Long Reposes Poems
Long Reposes Poems. Below are the most popular long Reposes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Reposes poems by poem length and keyword.
They deliver me
Swathed in fiber pages and hired into a fair case,
As my body reposes like a sack of raised morsels,
I effortlessly fit the “box!”
And not even a bit lingers out,
In its annex death swept me clean
Like a waged drought
As mine sing in despair
The weepiest hymns of my knowing;
And their eyes out in sour tears as systems
Handle down the confinement into the pit
They deliver my simple bones
Into graves of one kind,
Setting every practice they (will) mind
But I smile in my further place,
Though I have none skin nor face,
I have no wit nor tears;
But I smile still in my further place
For my soul is all that remains.
The crimson sunrise sets the horizon on fire,
dawning the day of the simmering summer.
The singed hues turn to ash in the smoky sky,
shrouding the detritus of the desiccated cloud.
Sensual hot winds blow across the meadow,
over parched trees, bracing the leaning leaves,
absorbing the scorching sunburst arid splash,
in the shelter of their shade reposes my reverie.
On the rippling southern wind in tinted twilight,
wafts the warm tinge that the dusk sprinkles
on my blank canvas I get from departed spring,
I paint the pristine panorama of summer solace.
With dulcet moondust dancing in divine delight,
sparkle of satin night drizzles through balmy air
on rhapsodic waves of my mind’s sensuous sea,
where I sail on rolling rhythm of summer sonata.
______________
April 23, 2022
For A Brian Strand Standard Choice Contest
On a broad street 'neath spreading sycamores sits a stately dwelling.
Its elegance and surrounding grounds are so very compelling.
Gracious gardens and towering pines enhance its wide expanse,
All girded by a charming, yet sturdy, white iron picket fence.
Gingerbread ornamentation adorns its every eave and gable.
At the rear of the house stands a horse and carriage stable.
In my minds-eye I sit upon its front porch, so very inviting,
To muse upon its past and what made life there so exciting.
I see eloquent ladies and gentlemen arriving for a gala affair,
Happily anticipating the fellowship that awaits them there.
Outside huge flakes of snow waft gently to the earth,
But inside a blazing fire welcomes them to its cozy hearth.
The grandfather clock in the hall intones its sonorous chimes.
For decades it has dwelled there, overseeing happy times.
In the parlor a grand pump organ reposes by yon wall,
If only it could speak, what special memories it might recall!
The house has weathered the ravages of time with exquisite grace,
Providing warmth and comfort, when life moved at a slower pace.
Built to last for generations, built when guild took pride;
There, generations of genteel folk, loved, laughed and cried!
Entry for Nayda Ivette Negron's "Enchanted House" Contest
Cecil the Magician knew a heap of tricks,
But, alas, couldn't get himself out of this fix!
Carl was laid to rest for his eternal snooze,
Brought about by guzzling too much booze!
Pete was a rock-hard liberal Democrat.
Lord, be merciful and forgive him for that!
'Twas well-known that Cletus was such a crooked politician,
That he had to be screwed in the ground by the mortician!
Buster was shot while fencing his plunder.
Now he lies a-moldering six feet under!
Clarice was an avid tea party conservative Republican.
Democrats need her vote - Lord, convert her if you can!
Fred met his doom when his plane malfunctioned.
To make matters worse his parachute disfunctioned!
Here reposes the mortal shell of Marty McCall,
Who met his doom in a barroom brawl!
Bob sank without a trace and things looked grim.
He tried to tell them that he couldn't swim!
At last he found peace when he suddenly died,
But now his shrewish wife dwells by his side!
The doc warned him about all that cholesterol.
Too much meat and taters brought about his fall!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
Anger and kindness reach for richly polar opposition.
So, can I have any more perfect anger
than I have perfect kindness?
Rumi claims that anger reposes during kindness,
but sleep is not death,
while kindness anxiously awaits
during times of quick vexation,
deeply entrenched resentment and hurt
and fear of pathological repetition
of loss and pain.
Suffering wrestles between these two.
Suffering with grows kindness,
while suffering against grows angry.
Most of life plays out somewhere between
our competitive and cooperative intent
and suffering
mentoring co-redemptive intent,
regenerative practices,
comprehensive polycultural and multisystemic karmic grace
of ecojustice,
therapeutic co-arising diapraxis.
No pain, no gain;
No gain, restrain,
retrain.
We redeem as we harvest
what we plant
in fertile compost
and toxic salt of dispossessive tears
and laughter at those we've left behind and out;
those and that nature we thought we could possess,
own, enslave, use, abuse, victimize, ignore, neglect,
commodify.
Sowing life with Self,
and Other,
in and on Earth's cooperative kindness
and challenging unkindness,
or planting angry monocultural competitive weeds,
and usually some of both,
self-righteous flashy egojustice
and ecotherapeutically peaceful mindfulness
within Beloved Polycultural EarthTribe's formative
normative co-intelligence,
reasons for all four seasons.
Kindness intends to suffer with,
and not against,
to reconnect our DNA memory--
we are a regeneratively co-evolving
deep-ecorooting bicultural Tree of Life,
growing both up and out Yang,
and down and internally landscaping
Yin-Yin ecologic
as Win-Win ecojustice Cooperative Gaming Theory,
rooting our reverse-hierarchical cooperative
and information network
all the way in and through our (0)-soul double-elliptical
Universal Synergetics Prime ReGenesis Project System
of fractal-holonic Design, Community and Communication Development,
Economic Development as Eco-logical and Environ-mental
Continuous Well-Being Improvement.
Kindness suffers with eco-injustice anger;
anger suffers against ecotherapeutic justice.
I saw a buggy at the antique store today, its beauty unsurpassed!
I couldn't help but sit and muse awhile about its esoteric past.
It was shiny black with roll-up curtains to fend the stormy weather.
Its lone seat was hand-tooled in the finest of cowhide leather!
I pictured it being pulled by a svelte, fine-blooded horse,
Clad in silver embossed harness, the finest to be had of course!
Seated inside was a young swain with a beauty at his side,
Awaiting the right moment to ask her to be his bride!
Or maybe an old country doctor used it to visit the lame and sick,
Or to deliver a babe, tho' the roads were blocked by snow and slick!
Could a veterinarian have owned it, visiting far-flung farms,
Attending to the maladies of animals, easing farmer's alarms?
Perhaps a revered old pastor once used it to visit his fold,
To nurture languid souls and bring solace to the old.
Then there was the usual huckster prowling from town to town,
Selling snake oil and other elixirs, he of nefarious renown!
Who knows, it could have been used by such as Carrie Nation,
Wielding her axe, creating havoc while preaching God's salvation!
Whatever its past it now reposes in regal grandeur,
For folks to admire and about its past to conjecture!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
I reckon some folks prefer a hound dog lyin' at their feet,
While others might enjoy a twitterin' parakeet.
But be it a mogul's mansion or a humble flat,
A house just ain't a home without an inscrutable cat!
Thankfully, my cat doesn't bark or scourge my pristine lawn,
Nor does he wake me for outside relief at the crack of dawn!
Furthermore, my dear old pal I seldom have to holler at;
A house just ain't a home without an inscrutable cat!
My cat is content to have me stroke and brush his hair,
And happier yet if he can snooze upon my favorite chair.
A master of his realm, why should he ever want to roam?
Without an inscrutable cat, a house just ain't a home!
While he reposes upon my lap and I stroke his silky fur,
Ain't nothin' more relaxin' than to hear his soothin' purr.
He won't condone a walk, I'll certainly grant you that.
A house just ain't a home without an inscrutable cat!
His independent airs and a few stray hairs I can tolerate;
Even my chair nigh the glowin' fire to him I will abnegate.
I 'spose you could enjoy a snake, pot-bellied pig or hybrid rat,
But a house just ain't a home without an inscrutable cat!
Entry for Tania Kitchin's "Cat Poem Poetry" Contest
the old mill reposes in the middle of the peppered autumn trees
spruced up under the jurisdiction of golden, yellow, red, maples
the scene cannot be captured in a photograph, it is soul searing
My throat clogs up and I gasp, full of childhood memories
I sit at the edge and watch the revolving spokes of the water wheel
the mini falls splash and dance at my feet; I inhale the scent of the woods
September has never felt so welcoming and loving
Tears dance in my eyes, as I am overcome with nostalgia and hope.
The last time I was here I thought I knew about the world
Traveling for the last thirty years proved that I knew nothing
Forgetting the feel of this sanctuary, of my roots
I give praise to God that He allowed me to return home.
Solstice Burning
Distant footsteps trodding through a suburban graveyard.
The Black Dahlia reposes silently
pondering the moment with a carved grin.
A tan La Salle pulled up that morning
when she lost her heartbeat.
More distant footsteps in the hills of disease and disillusion.
Can you discern what has been and what will be?
Look to the east and see a face coming through the mist,
seeking a sword.
Are you not tired of all this?
Do you not seek death secretly?
Put the key in the ignition
the streets burn for our presence
like a naked lover spread under stained sheets at twilight.
More stiff corpses in the alleyways
wasted for the big party that has yet to begin.
What is life but one more glance downward
with tilted head and screaming thoughts.
Are you not ready for a change?
Do you not seek just one moment of peace?
Raging rapsters cry to the starry heights
looking for a taste of neon nirvana.
Adolescents in tight skirts
with button nipples bulging
seek desperate embraces in the shadows.
Solstice burning like a madman with dagger at midnight.
The cool tombs of eternity await the doleful dirge.
"Can you hear it, honey?"
"Put out the lights now."
The Black Dahlia needs her beauty sleep.
In lengthening slumberous reposes lies
Dickens' sterling pen under bluish skies;
And through them gloats deathless sun,
Taunting all that under his embers burn.
No more savoring of Oliver’s twisty trials
In doleful dints and extra-nuanced miles;
Nor shall of tested Nell all posterity hear,
Cooed in sweetly plaintive rhythms dear.
Nicholas Nickleby's adventures now
Must halt and take a somnolent bow,
And leave us at Muse’s orphan gate,
Slow to hug our stark bereaving fate.
Whence comes a defter pen to tell
Copperfield's youth and pupil spell,
By stingy virtue ridden through cry
And toil with dismal affection nigh?
Stung reader must content themselves
With ancient writs mute on dull shelves,
And with relish cherish and revive tales
Mid-voyage drowned by muffling gales.