loves and failures;
But this past we piece together,
Like a giant jigsaw puzzle,
Will never be complete,
For the person will always elude us.
We will never see the world as they did,
Or feel the ebb and flow of their culture;
Never carry the weight of their conscience,
Or know the depths of their convictions.
Though science brings us ever closer,
It can never truly take us there,
For the world once known to them can never speak;
It must lie muted, still and dead,
Haunting us with piecemeal truths,
That can never again be made whole.
Winds bell-ring the tulips.
Racoons hang lazily from eaves
watching the watched.
Barns are bent into rafts of moss,
an age shedding green
gathered by crow-footed wanderers.
All is a montage of one single facet
of day-sprung now.
Meadowlarks slip through their own songs
I unlimber my gray sticks
and stride,
my piecemeal mind mended and alight
with a bright-eyed flowering.
Spring clambers over my bones
to chase the wagging tails of
barking dogs,
sunshine gallops along a paddock fence
casting a mirage of painted flickers.
Hard to be anything less
then my best idea this day.
I search for a notion, a reason, a why,
only to be scooped-up
by a flock of fleet sparrows,
their small brown wings going nowhere,
yet all of us flying inside a sky-lifting joy.
Oomph flavours zest as home with peace,
Urge mellows fest with mahjong tease,
Rich pun and jest bring festive ease.
Feel fancy play with hidden hand,
Aim piecemeal sway with moving brand,
Make mindful way a touch you trend;
Indulge the flow of guile that bites,
Live that fine glow of plot you write,
Yes promptly show the vivid cites.
Calm cheer lives poise with lovely lot,
Hurl fragrant choice with moving thought,
Reap a clear voice that syncs swift spot;
Intuit a feel that knows just how,
Sense a firm will that mind endows,
Trust heart to deal a winning now;
Make a firm stake in mellow mind,
Ask as you make a charming find,
Set change to fake a winning sign.
Move strategy with what you own,
Apt thought truly makes each round sown,
Heap now clearly known and unknown;
Jest to the change the helps moves steer,
Observe due range of chance most clear,
Note ***** and strange that funds you here,
Glimpse that fun thought in scenes that come.
Charm plays each lot as moods now pump,
Health and luck spot the final sums,
End as you start with poignant stay,
Etch in sure heart the craft you play,
Rest that pure art as winnings say.
Leon Enriquez
01 January 2017
Singapore
I can't escape hearing the voices.
Even when, I myself, am utterly alone,
Even when the plea for peace,
is threadbare, shredded into tatters
of shrugged-off 'don't matters'.
The child I once was,
clamors for wonder, mischief, and make-believe.
The critic leans back, arms-crossed,
primed to tear down every armistice deal.
The dreamer scatters blueprints
made of butterfly wings,
stalling, stalling,
for happenstance to lead the way.
The doubter folds paper chain dolls,
strung together with paperclip chains.
The judge bangs the gavel on the table, commanding:
"Enough of the blithering!"
"This piecemeal deal must be done—Today!"
The mirror shows I myself, splintered into
a bookcase of shadows, on the shelves.
In the High Court of Inner Appeal -
They beg to differ, plead to acquiesce,
to become as one,
all-inclusive, but failing —
Then, another shadow enters the room.
A tiny puppy wagging its tail!
Mind is at peace.
Peace is here, if you please!
Though predictability prevails
pertaining to my life,
nonetheless a pronounceable zeal
bestirred from writing,
and reading (no surprise),
which literary leaning, inspiring,
fueling cognitive pastimes
elicit unending appeasement
within mine private weal
without doubt (I intimate), and
predicated on an
adequately comprehensible, hypothetical
sampling of the population,
would probably accurately concur,
that hallmarks majority of
quotidian, weekly, monthly...activities
would NOT re: veil
dramatic seat of
the pants, nail biting, unreal
high wire, death
defying ironic steel
lee cliff hanging,
bare knuckle adventure squeal,
ling small hairs some deal
of the spine raising goosebumps,
sky diving with
out a parachute,
intercourse without a condom,
et cetera gasping
for breath, before sidereal
red giant stage
obliterates flora and fauna doth seal
verdict - case closed,
and legitimate reason to repeal,
thus this sketchy
pictured exhibition sedentary
cerebral efforts for real
marginally quiet natured unvaried
repertoire applying
thee measure piecemeal
asper wilderness trekking, exotic
excursions globe trotting,
(sans criteria as well spent
purpose driven existence),
mine unmasked,
minimalistic patrilineal
lovely bare bones (hollow winning)
by thee above arbitrary fictitious ordeal
figuratively hypothetical measures,
this generic guy, viz zero
less exciting even eating oatmeal
as resultant measurement,
cuz his feeble minuscule variation,
thinner than lean gruel
would NOT even
constitute living, ideal
as...a fly, thus accept this message
as plea whisking me
cerulean heights ethereal!