Long Preparation Poems
Long Preparation Poems. Below are the most popular long Preparation by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Preparation poems by poem length and keyword.
Father's Day
Britches
By: Tom Wright
6/5/98
From his Father, he first learned to curse,
To smoke, drink, and some things worse.
"Britches" heard each day the words he'd say,
So as he grew older he thought it o.k.
These things weren't learned purposely,
But through the examples "Britches" was to see.
His Dad sometimes lied while on the phone,
Then took a drink when he thought alone.
To his Father, "Britches" was pride and joy,
He would never intentionally hurt his boy.
In all that he did "Britches" was always first,
But in life's preparation his Dad was the worst.
His Dad failed to realize what he let him see,
Would determine someday what "Britches" would be.
So alone in a cell "Britches" sits today,
To blame is his father, whom he never saw pray.
That really is my trademark. Day to day, week in, week out. If something happens and the crowd roars, I shut up.
~
Good is not good when better is expected.
~
Don’t let the winds blow your dreams away…or steal your faith in God
~ Quotes by Vin Scully
WHO WAS VIN SCULLY
Who was Vin Scully? I can surmise that he was wise.
He knew when to let life take over. He’d bend to the crowd’s
delight, stop his galloping tongue when the stadium exploded
with applause, oohs, ahhs, cacophonous roars.
Good is not good enough - how tough do you have to be
to leverage average? It is quite alright to be disappointed,
even angry in a less than stellar performance. Better
was expected - before they took the field, the dreams
of glory against the other team. Esteem not, poor performance.
We view life as a sports game. Defeat can bring a grounder.
Depression can still every bit of light, the dreamweaver
kicked to the curb. Pick up that ball and bat and crack
that stitched odyssey out of the park than grab a footlong
and foaming beer and celebrate with all your teammates.
Bless the Lord who gives excellent dreams, allows the
arrow to stay a little too long, pulling back, pulling back
and still not ready but oh…oh when it flies, when
the little white globe, like a full moon, sails in just the right
direction over the spectator’s heads, breaks the speed
of light then it…all preparation, all potential energy, all
the teamwork was worth the wait, and the commentator
can say goodnight…rest in peace Vin Scully.
8/3/2022
*** Sketching the Ballerina ***
It is well, quite well after midnight.
My pup lies fagged on the blanket
as close to me as possible.
The young ballerina sits slightly slumped
On a bench across from the barre, still wearing
Her stage costume with its long net skirt.
I am vexed that the sleeping hour has come.
I grieve to leave her.
She was looking with her black eyes
Directly into my own, asking (as I’m asking myself),
“How can I leave her with a twisted foot?”
The enviable line of the ballerina’s foot, which
“En pointe”
Completes the geometry of the ballet:
Toes coursing the lines of the legs,
On diagonals or paralleling the arms
On through to a pointing fingertip,
With the addition of a superbly angled head.
I grieve having to leave my sketch, to keep
The pretty ballerina in a long-waiting lurch
With her foot twisted, against all her dancer’s instincts;
Against completion of her body line;
Against all her trained and now natural inclinations
Directed to set her preparation
For beginning any elegance in motion;
Add life to the already vibrant music;
Wear her training posture unto every finale’s curtsy
And well deserve the appluse that comes
Along with the roses tossed up
Around her perfect feet…
I simply must put the pencil down,
Wondering how soon before her
Tears might fall while she waits for her foot to be drawn
Correctly arched. The sketch’s error involves
Perhaps a sixteenth of an inch here and there
With the slightest touch of erasing…It’s
The additional light of day,
Which altogether should make a portrait worthy
Of showing to St. Peter as he stands by The Gate.
As she displays her weariness to me,
I must beg her pardon, for it’s now nearly
Three hours past midnight
And my pillow begs for the lay of my head.
My dismal skills must rest
And wait for my sketchpad
To be spread over with beams from
The window’s morning sun.
—————————————————————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 6/2023
Thanks be to God…
this middle aged rue stirring bummer
haint no stranger to cold,
when dark hen stormy wintry days
eggs hit from Arctic portal en fold
ding Atlantic Seaboard
in a blizzard of bitterly, blindingly, and
brutally sub zero temperatures
from an occasional nor'easter
fiercely gripping hold
the majority years, sans this prolific
recalcitrant scrivener lived
in various and sundry abode
housed within Southeastern
Montgomery County, Pennsylvania
with 19*** zip code,
and during my boyhood recall,
how massive ice sheets did erode
the (then) opened expansive farmland,
in preparation for planting time,
where runnels of frigid water flowed
with childish cheeks exposed to glowed
after hours upon
many a green acre got tilled and hoed
despite feeling energized and refreshed
with arms and legs n'er fro zen
aye didst eagerly await with exuberant yen
kickstarting thy body electric
experiencing hearthstone nook
designed and built by Christopher Wren
after heading indoors counting fingers
and toes to make sure, i still got ten
soon hearing the chorus of fauna,
and floral kaleidoscope of color
aground or taking wing
thus, upon thawing out thoughts
drifted toward approaching spring,
the season revitalizing
dormant natural inhabitants,
whose excite (like mine) didst ping
announcing the debut of fecundity
nsync with screeching from the lizard king.
This Spring Equinox (i.e. man date:
12:15 PM Tuesday,
March twentieth two thousand eighteen)
doth rejuvenate
inviolable hibernating animals
and plants, and me equate
to experience sensation,
whereby entire being does inflate
and (despite marital status),
nonetheless envisions another gal asthma mate
no...no...no...please do not think this chap
mean spirited and under rate
the woman (at present taking a siesta,
and i breathe easy),
who oft times doth henpeck, a trait
inherited many a chic hen
(with tantalizing tail feathers)
now (until she awakens)
proscribing yours truly to wait
for my repast most likely ad hoc
moist ideal for any nerdy kid to knock
senseless, the worst facet of self important jock
consisting of pop slop mock
Hungarian Goulash, a melange
of relics from age old meals
transformed into a petrified sawed little rock.
I sense that these are testing times with forecasts of better seasons.
I hope that I am not confusing, but I'm simply musing about a season
destined to be changed forever and for the good. Surely, methinks it is not
the worst of times because things could get a whole lot worse. Neither is
it the best of times because things could be a whole lot better. Perhaps
it is a prelude and a time of preparation for better things just beyond the
horizons. I see the dark clouds and feel the heavy winds, but have yet to
hear and feel the roar of destructive funnel twistings. Allow me to muse
about the possible prelude to and the prospects of the best of times.
Could it indeed be a time of reflection and refreshing, a season of calm, quiet,
and closeness? Could this be a gateway of intimacy with our God who wants
to be heard by a people who are not prone to listen? Could this prospective
prelude to new norms be a 'God-send' that vanquishes the old norms laden with indifferences and contentment without Godliness? Would we not welcome
a 'new norm' ever more kind, loving, and relational? Perhaps if we look longer, pray fervently, and wait patiently, we will see the silver lining in the cloud laden with a Presence of God unseen or experienced in our lifetime.
These, therefore, are my musings of faith, hope, promise, and love. As the world begins to thaw from the CORONA COVID-19 freeze, opening up itself step by cautious step, may we not stagger, staring at the little picture without beholding the bigger picture. And as Christians, may we not fall short of opening our hearts to a world drifting into ever deeper waters and falling ever further from God.
051320PSCtest, Brian's Choice B, Strand
Birds used to be dinosaurs
humans used to be monkeys
things are moving fast
The world’s conspiring to endow me with agency.
Are we sure this is the right decision?
They have us in dissections and anatomy labs,
microscopy in histology and simulations in clinical skills.
Professors are saying things like,
“in preparation for your hospital rotations.”
Shut up! Stop this runaway train. Seriously, slow down.
Here’s a peek inside my brain - a typical med-school weekday:
5am wake, coffee, organize my bookbag.
5:30-6:45 jog (with my escort Charles)
6:45-7:10 a shower and stuff
7:10-7:30 breakfast, toast with coffee
7:30-8:00 homework review with coffee
8:00-8:30 commute with coffee (maybe write a poem?)
8:30 AM to 5–6 PM, classes, blending lectures, small-group sessions, tutorial and practical labs and self-study.
6:30 Arrive back home, disheveled, for 1 hour of study with coffee, a shower and stuff (maybe write a poem?).
8pm dinner and coffee
8:30-11:30 ‘Méthode des J’ (recall injection studies) and coffee
Rinse and repeat, Monday through Thursday. Forgive the data dump, but I’ve been asked
My watch is so judgemental
It’s been giving me low sleep scores (low 40s).
I fall asleep quickly and sleep softly until..
Argh!! Who set that f-ing alarm?
.
.
Songs for this:
One Two Three - Hooverphonic
Chain Gang by the pretenders
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 01/22/26:
disheveled not neat or tidy.
Mel had to berate a bad car driver,
Who, at traffic lights, nearly hit her,
She said “Life flashed” in rigid fear,
When the car towards her did steer.
She rubs shoulders with Crockroft,
As a middle distance athlete not soft,
Because she lies in the T34 category,
Whilst also doing sprints, has agility.
Born in the July of 1977 in Worcester,
She did well in meets, her multiplier,
Of her talent and skill, her preparation,
For the 2012 Paralympics in London.
In London Mel finished 7th, the 200m,
But went on from there to have feathers,
On podiums when she came in third,
In the 100m - 2014 European standard.
Also in the 800m she came in second,
To obtain the silver medal conditioned.
And then at Doha in 2015, World’s stand,
She took silver again for her strong hand.
She made the Rio GB squad and calls,
Her wheelchair is Dolly, and her stalls,
Are as a teaching assistant because she,
Studied Equine Science, it is her sea.
When is Spring, at last, Here?
When will its gossamer grace fill the air?
When does the wind carry its jasmine perfume?
When do unassuming buds in radiance bloom?
When do ambivalent clouds cancel their tease?
When does the capricious sun harken to please?
When will its bounty of fruit surrender their succulence?
When do the bluejays and robins retire their absence-
And fill my backyard with their musical acquiescence?
When do the squirrels, bold as they may,
Start stealing seeds from the birdfeeder's display?
When does the grass grow, lush and verdant?
When are the dandelions playful and flippant?
(While I know there are those who won't take heed-
I say the sweet dandelion is NOT a weed!)
When can I fold away my sweaters
In preparation for lighter weather?
The answer - hooray! -
Is Today, Today, Today!
Compulsion and Urges
Wanting the Reader to get to know
Understanding the Poet values
Feeling the emotions
Enter the fears and pouring tears
Inner Soul with a Thunder roar
Lightning flash alert
Pounding heart
Pain uncontrollable
Through the portal of the Poet mind
Agony upon agony
Circumstances and Situations
Words of vision
Sentences of precision
Poet Heart to Reader Heart
Preparation Day
Tomorrow’s impact
Embracing beginning to end
Unstoppable
Virtues beyond the alpha letter
Poet combinations making sense of it all
No now nor later
Poet reaction
Through the good and bad
Times of happy and sad
A Poet heart wonderfully wise.
Now is the time of reaping and abundance.
Now a time of preparation for winter's frozen scarcity.
The sun hangs low in autumn skies,
and foggy veils obscure the view.
In Spring, when all was fresh and new,
an all together different hue of innovation:
summer's promise budding in anticipation.
Green newness bursting with naivety.
As time ticks by and lives march on just like the seasons;
the spring of youth and childhood innocence
give way to lusty languid summers of prosperity.
A gathering of experience in autumn,
which leads to winter's wizened wisdom.
Make it not a season of discontentment,
but a time of rich reflection on lives well spent.
A time of joy not isolation,
Make this is a time of plenitude for all for whom we care.
Help us make this winter time a time of hope
not helplessness; and a time when grace is all we share.
For now is the time of reaping and abundance.