Long Ponderous Poems
Long Ponderous Poems. Below are the most popular long Ponderous by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ponderous poems by poem length and keyword.
“Tall Poppies, Cactus Flowers and a Girl Not Called Betty”
All the Flamingos were called Betty
on a crowded beach somewhere
Well heeled stuck in the quick sands of time
heads held high
like
Tall poppies
waving, long stemmed
they are
tightly furled pale pink peonies
and thorny cactus flowers
the softer velvet petalled man eating flowers
silently watch on
humming tunes
wetting their long musk scented tongues
to catch buzzing bees
and bragging blue bottled stinging horse flies
snapdragons wrapped up in faux violent
violet erroneous blue disguise
languidly caress memories
where the deeper shade of lurid fuchsia
open their moistened crowns
sweet honey traps
dripping with potential
unfurl their arms
seductively
reaching out
strung on legs that travel
all the way up a nowhere road
consider stopping for a while
shedding petalled layers
amusement winks
silkily bending over in the breeze
the feline tiger lily
looks aroused
while the glowing dandelion
a will-o'-the-wisp, walks on water
across the green laureate laurels and
through the pristine poetry blooms
blowing away
the dark dreary clouds
to touch your shores
where you sit smiling naked and salty
toes dangling for sharks
off some shady pontoon
casting the fishing line
into the ponderous light
dreaming
of the long held dance
somewhere untouched
under Blue Sky
Summer's dreaming
reeling Winter back into Spring
Romancing
he rolls his eyes
she grins
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
"Watermelon Sugar" / Harry Styles
https://youtu.be/7-x3uD5z1bQ
"Well I had a dream and in it I went to a little town
And all the girls in town were named Betty.
And they were singing: ..."
dance?
"Smoke Rings" / Laurie Anderson
https://youtu.be/Pdoj-w8xn1g
LYRICS / https://genius.com/Laurie-anderson-smoke-rings-lyrics
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Will-o%27-the-wisp
A “mention” in the Master’s ante-room.
Another February had arrived,
with dirty snow and heavy, slate-grey skies.
(One couldn’t help observing, on the sly,
the Master’s knees were blanket-draped
beneath his desk.) No wigs or gowns on show.
A minor hearing in a puny case.
They call it “inter partes” when both sides
turn up. Some point-at-issue had loomed large,
and we were here to tussle over it.
This room, so Ruskinesque, with frescoes
high on every wall, so hard to heat,
was one great chilly barn. The speaker’s breath
plumed out before him. “And my learned friend … “
Our leader’s voice, so sensible in its drone,
so sweetly reasonable, continued on,
so redolent of wintry afternoons,
like hissing logs a-burning in the grate.
Those practised highs and lows, mellifluous,
his easy-listening tone, so bland, so blithe,
relying on the case of this-or-that,
distinguishing the precedent of such,
“I think it was Lord Blinkwell who opined …”
Two hundred years ago – a little less –
the young Charles Dickens wasted days in here
(the chances are, here in this very room,
observing dreary sleet run down the windows),
mired in this solemn nonsense. Might it be,
he swore an oath – if ever he escaped,
he’d never take life seriously again?
If so, this ponderous symphony in grey,
as glum as Shostokovich etched in stone,
has cranked out clowns. There may be more to come.
Lifted from somewhere, reference for attribution lost:
"If there is any characteristic which separates poets
from writers of fiction, it is their particular fascination
with words in themselves. Poetry is normally written
more slowly, more painstakingly than fiction and the
finished work is intended for careful, repeated reading.
It is natural for the poet to place a special emphasis
on the overtones, the rhythmical effect, and the sound
of words."
I shuffle papers, reread
what I have written long ago --
impelled now by the urge to say
something, not necessarily new,
but perhaps of minimal importance
and imbued with some logical meaning --
structured and stated in an "artistic"
and pleasing style.
Those thoughts, though, must convey
some meaning, cannot be
(or should not be) empty babble.
And ponderous subjects
are of little interest.
So, what makes poetic
expression pleasing,
or illuminating?
It begins with clarity of thought
with precision of expression;
it depends upon
having something to say
that is worth saying.
Lame lyrics of lost love penned by sweatered sirens
deep as divots, shallow as puddles
Doesn’t teenage angst get old by the time you’re thirty?
I’d think so, yet the lackeys lap it up like maple syrup
I derive my dirges from a deeper well
dredging the depths
the abyss of my essence
bringing it to the surface in buckets
thick as black molasses
ponderous to pour, painful to process
Reopening every wound
Exposing each scabrous scar
My lifeblood spread in red puddles on the floor
until I’m drained dry and there’s no more
not a drop remaining to be wrung out of me
Bruised, broken, and sore I struggle to strike the match
setting it all afire
throwing myself on the pyre
I’ll always remember
That morning when unexpectedly
I phoned you from the bus station
It must have been four a.m.
You came running to meet me
I’d never been so happy to see you
The chill in the air was delightful
We strolled for hours
The downtown sidewalks and canal
It was much too early
To find an open coffee shop
We finally stopped at a park bench
At times joking and laughing
At times ponderous and peaceful
Talked about everything under the sun
Shared our thoughts and philosophies
That’s when we decided
To share homebrewed coffee
It was a time to cherish forever
Precious among my most tender memories
Read on air by invitation ~ May 5, 2021 'WORDS & MUSIC'
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on October 28, 2017 for contest FREE VERSE III sponsored by LAURA LOO - RANKED 3RD
11/28/2023
Let’s be fools and pretend this planet won’t implode.
Beneath a mosaic ceiling, hiding in a grand,poetry dome.
Where ethics and morality are shoved in an oaken drawer,
And with relief and a sigh, we want to see them, never more.
Let’s, above all- not look at the enemies within our very gates.
Villainous citizens, with anti-freedom masks, cover their faces
and ponderous pates!
Vague traces of hope where the god of censorship shines, tis
the rule for freedom hating fools.
That’s how civilizations crumble and only morons get to rule!
We jaunt in gleeful play, look firmly, smilingly, the other way?
Woebegone poets, losing, quite willingly, our freedom everyday..
Pen thee only of laughter and fun, never of reality, lost, prized,
poet ones.
Adore the lies from Tik-Tok, and social media, the wars in our very
countries has already begun!
We walk American streets, already unfree, antisemitism on fire!
But hide we in our grand poetry dome,a most deadly desire!
Outside the dome, others cover their ears, eyes and vacant hearts.
Selfish ones who care not who is in battle today, nor what young
souls will this very day depart.
A write like this will few comments ever have…no loss!
But I did not write it to be a pleasure, for freedom has a cost.
The sun sets sooner now,as holidays of .green and red do near.
And darker still on Israel, with hostages whose only breath, is fear!
Come every year along about the middle of November,
I begin to anticipate the happy times that await me in December!
Though the weather can be blustery, piling up drifts of snow,
The excitement of the Season will never lose its glow!
Wondrous vistas abound as if depicted by Grandma Moses,
Where children sled and skate exposing their crimson noses!
Harness bells chime as Dobbin trots with rhythmic stride,
Drawing a sleigh of happy revelers as o'er the snow they glide!
Frosty creatures upon their lawns, children begin to erect.
("Snowpersons" I shall call them to be politically correct!)
Secrets are whispered about only for Santa Claus's ear,
For dolls, trains and puppies to bring the children cheer!
Neighbors outshine each other, their homes festooned with lights,
Adding warmth and color to the cold December nights.
Colorful cards are received depicting Santa's ponderous girth,
And very special ones to announce the Savior's glorious birth!
December fills the hearts of all with great anticipation.
'Tis a festive month with fellowship and gala celebration.
Humankind is filled with love, joy and peace.
Would that this spirit might never, ever cease!
O’ to fade! To pass! To rest! To die!
To ponder, to listen
and not forebode -
you were as a thresher to the chaff
and the driven wind
that winnowed.
The thunderclap of Tawhiri raging
silence not a loving
fool’s complaint,
nor portend for whom the bell tolls
when the echoes
of time grow faint
My heart alas divided against itself
knows not what to say
or what to feel,
and with ponderous words recited
I return your resting
place to kneel.
Some final absolutions shared alone -
cold black rain upon
my brow and cuff.
Judge not a froward son - I am who
I am, and have
been judged enough
We are but the quick and the dead,
and just or unjust
no keeper of time.
O tell, what sin was imputed to you?
What concealed divine
law or crime?
And what burden so dark the lamps
of Heaven and Earth
burn less bright?
I ask do we in this realm find peace
or is death’s victory
our only respite?
Only in beds of posthumous sleep
will end my
unspoken confessions.
Nay, I no longer exhume the past -
it rebukes all my
searching questions.
From umbilical dawn to end of days
I failed you - I added
unto your woe.
In life and death there comes a time
when to hold on
and when to let go
May your life and times early passed
live on in the heart
that lives in me,
for in all the silent screams below
is my own howl
in my own vanity.
As I pen my verse the charcoal sky
again rumbles softly
over a distant knell.
No loss, no sorrow, no love unwept
can unring that
fearful tolling bell
Written: July 1991
follow the poolside shadows
Venus of Delphi
daughter of bitter waves
peek through the peephole
of my glaucous thorax
open your byzantine eyes and
spurn your locomotor ataxia
one glance at our vitreous hands
– a sight for blind sore eyes
one brush of our riveted lips
– gone astray in malformations
one ponderous confession later
– immaterial as a shadow of the lash
let the weeping corpuscles lie
swarm and jostle in the grotto
rattle and blather away our days
I’ll wait for your recriminations
fall asunder under your touch
fastidious in my entomology
let the bouquet glide downstream
the scytheman is still in his kingdom
then we rejoice in endless daze
the lingering beaten with bravura
An old pal of mine standing nigh seven feet tall,
Basks in regal splendor against the wall.
He's well over one hundred and fifty years old.
Could he speak, Oh! The tales to be told!
That old friend that in my home doth dwell,
Is a stately grandfather clock with open well.
Made when craftsmen took pride in their guild,
'Twas crafted from sturdy German oak to build.
The hours are tolled with sonorous tone.
He's seen so many events now bygone.
Holidays, births, deaths, family mirth,
And even several wars upon this earth!
Every so often I oil his wheels and gears.
After all, he's getting along in years!
I need my old friend for succor and ease.
For that reason him I shall ever appease!
He's seen the birth of a new millennium,
And with each arc of his ponderous pendulum,
Is a reminder never to squander time away,
But to live a productive life each passing day!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)