Long Pitifully Poems
Long Pitifully Poems. Below are the most popular long Pitifully by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pitifully poems by poem length and keyword.
Pitifully, it seems my volcano has erupted—Somerset Mougham
Awaiting ink and feather to perform, my volcano has erupted
Gloomy den, I listen to crackling fire, nothing of worth to pen
Suffer to produce work that last forever, an unwritten rule inducted
Cupped in hand, a cobalt bottle, I rub it, and call on its Jinn
Last resort, I sort out the day’s events, journals I’ve constructed
Graced ideas and creativity dead-ended, no nativity, a blank page
The ink has dried, writings seen under scrutiny, in a fishbowl
Sorcery a bitter end, acquire a student, mentor, what I now wage
Appetite gone, blithe verses, Chicken Soup For The Soul; soulful
Poetry to please; plush oriental magnolia’s, birds of paradise, sage
Speechless, lost in words of little sense, strained thoughts, struck dumb
Poet's bemoaning what's penned in a year, should've taken a week
Muses ebbed, Coleridge, Dickenson, to writer’s block they'd succumb
Inspiration depleted, curtains drawn shut, I may never again peak
Gloomy den, a chilling season, I listen to the wind, comfortably numb
It was the best of tines; it was the worst of tines.
It lay, distraught, in silence on the road.
He came around the curve, saw it too late to swerve;
the puncture caused his front tire to explode.
A silver-plated fork, her lineage was perhaps York;
a heritage of which she’d long lost track.
Her dreams as ballerina, faded like her patina;
now, pits and scars festooned her neck and back.
Her mind played back her fall, the horror of it all;
despairing life, she hoped it would end soon.
At first, upon a dare, burlesque with the flatware,
to end in shame, pimped by a plastic spoon.
Not wanting to be saved, she’d crawled out on the paved,
and waited for the crush when all went flat.
But in that car’s careening, her life took on new meaning;
an unexpected blowout saw to that.
For there, just up ahead, a kitten, surely dead,
was spared as the man slammed upon the brake.
Once stopped, he now could see her mewling pitifully;
he gently scooped her up to calm her shake.
Then, trying not to swear, he wrestled with the spare
and stowed the blown-out tire in the boot.
That’s when he saw her, mangled, her tines all at odd angles,
a fork that placed them all upon this route.
And so with certain care, he also placed her there
beside the kitten, on the padded seat.
Now straightened out and polished, she watches York demolish
the breakfast that her tines scooped out to eat.
—————
for the Metrical Tale Poetry Contest
sponsored by Hilo Poet
written on 01/03/2022
If somebody has loved
less than I have, then to him
nostalgia is regret
something that was never given up,
only left down his memory lane
with an unbearable pain
and a feeling of shame...
crying more pitifully than a lost pup!
Could I turn away and feel well...
making believe that nothing
as profound as tenderness
won't allow tears to fall
and get rid of bitterness?
Do men cry and won't tell?
Shouldn't they stop blushing?
Being human is never humiliating!
If somebody has held
on an intimate secret
and refused to reveal it,
he should have the courage
to free it from its darkness
and declare it without rage!
Confirming every truth is a kind
of relief, an effort to end the struggle
that was an expanding bubble
ready to burst and vanish from sight!
Nostalgia is regret,
a mood longing for a distant past;
has anyone ever seized it,
not letting escape it from his tight fingers?
Do moments fleeing into memory remain on silent lips?
Unforgiven remorse....
for what I foolishly did to myself,
refusing to ask, by challenging fear,
what the future withheld from me;
thinking that dreams couldn't end!
I flowed with the currents
of a raging river,never reaching the calm sea,
carrying this insignificant rock,
so dilapidated and exhausted,
not knowing where to stop...
hoping not to collide with destiny
and be pitifully shattered!
My wandering and blind soul
becoming farther away...
not recognizing the favorable winds
blowing towards me and recede to safety:
to preserve my thoughts from oblivion,
only to satisfy my primary needs!
My hurt was more spiritual
than the less-distressed physical...
without the ability to perceive joy,
and claim it without flattery!
Unforgiven remorse...
rebuking those unsound and adverse ways,
for having cast unrepellant shadows
over the ambitions and aspirations
of an unfulfilled life without soothing consolations;
no happy moments,no great events...
to complement when sorrow is intense!
When the friendly Devil asks you to dance,
step back...don't grab His inviting hand;
He's very good at the art of deception:
His ways are very charming and tempting that only a perceptive person can tell,
and He's well-dressed and well-spoken and He comes in the shape of male or female,
to buy more souls for His vindication!
I see Satan in the face of different people,
kinder than anyone...conjuring up conflicts among the faithful;
even those who imitate the Divinity of Jesus will deceive a good soul
with their false kindness and outward holiness!
Many will betray Christ for an instant glance at all that is gold;
and they can be your most trustworthy friends!
When the friendly Devil asks you to dance,
turn away from His alluring smile and seek refuge in the open arms of Jesus!
This fallen angel has drawn a plan for each one joining His network of sinners:
to strip all of their faith, values and dignity,
forcing them to obey His laws of immorality!
Are you one of them following his indecent ways?
Fancy-free childhood, glorious youth and awaited Golden Years
will be pitifully wasted in the quest for that self-pride;
and all Satan has to do is offer you a free ride!
Fools, become as shrewd and intuitive as foxes,
to fend off all the attacks of the wicked ones;
and can you ,amid them, remain as silent and gentle as lambs?
When the friendly Devil asks you to dance,
challenge Him with your fists of resistance!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Tired
Retired
So, I won’t be
Re tired… I don’t give up I just don’t respond… Queens never compete with pawns.
So, take those slivers you call lips.
That look like uncooked liver.
As you talk your lips quiver.
Always an echo in my chamber.
I just said that, but you repeat it, like what I said, was said to a dummy with a wooden head. I am already an Allstar
I slam dunk from afar …
I slam dunk on these punks never serve the ball drunk when i come on the Court the game will abort. !
Cause I scatter these critters that are pitifully bitter, they parrot and compete they Aim without reach, instead of learning what I teach; They sweat my technique, my style can’t be breached .
Stop trying to undermine, what’s mine is mine- You think I am a has been and that may be true .. I may need to retire because I am tired.
But ive never been a ‘’wannabee’ ‘ or a ‘’never was’’ that never was… I’ll give my seat to someone with love.
But they must be worthy and not someone dirty wit .. itty bitty brains with lips that look worn .
Yes, this is a scorn.
Come correct and stop trying to dis me with my own lines. there are better ways to get attention,and on someone’s mind ! Attention whores get little attention yet ,create dissention; Come correct an don’t talk to me out the side of your neck. . Anyway, I see you., And still I give you nuff respect . Stop competing with someone who has already paved the road.. carried the load and will explode if you don’t stop trying to lip sync my name, you got on my uniform but your not in my game…
No Matter Papa Repents...
Every blasted acrimonious misdeed
aye indelibly perpetrated
affecting ye and the Punim for life
hounds me doggone soul night and day
venomous wrath torments, strangles, racks...
every bone in mine entire body
suicidal ideations haunt every
waking and sleeping hour,
perhaps previous attempts to communicate,
(albeit poetically - for no rhyme nor reason)
fell short, asper yours truly
to claim accountability, culpability, responsibility...
unwittingly subjecting thee, a prized progeny
with legacy, where
diabolical, emotional, psychological... trauma
compromised your care free growing up years
namely while residing at 1148 Greentree Lane
exacerbated by mine self absorption
countless hours misspent
whiling away precious time
mesmerized more so
with computer technology,
versus prioritizing fleeting moments
with "mother" and/or offspring
yes..he now pays heavy price
pursuing amorous liaisons
gallivanting, flirting, emailing...
impacting (obliviousness
pitifully lame retort unacceptable)
feigning much ado about nothing
snappishly barking anger
such vitriol (mine)
sabotaged once in
lifetime golden opportunity
to foster, kindle pinterest
with spouse and daughters
subsequently deepening rift
rivalling Mariana Trench
love's labour's lost forever
frittering away compounded
half heartedly seeking employment
even though - NO LIE
inexplicable debilitating anxiety
buzzfeeding panic attacks
plaguing my psyche
since...birth, incapacitating
maximizing potential abilities
playing havoc pledging troth
with counterpart exhibiting
mental health challenges
unfairly begetting deux darling lasses
thee bearing brunt of pennilessness,
at aforementioned residence
unlivable, horribly untidy,
toxic with mold, cluttered...
such offal sight, sounds of screaming,
(when Shana nonverbal), stench...
now suffer (PLEASE BELIEVE)
suicidal ideation plagues my conscience
pointed objects quite inviting
remembrance of things past,
a worse fate than death!
PLEASE FORGIVE DADA...?
Occasionally, I find myself back in the old neighborhood.
It looks slanted and aseptic, like an abortion clinic.
All the old trees have been gleaned from the streets.
No hedges separating the houses.
There are no weeds on the lawns.
Not a child running about.
There are no weeds on the lawns.
They look soft and pastel perfect...
Weed killer wasn't in full swing when I was a kid.
I see my old childhood home.
It looks better than what I remember.
More refined but trimmed of any character.
A stranger is hosing down my old driveway
I want to punch him for trespassing.
I move down a couple of streets to the playground
Where we used to make boondoggle and crafts
Years later it was midnight love in the rough grass.
A short distance away, trains used to careen down the tracks
My brother hopped on one and ran away once.
He vanished for about three days.
came back in a $hit load of trouble, looking filthy but quite refreshed.
He never talked about it much
, but I knew freedom had been good to him.
He was grounded for a week for his hobo run.
A couple of years later he would leave childhood for good.
On his own ironclad terms.
I came home from school one afternoon.
My father slowly walked over toward me.
With a look I'd never seen before.
He told me that my puppy slipped under the fence.
And sniffed its way onto those same train tracks.
That had taken my brother to freedom land.
For a couple of years after, I'd fire rocks at the train
I felt both powerful and pitifully incompetent.
Like the limestone rocks that bounced off the metal cars
with a yellowish puff.
When the caboose was in sight, I'd retreat into the brush.
Anyway, this will be my last visit to the old neighborhood.
Everything once so familiar and comforting is gone.
There are no more funerals to go to or old friends to see
, no oak trees or weeds.
The boondoggle and pink bubble of security burst a long time ago.
There's nothing left here for me anymore.
I leave like a puff of limestone rock against a soulless chain of metal.
Pitifully, he calls her again and again
Brando yelling, "STELLA" from his knees.
Like he ever meant something to her...
Stop groveling like a fool. She was a tease.
She doesn't come from Kansas or Oz
and Sunnybrook Farm is make believe.
Stop shouting her name. For crying out loud.
Shed your tears somewhere else if you grieve.
She left long ago on a streetcar to get away.
It's your fault she's gone. You and your drama.
You killed her desire. That's what she said.
The conflicts you created left her in trauma.
You were the spider who sat down beside her,
the tiny creature that was much too hairy.
You brazenly acted as if you were a king,
but there's nothing about you that's scary.
After all this time, still blubbering for Stella?
You're a weeping wimp and it's pathetic
how you demean yourself time after time.
No one cares because you're not empathetic.
She waved farewell and made your life hell.
So, get off your knobby knees, Marlon.
Alice doesn't live here anymore. She left
and no longer wants to call you, 'Darlin.'
The sun is below the sight of morn
Another day had died, anew will be born
I lay on a soft bed, thoughts spread out wide
Quietly wishing I from my mind could hide
For in the night just as the moon peaked
I found guilt for which will not be speaked
For I in my heart knew not the sight of pain
I knew not of those in the rain
For my eyes had seen, my brain rejected
A false fantasy was there irrected
Teachers had preached, people have speached
But this horror my heart had not yet reached
Within me I have a pride
I am truly revolted inside
My eyes will not close for sleeping
I feel as though pain is creeping
For death is quietly reaping
Those poor souls who lost all tears for weeping
For in lands there are others
Those who cannot stay with their mothers
There are those who cannot feed
They don’t even have books to go and read
Death has them like wheat in rows
Where death’s scythe kills what grows
This ignorance is something I rue
Wealth around me is nothing new
I sit here with prayers I had been keeping
Let my money no longer stay heaping
I have nowhere to put my cares
I need to find more to add to my affairs
There are those with no grain
They have too much they have to gain
For which they pitifully strain
I know I am not the only one
Of the ones who help none
I know there are more
Who arrogantly try to raise their war
I know that there are others with more power
But they wouldn’t come in the hour
I need to get others to work
Instead of letting them noisily lurk
I have money not spending
I need to stop pretending
There are lives I need to try to start mending
So here the sun is below the sight of morn
Another day had died, anew will be born
I lay on a soft bed, thoughts spread out wide
Quietly wishing I from my mind could hide