Long Quibble Poems
Long Quibble Poems. Below are the most popular long Quibble by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Quibble poems by poem length and keyword.
Spring's whispers were present in the brisk night
promises of blooms mid summerlike skies
Yet winter's snowy white colors my sight
Could those promises be only her guise?
I long for endless nights to quickly end
though I own no quibble with the white moon
but on Spring and birdsong we do depend;
in this stillness, there is no lovely tune.
Spring does seem very unmindful of time
nor do freezing breezes stir her desire
for flowers blooming in sun shining clime
What does one do to light the stubborn fire?
Could it be spring is but choosing to hide,
or is this some version of Spring Untried?
April 3, 2024
Line of inquiry:
“feeling not thinking, soul with love linking ~
we attained God consciousness unblinking”
There are times I'm torn between feeling and thought,
consciously aware of a dispute between mind and heart.
I become anxious when I realize there's a power struggle
and my doleful soul seeks a tranquil place to snuggle.
Somewhere deep inside of me where it's more docile
until my heart and mind call for a truce and reconcile.
Unfortunately, that's short-lived... a temporary thing.
Until again, they'll fight like pugilists in a boxing ring.
Rodin didn't sculpt The Thinker inside each human mind
but the psyche often chides the heart, "Love really is blind."
Divine, are those gifts God has so generously given to us
but they don't always come to terms, and it creates a fuss.
The heart yearns for love, the mind searches for a reason.
Scripture says the heart is treacherous and commits treason.
My mind stands guard, to prevent my heart from breaking
but despite the risk, my heart finds it worth the undertaking.
A logical mind weighs pros and cons, thinking pragmatically
Bah, cries a heart, "Life should be lived more romantically."
They grind on each other as if one a mortar, the other a pestle
And so, the mind and heart will continue to quibble and wrestle.
The soul always reappears when a modicum of peace holds fast
but the truce between heart and mind is destined never to last.
Although instrumental to a soul's well-being, they will disagree.
Mind rules a heart, or vice versa. Que sera sera. What will be will be.
“There are only two ways to live your life.
One is as though nothing is a miracle.
The other is as though everything is a miracle”
I love this quote by Albert Einstein…I’ve read it a hundred times before…
and it was in my head this morning as I headed out the door.
You see, I grew up thinking miracles had to be momentous…divine in their design…
Like healing the sick, feeding the hungry or turning water into wine.
But who am I to quibble with Albert Einstein…a brilliant man who wrote a lot of books!
who believed miracles can be discovered…everywhere I look.
So I decided to test Albert’s theory…to make sure he’s not just ‘all talk’.
by making a list of miracles I encountered on my morning walk.
The trees, the grass, the flowers were the first miracles to catch my eye.
The air we breathe, the moon, the stars…the clouds up in the sky.
The rabbits, the dogs and cats…little miracles who walks along with me.
The insects…like the crickets and the butterflies…miracles a little harder for me to see.
Halfway through my walk and still more miracles remain…
The ocean made me think of water…like rivers, lakes and rain.
An opossum crossed my path…I heard the waking of the birds…
And isn’t it a miracle that we can put our thoughts down into words?
As I walked up my driveway…with those birds singing high above
I had to smile as I thought about the miracle of love.
When I saw my reflection in the window I thought how I am a miracle too
which, of course, means, if Albert and I are correct…so are you….and you…and you.
Yes, I grew up thinking miracles had to be momentous…like turning water into wine
that for miracles to be miracles they must be divine in their design.
But with Albert’s help I now realize from a single drop of dew…to the brightest shining star
When I look at all the miracles around me…that’s exactly what they are.
Leaving work for home, my job stress still fizzled.
The long drive included bratty rain drizzle
and windshield blades needing my constant fiddle.
My stress spittled as rush hour drizzle-tripled.
Some driver's fingers waved from their hand’s middle
but I thought how my nights were far from simple
with dinner and other children committals.
I must stop and tend the food list I’d scribbled
so I gave my gearshift some tension wiggles.
Once at grocer’s I saw my food list whittled,
placed bags in car without a single wrinkle,
then backed out of parking space like a missile …
… so … my stressed ear’s received a crash transmittal
while in rear mirror my eye’s saw boots wiggle,
noted they were stilettos so not nimble
yet back and forth they wriggled on legs riddled
before boots, wrinkles and white hair sunk crippled.
Without quibble I gave cops a phone jiggle,
ran to my victim and knelt by her middle.
Her eyes were open but she seemed struck simple
so I sympathized and smiled with full dimples
while thinking this could become civil dribble
ending in a court where lawyers would quibble.
Yes, stress had pressed me inside guilty’s pickle.
I have pages of unfinished poems, most a menial scribble.
Thoughts, simple phrases, baited hooks without a nibble.
Rhyming lines lost like balls because of my faulty dribble
or tossed aside because my muse and I began to quibble.
How many romantic sonnets were derelicts in my head
because I didn't note them; too lazy to rise from my bed?
Unwritten, they expired when from my mind they fled.
In dawn's light they were buried as my tears were shed.
Departed is the beauty of verses that might have been,
and if I'm recognized as a 'poet,' I would consider it a sin.
I can hardly bear their death; executed like Anne Boleyn,
and its shame I feel for the loss. I'm riddled with chagrin.
I wish those phrases had burrowed deep inside my mind,
those I no longer recall. The forsaken ones I left behind,
abandoned unintentionally, those I have hastily maligned
with neglect or passivity. To grieve for them, I am resigned.
Should I pen a plethora of poems and ten thousand more,
my guilt would never be erased, so I write this with candor
and a pledge to face this litany that I undertake as a chore,
to value my flowing thoughts as ones I should never ignore.
October 7th, 2022
by Wayne Wysocki
If you want to call me vegan,
I'll not fight with you,
although the statement's not quite true
It's not exactly wrong either
It's true I don't eat meat, or eggs, or anything with wings or legs,
but in way of a confession, you might find in my possession
a leather belt or shoes,
which for a vegan is bad news
I don't really mean to quibble, concerning what I nibble,
but I'm trying here to say in this convoluted way
that for a vegan it's all about the animals
I'm not in it for the animals, but rather for my health and for the planet
I surely won't deny it -- I eat a vegan diet,
and to some degree I care what fellow creatures have to bear,
and resulting from my wishin' for optimal nutrition
they benefit from my selfish choice to not consume them
But in the end you have to see that I eat this way for me
I don't deserve the noble label, but when I'm sitting at your table,
if you want to call me vegan,
then I'll not disagree.
Fourteen pounds; that’s a bucket of lard
And losing that shouldn’t be so hard
It’s turkey, pud and let’s not quibble
A pretty frequent midnight nibble
It’s one whole stone of belly fat
Inflating what was firm and flat
Slimline tonic won’t do that
So did I eat an alley cat?
Six-point-three-five Kilograms
Twice what sometimes fills our prams
Were I pregnant, for my sins
Could be that I’m toting twins
But I’ve had lots of Christmases
And I’m sure when I tell you this
Six weeks watching what I eat
Will make my tummy nice and neat
The trifle’s gone, as is the meat
All the savoury, all the sweet
It’s time to watch my waist deflate
With smaller servings on my plate
And so I put away the gin
And tonic with no sugar in
For gin gives me an appetite
That makes me nibble late at night
So, fourteen pounds; that is my goal
A resolution in my soul
But, by the gin, before my eyes
A box - unopened - of mince pies!
In the photographs,
times are submitted
by the cameras and their
phlegmatic blasé flashes ...
They do not care
with us...
Wedding,
graduations,
picnics or portraits...
impressions
taken to contradict
appearances ...
Flashes, selfs, intend
capture moments ... but
everybody lies...
True mornings,
sad afternoons ... but yes
people laughing at the truth,
or crying lies ...
Mocking smiles appear,
smiling faces, quibble ....
Even the cheerful costumes,
the fun colors only compose
a buffoon theater ... when
it should be Greek tragedy ...
And life, so we wish to
believe follows free ...
But even children,
that we desire to believe, are not
authentic in the photographs ...
And we travel on our
own lives with light
of our illusions, our
visions not always so
criticism ...
And we always believe
in realities that don't exist,
no longer exist ... they are only
ancient photographs taken
in atmospheres that today
we are told: we are the fake
of our current days ...!
(For six days in mid-August, 1971, at Stanford
University near San Francisco, a psychological
experiment was conducted in which students
took on the roles of prisoners and prison guards.
The experiment had to be cut short, because the
guards were indulging in unhealthily sadistic
behaviour.)
"Never again," we say.
Those things can't be repeated.
"We set our face against him,
and Hitler was defeated."
Are you sure?
If sweet-talking you
could make it come true,
I would hand you the world
right now on a silver platter ...
but what would it matter?
Life isn't always Garry Keillor.
It's Rwanda, too. Sabra, Shatila.
The key you're holding
won't fit my door.
And you're not welcome
any more.
Just picture this, my friend.
Almost in sight of the Alcatraz ferry,
that sunny August of seventy-one,
a couple miles from Haight-Ashbury
something funny has begun
- and we're not talking Tom and Jerry.
You used me and abused me
till I felt like I wanted to die.
You created a need in me
that only you can satisfy.
Well-heeled campus kids
don’t quibble at the pay rates
make fifteen bucks a day
playing guards-and-inmates
- but is it really play?
I wondered hard
'tween twelve and one:
I asked my God,
"What have I done?"
These guards love Cohen, Dylan,
Che Guevarra, Mao, Durruti -
but now they're volunteering
for unpaid extra duty.
He spits into my food tray
for nothing more than spite.
Hear him whip the women
just around midnight.
You'd be surprised
what humans do.
Hippies can be Nazis, too.
Gimme your best shot
Why the hell not
And let the both of us
Play an unfriendly game
Of pick up Camel
Straw's and stick's
And the winner
Is or will be decided
By whomever
Break's as many backs
As either you or I
Or at very least
Failing that
Gets the most backs up
And being it's a Camel
It sure as hell
Has to be at very least
More than the very minimum of 2
Otherwise what's the use
We may just as well
Play
Water
V
Sand
And see who eventually makes it
Out of the desert
Full of sand
Onto beach sand
And then we can quibble
And compare
Sand
V
Sand
As we die of thirst
As neither of us
Can drink or survive
On salt water
Proving the point
The only thing 2 stupid people
Will ever agree on
Is when
And after
That are both
Dead
The other may have in fact had
A valid point
But saying and admitting that
Got your nose out of joint
So ouch so
You had to ram home your point