Long Rankled Poems
Long Rankled Poems. Below are the most popular long Rankled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rankled poems by poem length and keyword.
Twas the night of the Ladies League Final and the atmosphere was tense
Only two teams were competing, no loyalties allowed on the fence
There could only be one winner, the team with strongest will
And if you lost you were losers, and losing meant you were swill!
The teams were made up of eight players, all with an aim straight and true
Each woman stood there determined and each with their own point of view
Still arguments were frequent and blood was often shed
Only last week Blackout Bertha got smacked in the gob, now she’s dead!
The marker called all to order, and with a toss of a coin they were off
The Fiddler and Firkham Ladies verses the Wenches from ‘Th’owd Pig N Trough’
The Captain of the Firkham was called upon to name
the player who was starting this dangerously ill fated game.
She shouted ‘Hot Legs Hilda - will play for the Firkham pride’
she was the one who’d smacked Bertha, you know, the lass that had died!
Well ripples ran though the public and scowls came across from the Trough
But they sent out their best in ‘Fat Freida’ and suddenly the game was off!
Hilda set a steady pace, with a one and a two, double three
As she stepped back off the hockey she gave Frieda a stab in the knee
But Freida was not to be mithered she went one, double two, double five
And folks sitting round the ale tables thought, ‘We’ll none of us get out alive!’
It was plain to see from the offing that this match was doomed from the start
As each woman rankled the other with poke or cough or a fart!
Eventually the pair of them, understood that the game must be won
And Frieda left Hilda three Arrows – her Captain said, ’This’ll be fun!’
Now Hilda was a psychopath who hated to lose, yes it’s true
But what she did next took all by surprise; it came totally out of the blue
She ambled across to her handbag and pulled out a crossbow of size
And with that she let loose an arrow that hit Frieda right between eyes.
You could have heard a pin drop as Freida lifelessly fell to the floor
As her Captian straddled the bloodied corpse her face took on a look that was sore
She turned to the Firkin’s Captain and said quite resigned and all meek
‘By Heck June not another – Oh well, same time, same place next week??’
Fraught as an extremely socially anxious younger person...
hashtagged introvertedness trademark
silently exorcised, ostracized, and vilified
Impossible mission to resuscitate...
a forsaken promising
(even short lived) friendship
regardless of expressed gender
exhibited by other persons from yesteryear.
When trying to jump/kick start
lapsed meaningful interpersonal connections
from much earlier in my life
absence of a spark to kindle
once upon a time
valuable linkedin treasured bond
bereft of dynamism.
Folly entertained courtesy yours truly
bafflingly, desperately, and futilely
grasped elusive chimera
sabotaging rare occasion,
when fate smiled benignly,
I botched, damned, forfeited...
overarching golden opportunity
to experience sustained
positive rapport with compatible
lass or lad to accompany me
thru travails or buzzfeeding
a "lost" boy
with words of encouragement.
Now as an emotionally freighted
Unitarian, sexagenarian,
nonestablishmentarian, omnivore
psychologically perturbed,
rankled, tortured, vexed
bully me I got
repeatedly severely traumatized
similarly hectored by parents
issuing threatening ultimatums
no surprise I surrendered
to proclivity when showered
with affection courtesy
consensual sexual intimacy
(minus the use of birth control)
eventually married the gal,
whose child I helped beget these last
twenty seven and a half years
to a woman, (who after numerous
illicit marital transgressions)
forgave her leftist
write minded husband,
regarding his lascivious, promiscuous,
and salacious engagements
though would not tolerate
(understandably, necessarily, logically)
even platonic female relationships,
nevertheless does unconditionally
accept him mental health issues,
and all told comprise
obsessive compulsive behavior,
anxiety/panic attacks
palmar hyperhidrosis,
considerably alleviated courtesy
nine prescription medications
Aetna Medicare Advantra
picks up the tab without any co-pay.
I cannot help but wince
with twenty twenty hindsight smarts,
nurse misgivings and hanker with
shutterflying, recurring, plaguing melancholy
where passivity punctuated
the first two decades of mein kampf.
Soundlessly ricochet to and fro
hither and yon
roundly bobbing within squarely donned
talking heads of psycho killers,
one pyromaniac burning
down the crowded house
sparking magnificent conflagration
towering inferno emulating
caterwauling, kickstarting, ululating
(think) stray cats on a hot tin roof
nsync with 10,000 maniacs
intense heat and duraflame
long since eroding
weather beaten soul asylum
strip mining away
vestial trace, hence impossible mission
rectifying purposeless existence
imputed to passive self sacrifice
upon cusp of prepubescence
mystified, mummified, modified,
stilled, lulled, andhushed
obsessively grammatically fanatical
oftimes feeble efforts yielded countless
corrective editing measures
subsequently rendering lame
resultant deplorable effort
despite NON GMO gluten
and monosodiumglutimate free
diet of (hooked) worms
limply tethered symbolic constructs
analogous to dangling participles
scraping, plowing, etching...
imperfect triangulated Hollywood squares
across parched stream of consciousness
former luscious cerebral riverbeds
long since bone dry
millennium since onset climate change
courtesy global warming
blowing in the hot torpid wind
sands of time elapsed
accepted biological demise
forever linkedin with his forebears
birth/death repurposed cycle
activated, demonstrated, gifted...
integration, narration, reincarnation...
biochemical, geological, paleontological...
legacy randomly begetting me
epochal, integral, orbital saga
since time immemorial
fifty plus shades of once ashen gray
well muscled athletic human specimen
oblivious corpse good n plenti
petrified, metamorphosed, coalesced
bleached skull and crossbones
grown brittle when blazing sun's
rays generated aforementioned disparate ideas
jangled, rankled, and zapped
in tandem with bared tiger (no lion)
slapdash pell mell, helter
skelter, higglety pigglety...
germane blitzkrieg rained down above
leaving writer, tortured, mortified, and benumbed
without either sense or sensibility
nor pride and prejudice
perusing discombobulated chaotic
kamikaze lobbed muddlesome nonsense.
I had won a sponsorship on a sailing ship,
I was ecstatic it was right up my street.
Trouble is, I was to go in hospital.
But I was promised I would be fit, to join the fleet.
I woke up from my surgery
It was over and I wanted time to go faster,
My lifetime trip, I could almost see,
But I was in bed now, and covered in plaster.
For my trip, I waited what seemed an age
Patience, not being my best virtue.
A sailing ship to learn how to sail,
‘You can go.’ Said the surgeon
‘That I promise you.’
Don’t worry you will be up and about
This is what the operation is for.
I promise you will be able to go
Even though, it will still be a bit sore.
They put special lamps on to dry the cast;
I wanted to know how long this plaster will last.
He looked at me and in a voice devoid of feeling;
‘Oh six weeks is needed to repair the bones.’
I cried, and raised my eyes to the ceiling.
‘Well how can I go on a sailing ship? I cried,
I felt my heart was breaking fast.
‘I need to unfurl sails and be able to climb the mast
How am I now, to do this, and sail the ocean blue?
That is the main question that I am asking you.’
‘My job is to make you well;
And necessary if I find it,
I will plaster you from head to foot,
Never mind just your foot and hip.’
‘I say you can go, but up to me, it may not be.
But that’s not my problem, really - in all reality.’
He lied to me to get me in hospital,
My trip was duly cancelled.
I was thirteen years old at the time,
And on this my feelings rankled.
They sent me a photograph of all those on the ship,
It was supposed to make me feel good;
I took it badly at the time,
But then I think any thirteen - year old would.
They may as well have slapped me in the face
As compensation, I thought it a disgrace.
A year passed, I won again, and this time I could go.
I won the “Best Sailor Cup” award,
And I still have it to show.
Incomplete metamorphosis of this stilled adolescent...
petrified, sheltered, and mortally wounded prepubescent
I consider myself
analogously buttressed, cocooned,
garrisoned, hardened, insulated,
where cell baited jumping frog
o' Montgomery County ne'er
went leaving larvae stage,
now no divine providential
power can assuage,
yours truly metaphorically locked
within invisible iron bound cage
every occasion to shower
validates steep wage
permanently doled out,
yet tis futile to rage
against this human machine
i.e. body dielectric rampage
clocking three scored
orbitz chronological gauge
forever fixed feigned fodder,
when unlived uber story
of mein kampf writ faint
chicken scratch final page
gin hated anorexic
regressive toddling cribbage
deadly game of mine Life pampered
post infancy attended
Aladdin (a lad in) his hermitage
late childhood marriage
with grim reaper as
coefficient co-inhabitant
feasting emaciated lovely bones
verily scrawny, puny, and
nerdy, yea easy to lyft
courtesy lost livingsocial scrimmage
trademark spindleshanks -
stagnant embarrassingly useless
two legged equipage
at childhood's end...,
me skinny package then
weighing, eh no
more'n half dozen stone,
these days when
undressing to wash
forced to espy physical
*****sapiens wreckage
constant visual reminder
this spare rankled, stunted,
tendered ship of state,
yours truly nah oh sage
enlightenment gleaned i.e.
20/20 hindsight kickstarted
quickened, leveraged, mortgaged...,
principly unbalanced worthiness
anatomical disparity
impossible mission to salvage
accounting rent permanently askew
fixed APR rendered
amortization sabotage
irreversible penalty suffrage
escaping serfdom volunteering
self as webbed vassalage
til death do me part.
I found a photograph today.
Its discovery agitated my emotions
and I caught my breath.
There you were - suspended -
like some ancient fly held
eternally in amber.
Pose, expression, frozen - always.
I found a photograph today.
It awoke a memory long forgotten:
It was a hot sultry day.
We had travelled to our arrival
and we argued, our tempers
shortened by the blistering heat.
My neat linen skirt had creased
- like my mood - and you were rude.
What did you say? I can hear the tone
but the words are gone now and
suddenly unimportant....washed away
down the plughole of insignificance....
Gurgling then gone - lost in the
annals of broken promises and accumulating
hurt which precipitated our goodbye.
I look into your petrified eyes -
eyes that sparkled when I loved you
yet metamorphosed into damming hate at times.
Is your hand touching mine?
I remember when it did - tenderly -
I remember your fingers .... graceful somehow,
artistic, creative, piano playing, painting,
then hitting, hurting - same hands yet tender no more.
Same hands, there in the photograph, no, not touching.
I found a photograph today.
Its discovery rankled my emotions
and I held my breath -
like I did when you frightened me
with your unpredictability.
Your ability to swing from light to dark in an instant.
Yes, I found a photograph today
but its gone now .......
Torn to tatters and thrown into the wind.
Therapeutic in its destruction.
Aiding and abetting reconstruction
of a future without you.
You're gone -
washed away -
gone - down the plughole of insignificance.
Gone in the cleansing of reminiscence.
Gone, gone, gone........
....................... and forgotten.
We aborted the Christ a long time ago
What with the successive thousands of gentle fetuses strangled.
Stop stop! Why lament? Let not the wind be rankled
By thy silly bleats and unbaked ego.
Thee killed the Christ
Thee impeded his coming.
Thee cruel beast flaked with lies
O thee daughters of Jezebel’s sinning!
Thee killed him, that young Christ in thy womb
That lamb sent down to our sins loom.
What did so meek a lamb do to thee, predators?
What vice did he depict, O executors?
There, thee shake those cursed heads of thine.
That lamb committed none, but thee went for its throat.
When thee felt it kick in glee in thee
Thee hastened in terror for that mountain yonder
Where thee crucified him still like done on Golgotha,
Fronted by those lascivious Romans in their creel.
Those Romans were of a less cruel breed
For I watched thee in triple trepidation murder the Christ.
I peeped as thy hands pulled it forth from its manger
While that stiletto went cutting and shredding and beheading its soft cord.
I watched thee squash its throat:
A young lamb that has neither learned to kick nor croak
Nor mastered the humanness of weeping.
I watched thee young Jezebel, thee came stabbing. And stabbing. And cursing.
I watched thee as the sun set in the East
While darkness fell speedily from the mist
as the sun hid its head in fatal shame,
While thee with the stealth of Lucifer
Cast that messenger from the heavens two feet below
And again cursed it to the bowels of hell.
even scrunching brow
defeats and doth be lie
this one measly mortal well nigh
tuckered out on par with calculating pi
tangential to asking if and/or
how i can access
fullest potential...say to write
about with the aid of symbols
i.e. letters to expound on an idea trite
or one that confounded mankind
many millenniums or quite
sum indeterminate orbits 'round el sol,
no ability within this mite
ova reproductive happenstance (yes me),
whom ye could tell go fly a kite
for inducing confusion,
but the nature of this har re: beast
with a little insight
gripped, harangued, rankled,
et cetera, thus communicates
hello or goodnight,
which understandable
simple words may not excite
as quotidian oft repeated philosophical
mental challenges
i didst expend effort to cite,
which mind exercises offers
no exit, ouch that doth byte
and if subjected to a brain scan
would blind technicians
and set alight
frenzied uproar amidst *****Sapiens
via intense thinking to induce blind
ness flailing at feeling trapped
asper being teased at find
ding no beginning
or end like a mobius strip
analogous to space/ time continuum
that little effort could
blow a fuse in the mind.
adieu: from matthew scott harris
hook halls schwenksville, pennsylvania
hiz home tow win.
...This rankled Ethan, deep down in his core,
his drummer just quit, but Ethan wanted more,
he pressed on touring, writing out new songs,
from catchy romps to grand epics, long.
Their next single climbed to thirty-three,
then the one after made it to fifteen,
they’re first album came out, Ethan was proud,
but the critics pounced, cried,’Sophmoric, loud!’
Some even proclaimed him a no-talent fool,
even rolling in cash he tasted failure fuel.
But he was not the type to stay settled,
they all would see his musical mettle,
so he set out to writing every day,
poured into his songs all he had to say,
for ten years it went, eight albums dropping,
hit after hit, four songs chart-topping,
until even the critics had to admit
that when it came to music, Ethan had it.
He stood at the top, secure in the truth,
you don’t get there without some failure fuel.
At fifty he gave a strange interview,
when out promoting an album, quite new,
He said,”They make one mistake, and they’re shattered,
too many folks don’t fight for what matters,
never told that failure teaches what won’t work,
that nothing is easy, and nothing deserved.
What wonders would they have brought about
if they’d simply learned to never drop out.
Nobody ever gets where they’re going to
without first topping off on that failure fuel.”
I
How Plato once wished to ban all poets
Who seem to ‘sketch skeletons of the real’,
Whose ‘pen a beguiling tongue loosely lets’,
And yet ‘somnolent truths fail to reveal’.
If medieval men of merits did feel
That giving ‘wild wings to mind is evil’,
‘Poetry vineyard be of the devil’,
As senses stimulants be of what’s ill.
That, mankind must shun, if it be ideal,
Sensual world be poet’s snare that beguiles,
Who, better be exiled to far off isles,
If to purge them appears nigh unreal.
Whereas in truth poets are in a quest
Of truth hidden in a fiction-filled chest!
II
In quest of truth hid in fiction-filled chest—
Truth, as is love, an obscure entity,
Which, in vain most pens search in poetry—
A task so vague is bound to fail in haste.
Yet, as each poem’s quite unlike many,
Every story as leaves lasting footprints,
As underlying truth’s nigh like any,
Most of it does get conveyed if as hints.
Each reader receiving the reality
In own unique way—be it West or East,
He relates to the truth of poetry—
Veiled fantasy and a fictional beast.
So rankled, ghost of Plato in grave frets—
Wise soul who once wished to ban all poets.
______________________________________
Crown of sonnets |21.08.2023| truth, fantasy