Long Reluctant Poems
Long Reluctant Poems. Below are the most popular long Reluctant by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Reluctant poems by poem length and keyword.
The dread
He had slept too long hours lost
in a dream of deep dissatisfaction down a well of evil failure.
The depth had a silt of regrets and self- disgust.
Getting back up was slow progress
like an eagle flying in a vacuum.
Reluctant awakening as visiting death.
This time of the year makes him nervous it is called the festive season.
Christmas lunch.
Fake friendship from the nearest table by people who hated one another.
There was the beginning of an argument by a guest in his cups.
He had hoped it would last, truth even when not welcome, is delicious.
Dreaming by the log fire sounds romantic,
but he could only afford two bars on his electric heater.
Sitting in a restaurant eating third rate food was worse.
I can’t believe I thought that there’d be no darkness when it’s dawn,
I’ll be your queen of hearts, even if the cosmos did crack,
‘forever’ exists as an unseen reality, and the sun will always sprinkle saffron crumbles,
upon vivacious petals of violet roses,
painted by poetic dreamers with writers block,
amidst sharpened thorns and thickened thistles.
But why do golden flares burn the selfless skin of silken silhouettes that swirl to his salmon streaks?
Is there no empathy left in cerulean spheres?
I remember the warmth of his solar presence,
and how he whispered sweet tales to the blue breeze;
he said he loves the storm that sits on
the edge of angst,
yet he chose to flee, in the quest of citrine light,
at the sight of roaring rain and raven clouds,
too reluctant to walk beneath skies engulfed in chaos.
I ponder, who am I to blame?
when the truth is, I assumed the splitting songs of this thunder-struck canvas,
would never be a reason for him to erase inked promises.
Perhaps, I should have seen, how the sparkling stars waned in silence,
and the moon veiled its pearl necklace,
tired of the monsoon monsters, mercilessly moving,
above seas so calmly awaiting~
cantaloupe wings of the compassionate sun.
So, today, I’ll follow our honey-glazed dreams,
still left along ivory shores,
adorned with seashell souvenirs,
while reminiscing how, you wove profound pantoums,
from refined refrains of rhythmic romance,
to calm the lawless nature of my inner-psyche. …
Shallow tracks he left
now most dissipated by winds of time.
"Britches" searches these tracks for good times,
but recalls only those,
which taste of persimmons before first frost.
He represented things a son didn't want in a dad.
"Britches" often wondered about mitigating circumstances,
and while reluctant to indict;
he reasoned why things were as they were,
and how they had gotten that way.
"Britches" father was possessed by the fruit of the vine,
he consumed and was consumed.
What he gave life, life returned tenfold.
Sin in a bottle, had stolen his dad,
leaving him embittered but with great resolve.
"Britches" now clings to hurtful memories of a man
who never met his qualifications of a dad,
just a father.
The passage of time, betrayed by the age in my eyes.
Imbued wisdom now replaces the follies of youth.
The storms on the sea of life have taken there toll.
And in their wake, a resemblance of truth.
The taste of innocence, long forgotten on my tongue.
Replaced now with the flavor of knowledge.
Vanity crept in somewhere along the way.
A validity I was unwilling to acknowledge.
Night is in order. But twilight is a reluctant malcontent.
It wishes to linger, and tarry in the fray.
Alas, nothing has an alliance with time.
And soon, it will relinquish the light it holds so dearly.
And night will have its way.
Form:
blatantly passionate
perfected bodily beauty
attractiveness overcharged
a rhapsody of
recognition of
emotion&near ecstasy
reluctant to leave
overt interest remains
problematic
yet understood
innocent impulses
somewhat erotic
eventually
asking aloud
this interest to amuse
remote&unknowable
to applaud
perfection of
this gentle
kinder existence
perceived as a treasure
this survival of memories
the preserved
disappointments of
an abundant&
vanished arcadia
silence now a pleasure
a mere panacea
imbude
recorded now
with joy
GLORY OF GOLDEN DAYS
Golden Days I rejoiced
and all the wishes I voiced,
when success accessed bringing bliss.
Though sometimes failures to endure,
yet Glory of achievement I did not miss.
There were days when desires to glaze,
efforts demanded always praise,
ambitions to cherish and raise,
all hindrances to erase
by firm faith on blaze.
There were days when Hope soared high,
dulcet dreams dazzled to fly
far and nigh,
Ceaseless progress onward: No scope to sigh!
Days were great to gallop being gallant,
activities brilliant, vibrant
dynamic flow, never stagnant.
To allow indolence, brain was reluctant.
Stepped bold confident, aggressive, adamant.
Bygone days stayed on peak of Glory.
Now turned dull, dusty being buried in dusky memory.
Days left behind appearing fictitious story.
Blurred photographs waiting for obituary.
03/25/21.
** From Moon to Clover **
I say,”Do not!” live every day
As if it were our last day,” like some advise.
For tears will flow without end
And cheeks cannot be quenched, nor hearts be
Rushed . In that way, too, the beauty of music
Will bring only reminders of sorrow;
The vibrant light of the sun will blanch
Out a future reluctant to leave us, and erased
From view, unwilling to cower in a corner…
While outside the traffic flows on.
Even flowers, finding their formerly
Never-heard voices, will call to us with
Invitations into the coming seasons of all
Nature still undiscovered…from beyond
The moon down over the clover. Do not
Hasten about with a calendar full of tasks, hoping
To leap the hours while spouting cliches about
Roses, wherever the present takes us past and
Footfalls might touch or linger, or the blessed
Reasons for our unique lives will be missed.
So much of each day is meant to contemplate
And clear the mind, or float in dream…to rest
Into relinquishing reality just as
It could be that the truth time might teach
Is how the stories of of our lives carry
On into eternity. May we say, then,
“Live all days finding them vast in time
and full with grace.”
—————————————————————-
(c) sally young eslinger 2/23/22
Thanks be to God
In twilight's tender embrace, we stand,
Whispers of sorrow, drifting like sand.
Heart heavy with the weight of goodbyes,
Farewell echoes in tear-stained skies.
Ephemeral moments, like petals they fall,
Love's bittersweet melody, a haunting call.
Embraces linger, a fragile refrain,
In the symphony of loss, we dance with pain.
Eyes reflect galaxies, stories untold,
Aching souls in separation's cold hold.
Silent tears trace the map of goodbye,
As love's tapestry unravels, a somber sigh.
Promises falter, like autumn leaves descend,
Yet in the ache, a timeless bond we defend.
Memories linger, a solace in the night,
Stars witness our anguish, casting a dim light.
Fingers entwined, reluctant release,
Love's essence, a melancholy masterpiece.
In the realm of farewells, emotions entwine,
Aching hearts whisper, "Forever, be thine."
So here we part, on life's vast stage,
In the book of goodbyes, a poignant page.
Yet love transcends, an eternal tide,
In the echoes of farewells, our spirits abide.
As a child I went surfing at Freshwater Beach in Sydney
Renowned for its great waves,
Swell waves for body surfing.
Beyond the breakers, furthest out, were the 'Heroes'
Old, leathery tanned surfers who waited hours and hours for 'the wave of the day'
They only caught a handful of the biggest waves every hour or two.
They spent hours lolling about beyond the break, waiting for the big one to leer up on the horizon
Too proud to catch the small stuff, the run of the mill waves not fit for 'heroes'
It was scary at first for a kid to venture that far out into the 'heroes' realm
They leered back throwing daggers and sighs with disapproving glances
But you could survive by giving them plenty of space, to avoid interfering with their rare big wave catch
The challenge was to 'show them up' by surfing down the waves they just missed,
Or staying on the wave for longer than they did.
To earn mere morsels or crumbs of reluctant respect.
They had a nasty way of ridding the blow-in boogie-boarders from their patch
They would duck down as flippered boogie-boarder passed overhead
But leave an arm and hand up
To grab the boogie boarder as it passed, dipping the nose in
Flipping the board and rider over in a somersault
This shooed the boogie-boarders away from
The 'Heroes' patch of sea just beyond the breakers.
Sinister intentions are met with solitude
A ghastly grin greets the grimy windows
And who knows where the words will begin
But we all know they'll end in some awful rhyme
So forced and juvenile we'll be shaking our heads
And clucking our teeth in frustration
At the pretentiousness of it all
And for every tower a writer builds
He feels he'll never fall from his bloated heights
Where he looks down
And sees those far more talented than he
Perhaps this fills him with anger
A seething heat that boils his blood
Or maybe he seeks opportunity in the words of the wise
And begins the ungraceful fall off his perch
Perhaps one is lost in some misguided arrogance
Even as they reject the notion of possessing skill
And there is a fleeting moment before hitting the ground
Where the writer should realize his place
He's nothing more than a mere mortal
And his fatal flaw is believing in his written word
And believing that such an unpracticed poet
Could stand next to the likes of Poe
For he is a walking fallacy
So conceited in his desire to write
That he often abandons the written word
Believing the words will come when they come
And until then his thoughts will languish
As he sucks the fruits of yesterday's labor
He's nothing more than a glorified failure
Who never amounted to anything more
Than a seething high school bleeding heart
With words that followed no form
With stanzas that rejected common sense
With cliche tacked on to cliche
With aspirations of grandeur
He's just the feeding fodder
For those who give him the mercy
Of observing his written word
And giving him a reluctant pat on the back
Even while preparing the guillotine
The truth is that he is a masochist
Sifting through painful verse time and again
Hoping that something will stick
Just hoping he'll find the words
When all too often they reject him
For deep down he is truly ambitious
But he has no dedication to the craft
His pen is a half a stroke away from retirement