Long Quibbling Poems
Long Quibbling Poems. Below are the most popular long Quibbling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Quibbling poems by poem length and keyword.
We’ve proven there's no quick fix
when we start to yell and cuss.
Oil and water do not mix,
and the same thing goes for us.
When together, night and day,
senseless arguments break out.
And politeness fades away
as we both begin to shout.
Right or wrong, we won't relent;
egos are immune to tears.
And insults fuel our descent,
like drunks quibbling over beers.
Anger rises a degree
when neither of us will bend.
But there's no chance we'll agree,
so our hearts will never mend.
Arrogance spews from our lips,
giving in; is hard to do.
And although all reason slips,
we opt to argue it through.
(Quatrain)
5/2/2015
An only child, like I was, is
still looked upon askance?
As if I could force my Mom
and Dad to make more
babies, perchance?
Those poets here, who know
me quite well,
Can figure out my honesty, and
of course, that, I did tell!
I wanted a brother or sister,
oh, please?
It's not fun to have no one
to play with or please!
" You will have more things
in life," they replied.
But I kept after them, as I am
not one to be denied.
Alas, God decided to send me
not one sibling!
It taught me to get through
life, with no help or quibbling.
I had and still have friends,who are
like sisters and brothers to me.
Part of the music of this great earth.
In my heart's whisper,you will forever be!
3/11/2021
~3~
Along with their hundred siblings
Desiderate food without quibbling
Devote their intact time leaves nibbling
Molting delicate skin during every instar
Enduring all the pain and the skin scars
These little cuties emerge as flying stars
Stepping into the magical prism cocoon
Hanging upside down throughout sun and moon
Starving and fainting inside, never they swoon
Red, blue,orange, green and yellow
Flying colors are these little fellows
Spread wings,blow wind, play music mellow
Unfurling exuberance around
The kaleidoscope of colors abound
Are the queens of world sans crowns
August-20-2021
Well the morons are in the race
A little behind but their keeping pace
Running at a close last
I see its the idiots they finally passed
don’t pull your bets: its not over yet
I see the imbeciles sneaking up on the left
Well the out comes unsure of a race finally won
But of the five judges only three have their thumbs
We look to the other judges in the show
Both of them quibbling so I don’t think they know
Now to the contestants to get their thoughts
Who really won and what was the cost?
The moron explains that the sweat their eyes
Prevented them from seeing, but know the judges don’t lie
While the idiot is sprawled-out on the ground
Their # 1 finger never went down
The imbeciles eyes were lit by his grin
Their only comment was “so I really did win”
Like a tsunami from the ocean
I want to churn everything, inside out
But rue the fact that,
Like a bubble in the air
Have to be content with only
Being fidgety inside myself.
When the rocks try to stop
The natural flow of river, downwards
Even the transparent water, gets bloodied,
Breaking its head on the rocks,
I can feel its squirming and quibbling
But can remain only a mute spectator.
Whenever I feel oppressed, in any form
My heart seethes and fumes
My blood Inside tends to boil over
Only to become cold again, why?
Perhaps it is not in my nature to retaliate,
Then, am I condemned remaining wounded, perpetually?
Unable to do much about oppressive relations,
I pine away with my grief
Only wishing I could also free myself
And others of the oppression and the pain it inflicts
And enjoy the happiness and freedom
endowed by nature, in relations.
But looking at nature’s infinite vastness, where
Despite tight bonding and discipline in every bit
All relationships out there enjoy
Innate freedom, harmony and fairness
Then Wounds inflicted by the experience of oppression,
Fill me with jealousy and pain even harder and deeper.
Hope is life, maybe quite dreamlike
The change, which would destroy
the current forms of oppressions
and build relationships, free and fair, anew
seems to be a far cry, as of now.
the volcanoes are also destined to remain
dormant inside, for centuries, before they erupt.
Self Translation of my Hindi poem 'Parivartan'
The cities...
Well, they burn.
People still in their homes.
Some even in hospitals.
Not even sparing schools.
Whole societies crippled.
Families torn apart.
Famine reaching near all.
Well, all that are left.
Pain and sorrow soak the air.
A mist tinging everything a shade of hollow gray.
Shadows so dark, you might get lost.
Well, there isn't much left to get lost in.
Nothing really.
Nothing but rubble.
Then, almost as if to spite it all, light chatter starts.
One filled with something we thought was lost.
Small laughs, still tears but they try.
A small moment here and there between the weeping as they pull their dead from the broken stones and fallen beams.
A murmur through the crowds sharing scraps of food.
A gentle whisper gaining, layer after layer, another whisper added.
Growing till all that is felt is hope it will end.
Hope that the pain will slow and eb.
That small moment, turned it all.
That child trying to get their little sibling to laugh.
It's the first time in a week, parents are gone.
But they got to eat, again, the first time in a week.
They heard others were trying to help.
It's not as bad as it could be...right?
Could be that everyone wished for them to suffer.
It could be every single being wishing for their destruction.
But they heard it.
A promise.
Like not so long ago.
Promises over an old broken radio.
Pristine voices, unfeeling, unknowing of the quibbling.
Then someone broke through all that, they gave the young.
The old, something we all were missing.
Hope.
That someday, through all the pain and retched torment, we will all be free.
Free, fed, housed, clothed, and cared for.
So they sit and they hope that this horrible mess with ease.
While the grown watch, lost in this small moment of hope.
Even if they remember all the times before.
They can't bring themselves to break the last thing the young ones have.
No matter how they wish to warn.
So they silently, looking to each other, passing items, helping and agreeing.
We will end it for them.
We must.
The bats in the steeple were feeding on people
By sucking the blood splattered wood
That came from the coffin a vampire dropped off in
When he’d drunk all the blood that he could
Here in my basement, my permanent placement
I lurk since the day that I died
At rest in my casket, my skull in a basket
My hideous grin gaping wide
Rats and mice squeaking a rusty hinge creaking
A slither of light from outside
My long severed head was rotted and dead
But gasped as the door opened wide
I lifted my lid as some hooded kid
Crept sneakily into my crypt
He soon spun about and he might have run out
If only he hadn’t have slipped
As he hit the deck he shattered his neck
I thought he was bound to be dead
But then as he stood, he lowered his hood
And then he un-swivelled his head
He gave me a wink as a hideous stink
Came gushing with smoke from his ears
He then started hissing through teeth that were missing
He looked like he’d been dead for years
I climbed from my tomb and stood in the room
Where demons would hide out all day
Until in the night they’d screech their delight
And frighten the vicar away
But this little fellow with skin that was yellow
And nails that were long curly claws
Let out a howl, an unholy wail
Then went back and bolted the doors
Like rattles at Wembley, my bones were all trembly
My teeth were all chattering too
My wee wee was dribbling and let’s not be quibbling
I thought I was going to poo
It’s usually nice that we can’t die twice
So people down here dwell forever
I then realised that everyone dies
And now I’m not feeling too clever
For my turn came first, to enter the hearse
My beautiful love left alone
In these years apart she’s been in my heart
But hell’s darkest hole has no phone
So how could it be this thing before me
Could desecrate my sacred rest
I needed it banished, It had to be vanished
Along with the worms in its chest
I watched every worm wriggle and squirm
I jumped at the twelfth hour chime
In life we take knocks through the ticks and the tocks
But we can’t fight the passing of time
So...
In spite of the stink, I started to think
Which gave me the fright of my life
I had to make room in a new double tomb
For that hideous thing was my wife!
Entered October 2021 in Your Personal Favorite No 2
Sponsor L Milton Hankins
My epitaph writ large...
courtesy third person singular.
Mise en scène pour décès
pardon his feeble attempt at French,
a unilingual English language
quibbling, and scribbling mensch
strongly advises applying
left handed monkey wrench,
which custom designed tool
assigned impossible mission
to discern sense and sensibility
regarding following poetic thread
subject of a fool's errand.
Mein kampf witnessed, punctuated,
and evinced courtesy final breath
automatically triggering (tumblr
to activate) final curtain call
and unremarkable death.
As stipulated in the living will
cremation of his lifeless body
cremated into soft gray powder.
A prerecorded hashtagged obituary
downloaded to individual smartphones
and simultaneously appeared on
the following poetry websites:
COSMOFUNNEL, Hello Poetry,
Neopoet, My Poetic Side, Poetry Soup,
PoetryNook, PoetryVibe, Prose|
A community of readers and writers,
and All Poetry.
He hesitated and lost out
on game of life big time
even fumbling crafting reasonable rhyme
noshing, spending, and whiling
inordinate amount of hours
squirreled away in his bedroom
surrounding himself with reading material.
He amassed fountainhead of knowledge
quietly engorging cerebral gray matter
whereat noggin swelled up
rivaling globe, but Atlas shrugged
at him, whose head
resembled the first Chinese brother
who swallowed the sea.
Odd his voracious appetite
to buzzfeed with one
after another binary byte
zealous precocity to engross himself
with storied reading material
that does extremely excite
(at the expense of healthy socialization)
where his imagination took flight,
nevertheless myopic eyes of his
did glean insight
keeping his cute button nose
between pages of choice morsels
to appease hunger
keeping himself awake
drinking high test coffee
during darkness aided by jacklight
processing meaty material with might
experiencing abundant, exultant,
intoxicant, over-extravagant
joie de vivre day or night,
a balm, elixir, inebriate... quite
the panacea to abet emotional incapacitation
which entails crafting poems
oftimes spending efforts
with efforts undertaking rewrite
unwittingly garnering a fanbase
courtesy ideology doth unite.
My sworn enemy elect, is the constant profusion of illustrative choice,
even though it bestowed to me this shrewd strident voice,
I have unfeigned gratitude aplenty for opulent options but still,
with itemised information excessive without curb I’m ill,
one can sift through a menagerie of bewitching pros and cons,
skewed point of reflection, adopted pose, other folk dons,
diverse argument galore or hairsplitting please beware,
arch devilish trap covert, that sprung sneaky snare, surplus fact monoliths depending on an ultimate decision, shun bogus trendsetting at once with sheer derision, to be visibly cognizant as transparent courses of action, quite vast indeed and mammoth not a minute fraction,
when I commit to redeem there is an element of risk, but unwarranted deferral frowned on, one must be brisk, in the absolute recess of my mind is this constant pressure, to battle with surplus plethora, items novel and fresher,
with such package, pitch, display, slogans and colour,
choice might emerge to boost mood then banish dolour, broad scope “they” unleash, a nod to the downright plausible, the chocolate de luxe editions are they tangibly laudable, it is not for me to magnify an apparent risible matter, pettifogging, quibbling, nitpicking, pointless chatter,
I must insist on venting as a means to a clear path ahead,
yes, to coexist with at many levels trivial confusion instead,
excess products can be such a grandiose glossy term,
whose prevalence a nuisance that makes one often squirm,
but one can perhaps reframe and reconsider a resolute intention,
with the utmost alacrity in the context of apprehension,
drawing up a permanent peace treaty to empower a cessation,
with this fierce opponent choice as permanent extrication
Two women fighting over last cart
Unsophisticated, brawling, stubborn,
Short. Up rolls a knight, armor shining bright,
“Why d’ost thou fight til the death o’er singular
shining carriage? Mine has wings...fly ‘way,
take thee for thy miscarriage.
i shall tarry for one of my own.”
Their heads, ready to roll, explode, quibbling,
quizzical like two German Shepherds —
ears antennae’d for radar, heads cocked
ready to shoot, surprised, surrendering
to the prize — shoulders like majestic highs
walk into the sunset reprise.
The sun sparkles like diamonds
On the suited knight, night’s been saved
from a ridiculous fight.
What other maelstrom resides in the honey jar?
3/13/2020