Long Rationed Poems
Long Rationed Poems. Below are the most popular long Rationed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rationed poems by poem length and keyword.
i'd loved you before
between karma and mirth
i'd weathered the wrath
of your untimely compassion
rationed out over time
crumbling through my frail fingers
as dried daisies perrished
among torn twigs
tampered with under
rough gravel concrete slabs
and rows of moss
saturated in coarse dander
i'd loved you before
while tainted bliss cried
as swollen eyelids opened
over crawling lashes
folded under soft tissue's
and pastel print linen
i'd loved you before
through a selfless lens
looking over calming
whelms bestowed silently
surrounding broad weeping
willows sparingly displaying
fields of dandelions
gesturing hush now
why had i ever loved you
She snores under Night's somnolent veil,
Far from quiet throes of his teetering sail;
Her pulses come and go in silent throbs,
Attuned to trigger no lover’s salted sobs.
Her breath kicks in and out in frail wafts,
And makes sullen breather and her lover
Immune to stingy Love's meanest dose,
Both unhurt by Time's estranging cover.
Both lie on the false-soothing couch of hope,
That dupes naive souls to wait for riper days;
More fecund seasons marked by richer crop
To nurse Cupid’s stars and prop their praise.
If heavens their rationed graces further hold,
Her hushed snores and his dreams shall die;
And the two loving aspirations end in naught;
A sad tragedy like of Juliet and Romeo of old.
She's laden to death with yet unrequited love,
And he dies for a brief feel of her turgid verve.
it was that dull ache that kept her going
a longing for freedom whatever that meant
confined to the straight-jacket of her mind
she tore at the shackles until her heart bled
clots obstructed safe burden-less passage
stenosed angry valves of calcified reason
fear-full emotion angst existential pain
tarred and feathered she hung on to hurt
became a victim of self-imposed torture
powerless tied to the tight roped noose
eyes gaping in terror torture blindsight
mouth twisted in agony and void scream
her ears throbbed from constant drumbeat
released vile pus that would not scar over
formed venomous channels into her brain
while relentless torture became the norm
all she did was to speak out against injustice
demanded to live and narrate her own story
pure untarnished by complicit thought control
but they crushed her pen and broke her fingers
mocked all resolve and continued to pulp her
into surrender and waited for her to give up
they fed her night mares and rationed the food
but insomniac and starving she became immune
to deprivation and depraved masters of evil
twisted wrists though fractured and disfigured
shaped her escape when handcuffs loosened
sharpened restraints into blades of defence
the ache did not vanish but altered her view
on humanity incarceration and empowerment
liberation comes at a price and increased value
she locks the door behind me and glimpses revenge
no pardon no thumb screws not even cut throats
for when oppressors have no one else to persecute
but themselves the ultimate punishment is served
23rd April 2021
Writing Prompt Ache
Constance La France
You fasted me
not with cruelty,
but with absence.
Our conversations became measured portions,
carefully rationed silences,
until even my name
felt too heavy to serve.
Once, words flowed without counting—
laughter spilling past midnight,
questions lingering like warm hands.
Now I sit with echoes,
taught to swallow pauses
instead of replies.
You withdrew with discipline,
as if I were indulgence,
as if closeness required restraint.
No argument, no farewell—
only the sudden practice
of less.
And I was left drying in the quiet,
wondering when affection
became excess,
when presence turned into something
to be limited for safety.
You did not starve me of food,
but of being known.
And that hunger—
that one learns slowly,
alone.
A day in a life
When once a soldier was i
Happiness was to survive the
night till blight of breaking dawn
Shivering garnering heat from
my only daily teppid cup
of muddy coffee
Chewing on a crust of stale bread
Where entertainment and enjoyment
came and was to be found in the
form of drawing a lasting puff on a cigarette and blowing circles into the air
But most of all what got one
through bye and past the drudgery
Was the tasteless caustic raucous
gallows sense of humour meeted
out by one's comrades
Whilst patiently awaiting for one's
number to be called or up signaling
your time has come , the end is nigh
Until thee has smoked thy final cigarette
and coffee cup is passed onto
another as is a rationed crust
of bread
One day i was a soldier
The following day stone dead
A soldier was i no more
Entombed under geavestone over head
Set some goals
Set out bulbs
Bulbs planted in garden
Bulbs planted in beds
Beds filled with blooms
Beds are warm
Warm days bring flowers
Warm beds rest
Rest equals health
Rest for weary
Weary souls faint
Weary hearts mourn
Mourn love lost
Mourn departed
Departed is gloom
Departed is pressure
Pressure creates diamonds
Pressure can explode
Explode from anger
Explode from dynamite
Dynamite dangerous
Dynamite has use
Use has purpose
Use for things
Things for jobs
Things are inventions
Inventions make life easy
Inventions save time
Time passes by
Time is rationed
Rationed are minutes
Rationed are seconds
Seconds make minutes
Seconds compose life
Life is good
Life is granted
Granted are your days
Granted each year
Year makes lifetime
Year make one old
Old people die
Old people get weak
Weak seek God
Weak need help
Help comes from God
Help is a sustainer
Sustainers keep going
Sustainers are awesome
Awesome
Going
dang,
grandma was a real hubba bubba-
killer-diller
khaki wacky boycrazygirl
a spiffy hot damn hoofer
during the dark hours of WWII
and the devastation
followed with
unrestrainedjubibilation
beat me daddy eight to the bar
grandma was a real hubba bubba-
franksinatracrooner
singing grandma put on her stompers
she was a babydoll soppysappysharp
a spiffy hot damn hoofer
worked in a factory
building partsforairplanes for the boys
no siree bob she was not giving up her job
she had
dreams
a white picket fence
in the
boondocks
grandma was-
a spiffy
hot damn
hoofer
no gobbledygook she told great stories
of what it was like
after the war forthetroops and all
pin-up girls like Marilyn Munroe
Elvis
Roy Orbison
Jerry Lee Lewis
drive-ins
fancy wheels ovaltine
casablanca goingmyway its a wonderful life
for whom the bell tolls earnesthemmingway
it was a time of attitude
no fuddy-duddy she had the gams
met grandpa doingtheswing
they had no lettuce moolah greenbacks
but they
were over the top
stuck on glued
bonkers in love oh grandma had
no fear of saying hi-de-ho
he said hey sugar are you rationed
dang
grandma was a real hubba bubba-
killer-diller
kacky wacky boycrazygirl
take a gander withyourpeepers
at this thingamabob poem
____________________________________
June 2, 2015
Free Verse
Inspired by the slang of the 1940's
For the contest, Talk the Talk and Walk the Walk, sponsor, Debbie Guzzi
First Place
There comes a time,
in the early, but
not so early, morn
when, and this is key,
if a portion of an instant
rationed a morsel of a moment -
but a crumb of that fell free
and it cast a deep shadow
whose depths made mockeries
of spelunk;
which you may remember
you'd dreamt of in some past
life and, if from this minusculity
sprang, the littlest offspring,
a hint of a glance of,
a coup d'oeil
the last of day,
the half-remembered,
prior life
when, if you glimpse
the newborn gold,
your heart'll still,
your mind'll still
and yes, your stillness
be distilled into
stiller still
if your heart and eyes
don't again conspire
to draw your mind
to your routine
of first and, perhaps
only, taking in the
most of things
the highlights and the
canopy's myriad meanderings
the rootings at their footings
supposed but rarely seen
in dark, in secret but
carrying no wrong
rather though
in the tree trunks'
simple middle
for a briefest, gilted
eternity, the trees
will burn not from
their crown
nor from their feet
and, despite the ice,
the sparkless space,
the cold steel
darts of insistent
slanting rains,
the trees will burn,
the trees will burn,
and all-at-once
the peripatetic sun,
its whims having won,
will dance along
and share its breath
with everyone
I tell you I like, that Wayland a bunch
He'd be the guy, to be there in a crunch
Not afraid of humor, he paves the way
With clerihew words, he loves to play
Let's talk of Eileen, the Queen of passion
Her verses of pleasure, will not be rationed
She causes men to rise, women to weep
Many a farmer, have stopped counting sheep
Then there is Shadow, who is a bright light
Her name suggests darkness, but that isn't right
With a pen and paper, she loves to play
Out of the Shadow, poems brighten our day
There is the woman Donna, she is filled with charm
For her animals, she'd give her left arm
Still here in the soup, she adds her own spice
She's a little bit hot and a whole lot of nice
When it comes to Eagles Montery's the last word
She's not in a flock she's a solitary bird
With her strong wings creating a breeze
Verses dance on the wind with the greatest of ease
I can't forget about Richard, now there's a man
He teases Eileen, just because he can
Yet within the humor, his clever exists
His poetic talents, impossible to miss.
My friend Vicky T, has brought me to tears
She possesses insight well beyond her years
A voice from the wilderness, please take heed
Wisdom resides in her poems that we read
When it comes to nature, our Nette is the girl
She makes mountains quiver and pretty leaves twirl
To angelic worlds she causes us to travel
Brooks are helpless she makes them all babble
Our Andrea she is well beyond great
Her words are profound they carry such weight
Regardless of form, many contests she wins
She's top of the heap, before she begins
Becca's a doll, with a sensitive pen
She writes of the now and also the then
Her words magical, a muse guides her pen
Capturing my mind again and again
This place amazing, a Mystical Rose
A unique handle my creative friend chose
Perfect for her that woman has style
A perfect seven at the top of the pile
My buddy Drake he has really mad skills
With words like honey the airways he fills
If you are lucky he'll let you co-host
To him I raise a glass to happily toast
Others must wait I'm running out of Rymes
I will write of them some other time
Until then I must wish you all goodbye
Have a sip of my soup, give it a try.
Inspired to try my first Clerihew by
Wayland Bunch. Hopefully I have got it right.
Meeting a princess
It was, according to the old, the coldest winter
any could remember, the wise said it was because
the war had disturbed the weather pattern
One day, it snowed, then it got mild, after that
it got
very cold, the hilly road turned into an ice rink
to our delight of children
We could sleigh all the way to the lake in the town
the lake, poets wrote about; they were building a hotel on the other side where old houses had been
It was the tallest building in the world, mother said
it would be better to build housing for the poor
What did she know, reading books all day long?
In the afternoon, as the day faded, an old lady was going
home, she slipped and fell on the treacherous road
we helped her up; she had a nosebleed.
She opened her lacquered handbag took out a handkerchief that had borders and was the whitest he had ever seen, dabbing her nose in a delicate manner
So brittle she was, like something rare that could vanish
into thin air, I took it upon myself to take her home
she held onto my arm like a butterfly.
She had a beautiful oval face, and we had round faces
like, farm folks, I concluded she was of royal heritage
was she a princess from a forgotten country?
I opened the front door for her, she gave me a sweet I put in my pocket to savor late and also
to show the other boys sweets were rationed.
We had fine teeth.
When coming home very late, the night was starlit
we boys had a great time showing off sliding on the ice
to impress the timid girls
At home, mother sat reading a book, I think written by
a Russian bloke called Tolstoy looked up and said
if you are hungry, find something in the kitchen.
I told the mother of an old princess I had helped her home
she had fallen on the ice and had nosebleed
Princess! She said there are no royals in this town
what was her name? Marianne, and she spoke posh
Oh, her, she was a big, Nazi during the war
I was annoyed with my mother; why did she go and
spoil it all, what did she know about life, with her nose stuck in a book, and who the hell is Hemingway?