Long Quailing Poems
Long Quailing Poems. Below are the most popular long Quailing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Quailing poems by poem length and keyword.
Gratitude suffuses me today
at prospect to plumb the depths
of a fledgling friendship
(respecting fidelity to wife)
even one bound
within the parameters of cyberspace,
I feel courtesy your amazing grace
figuratively stitching omnipotent binding
with virtual satin and lace
proceeding cautiously to experience
belonging to human rat race.
Night and day, a thrashing
like an invisible whiptail
surge van hail,
doth swell me bosom
excruciatingly, doggedly blackmail
capriciously be-numbingly,
aggravatingly assail
mine conscience in
what paltry pale
capacity of this gamboling male,
I can "pay forward,"
whatever means shale
be moost apropos avail
to offset bewail
ling (internal psyche doth ale
hankering) against utter
lifetime (mine) peppered
with emotional, physical
and social destitution
bereft, viz fail
ling to maximize inspiration
reverberating as vibrant detail
lacking even justa minimum
desire to live
(visa vis no way
discover ring, nope nar even
"FAKE" king minuscule appeasement
of my body, mind,
and spirit triage during)
hell...shove (shelve) aside
such gloriously noble benighted role,
amidst upending folktale
re: King Arthur and His Knights
of the Round Table
futilely searching for holy grail,
where steadfast conviction
emboldens this heart and hale
spirited mindful,
sincere hard drive spurs
(neigh saying horse
sense of mine),
where ambition saddled
to air (dan sing) quailing,
yen propelling (yours truly),
with sincere humanitarian,
(i.e. blood driven)
philanthropic spiritual zeal,
I tried to unveil,
this reasonably rhyming thumbnail
sketch poetically versatile
within this spurious verse despite
any trials undermining travail
rather mine heart felt genuine
motive fueled by impetus
to contribute within e kale
logical, fizzy hollow gee, humanity,
with integrity, magnanimity,
and quality fervency,
while still adept, adroit,
agile, and alert,
(cuz America needs more lerts
to become great again)
ironically steel tougher than
nine inch rusty nails,
duh pleating ability dovetail
to bug (or wug) gee wholesale.
Adieu from Matthew Scott Harris
who tapped out this message
while holed up in his mancave
situated within Southeastern Pennsylvania.
Sending the tending to an unfriended ending,
yet somehow suspending from rending a newly offending recommending.
Logotype monotype linotype,
overripe stereotype,
teletyped an unripe heliotype.
Guttersnipe snipe,
stipe snipe ripe,
a wipe type a tripe,
unleash a withering hype.
Dip snip,
nip lip,
slip skip,
rip the apple pip
over a battleship Chip.
Clip,
airstrip,
blip,
scrip,
gyp,
flip,
dip.
Unsip, blue clip,
A warship, weathering stick.
To miche an itch,
to stitch a witch.
Rich a quitch,
Hitch a flitch.
Gabrilowitsch,
the grand son of a *****!
Pitched a ditch to flitch a niche.
Made a rich hitch lich.
The Thia tie thy tried to untie an unshy,
Spied a sny sty,
He ascribed a bribe tribe,
to dib drib, lib and sib.
A death pale,
dwaled and engrailed,
enjailed and bewailed.
The cocktale turned into a,
ginger ale stale.
A hobnail.
A pale kale.
The whale waled
a veil of wail.
The stale air,
railed the quailing sale.
Dipped the snip,
to pip the tip,
and baled the avail,
to the flailed snail.
Attract extract reenact,
saddle backed and subtracted,
the tact the pact
an unmistakable fact.
Swag the unsage,
the wage of the tutelage.
A coffee break
a bit of a cornflake
cupcaked the cake of the devil's flake.
Draked the fake fruitcake,
and hake the jake on the mellow lake.
Mistake the overtake.
A pancake sheik,
cried spake of a toothache.
Ack Ack!
Back, Bootblack Jack.
Pack the Pontiac rack,
sack the Hackensack,
hijack the leatherback.
Offtrack the outback,
rack the sack,
smack the stack,
stickleback the tictack track,
to the umiak Union Jack.
Twack the whack yak sack,
A mystical one eyed zodiac.
Bready a speedy,
deedy the weedy,
Reedy to leedy.
Unheedy indeedy.
Leda, Vida, Theda.
Sketched an etch,
itched a hatch.
So speechless,
breathless,
toothless.
The socialist,
the communist,
the theorist
the terrorist.
Bedded the bedding
in a dreadful beheading.
Weeded the weed,
leading the lead,
tended the teed.
The ready read,
the reedy reeded.
The seedy seeded.
The end is Ending.
Night and day, a thrashing
like an invisible whiptail
surge van hail,
doth swell me bosom
excruciatingly, doggedly blackmail
capriciously be-numbingly,
aggravatingly assail
mine conscience in
what paltry pale
capacity of this gamboling male,
I can "pay forward,"
whatever means shale
be moost apropos avail
to offset bewail
ling (internal psyche doth ale
hankering) against utter
lifetime (mine) peppered
with emotional, physical
and social destitution
bereft, viz fail
ling to maximize inspiration
reverberating as vibrant detail
lacking even justa minimum
desire to live
(visa vis no way
discover ring, nope nar even
"FAKE" king minuscule appeasement
of my body, mind,
and spirit triage during)
hell...shove (shelve) aside
such gloriously noble benighted role,
amidst upending folktale
re: King Arthur and His Knights
of the Round Table
futilely searching for holy grail
where steadfast conviction
emboldens this heart and hale
spirited mindful,
sincere hard drive spurs
(neigh saying horse
sense of mine)
where ambition saddled
to air (dan sing) quailing,
yen propelling (yours truly),
with sincere humanitarian,
(i.e. blood driven)
philanthropic spiritual zeal,
I tried to unveil,
this reasonably rhyming thumbnail
sketch poetically versatile
within this spurious verse despite
any trials undermining travail
rather mine heart felt genuine
motive fueled by impetus
to contribute within e kale
logi, fizzy hollow gee, humanity,
with integrity, magnanimity,
and quality fervency,
while still adept, adroit,
agile, and alert,
(cuz America needs more lerts
to become great again)
ironically steel tougher than nails,
duh pleating ability dovetail
to bug (or wug) gee wholesale.
How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 1806 - 1861
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
--------------
A response to above sonnet...
--------------
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I too love thee to the core of my heart
as passion throbs wild and rips me apart,
Forever long for your tight warm embrace,
flows the red constantly through nights and days,
For I do love thee from head till toes,
moments in time putting end to all woes.
True love showing loud and clear on my face
grows tempestuous to its alpine grace,
Only if you could relive faith and trust,
tranquil the writhing soul rests in this crust,
If ought to find peace in this quailing life,
Compassion undone in death ends all strife.
Written Feb 22nd, 2016
For contest by Mystic rose
Inspired by poem by Elizabeth
Father, my insides are vomiting.
It’s quailing all my strength, to not split into insanity.
This does not want to leave,
But please, come here and reprieve.
Whatever it is, let it all fall out,
And replace it with Thy love’s unending amount.
Christ please, get into me, and work Thy healing.
Take this heart, mind and voice, and let them sing!
The demons want all parts of me,
But I must now in haste, be set free.
I can’t bear these burdens anymore,
So please, bury them on the ocean’s floor.
My sweet child, we will work in you a good while,
For it takes some time to undo utter revile.
Your spirit is like the purest refined gold,
But your earthly flesh has grown old, like rotten mold.
We will now neutralize your body’s ill cravings,
By separating you, as resurrection from a grave.
Your fulfillment will come as My prophesy,
To revive all those likewise lost in misery.
You are not lost, this is all part of the cost.
Be of strong faith and a good courage,
For your fall is part of it all, and you shall be washed.
You must learn to crawl, and be encouraged.
This test will surely make you your best,
As you always remember, you are beloved and blest.
God has a plan, for you are His lovely child.
Remember His love for you, is ever pure and mild.
(Patterned off the famous folk song 'Men of Harlech,' which is in the public domain.)
Men of freedom hear them wailing,
from the truth they’re always quailing,
scared of work or real travailing,
not like free-born men.
Men of freedom stop their screaming,
and their socialistic dreaming,
give them all a much-earned reaming,
all those wokish men.
Slavish souls disgusting,
cultish minds untrusting,
silencing all who dare speak true,
because inside they’re nothing.
Men of freedom don’t surrender,
these fools are brainless pretenders,
cannot tell a him from a her,
not like free-born men.
Men of freedom must hold steady,
keep your A.R.s clean and ready,
when time comes make your aim deadly,
fight like free-born men.
Take your boot and on them impress,
recall sic semper tyrannus,
tyrant scum will all be banished
faced with free-born men.
The ‘elites’ insulting,
they’re pedos revolting!
Living in an endless fear
of free-born men assaulting!
Men of freedom give no quarter
to those who would give us horror,
save your land for sons and daughters,
fight on free-born men.
One can almost hear them whispering,
knowing they are linked to us
and more intense than memory
they cannot stay within their tombs,
for by some sort of grace not understood
we lack the power to leave them
to their faded history.
How many meadows set away
accommodate the dead,
accommodate this surging love
that inundates our days?
How may we take into our hearts
the light these spirits share,
their passion to reach out to us,
to let us know their world and ours
is one?
I think it may be up to us
to seize this holy joy, remembering
there is no separation, only change.
Remembering the presence
always known before
when oceans intervened.
And what of science and of doubt?
What of the white-stolled priest
and of his vial of dust?
What of my quailing faith?
The stars crash down around me.
The trembling mountain that I did not see
now looms before me, shaking me.
Shall I become the one
to turn away?
~
Last seen in the newspaper shop.Susan.Susan
Deakin.About 11am.Small blonde girl of eight.
An impassive constable was recording the statements
Inwardly weary with the usual hysteria.
Inwardly quailing at the thought of her daughter's reaction,
Her frantic grandmother was stumbling over the details.
Once the story rippled through the village,
A miasma of fear settled like a haar
Upon the sunlit streets
Where mothers now kept their children tight to them.
Little knots of elderly women stood chattering,
Every utterance dripping with deadly speculation,
Drowning any pious hope that she was off safe with her friends.
Solitary males must have keenly felt
The sharp glances of suspicion and wondered why.
Beneath the warmth of an otherwise bright sky
Swam an icy current of deepening distrust
Threatening the community with its riptide of rancour.
There was now nothing to be done but wait.
(the following piece I wrote, the anniversary of lost friends, their sons, and daughters lost for the lies of war.)
Father wondering, sons permanent sleep. Oh, the forsaken, the harassing song. When one has passed on. True deep depression, washing eyes, failing innocence, words never spoken, the lacking grasp, empty self, world flaw.
Ah, the brother or sister, absent, never to repeat, the waking, the piece of mind, thought gone wrong, Slaying, the haying, used, then tossed away, like the stone in the way. Interests given, none to personal effect, only those for the defined. Serve not question, this I decline.
Mother’s child, reborn. Memories quailing, spent the life, once bore, for whom, the what, will it not end? No, not extend, the wrong given, lies addressed, then sold for world malcontent. Child, Child giving. Curse chosen, lives frozen, shock.
The unwanted passing
Father wondering, sons permanent sleep. Oh, the forsaken, the harassing song. When one has passed on. True deep depression, washing eyes, failing innocence, words never spoken, the lacking grasp, empty self, world flaw.
Ah, the brother or sister, absent, never to repeat, the waking, the piece of mind, thought gone wrong, Slaying, the haying, used, then tossed away, like the stone in the way. Interests given, none to personal effect, only those for the defined. Serve not question, this I decline.
Mother’s child, reborn. Memories quailing, spent the life, once bore, for whom, the what, will it not end? No, not extend, the wrong given, lies addressed, then sold for world malcontent. Child, Child giving. Curse chosen, lives frozen, shock.