Long Restive Poems
Long Restive Poems. Below are the most popular long Restive by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Restive poems by poem length and keyword.
Sometimes in the night she creeps into my bed,
Her unsuspecting target is my head.
I lie awake and listen to her words,
So often they ring true and new
And full of promise.
Sometimes her mind will change
And I must ponder her meaning.
Never bold and brash and angry
But ever thoughtful,
Sowing seeds that may prove fruitful,
Or will they wither and be dead
By morning light ?
In deepest sleep perhaps,
So many silent nights go by
Without her coming in the darkness.
Restive, I enjoy her welcome touch,
Her words will echo in my head,
Tumbling and turning, round and round,
Then in excited fever, as in a trance,
I reach out for my scribbling pad.
Her words secured, I now relax,
My mind once more returned
To fitful dreaming.
My wife, long suffering, now wide awake
And restless in her marital bed,
Asking herself "For goodness sake,
Why did I a poet wed ?"
Family foibles and festive baubles to share
Frivolity frolics jollity & alcoholic histrionics
Swilled fables & tables filled with similar fare
Suggestive seasonal strolls for restive souls
Cast bitten still smitten bestilled by chilled air
Bedevilled dishevelled by some distilled wares
Pagan past perch in their old peculiar church
Dare to revel with another level devil may care
No graces or airs just familiar faces and lairs
Don't be reckless or feckless this Michaelmas
Feuds rude moods eschewed along with despair
Plied with yuletide pride bliss of this solstice kiss
At last no faff or fuss for us secular Christmas fayre
In our world plenty of light has got brutally put out
In our faces a lot of orange leaves no more sprout
In your sorrow just hollow floral bunch I hand out
The dark shadow of Erebus becoming more stout
Prayer for concord are burnt out and hospitalized
Had there been around today the famous Orpheus
In our tongue and lips and the restive unconscious
Had there been some scraps of broken lyre wires
Our music could have somewhat cured our distrust
Escalating with the universe in its space and time
With your lyre as you would walk the paths of pain
Like the mother of night the stars in a sweet strain
Like the palm of morning a harmony would contain
All the lions and tigers that we nurture in our brain
And they would all act like their blond and mild fur
This very Orpheus however got wobbly and fragile
As his partner Eurydice he looked back at to fondle
She vanished in the air leaving a pain and puzzle
Gloomy and vagabond he was slain by a scoundrel
Though eminent our cognitive poise we mustn’t lose
October 10, 2017
For Poems that paint a picture Poetry Contest 4
Sponsored Contest by Silent One
When you can’t wait to retire
and deem death your only true ally,
When children get on your nerves
and you rush through
the family dinner to be left alone,
When a sermon tries your patience
and a speech makes you restive,
When you keep hankering
after the days of yore
and find solace
in the dusk of the day,
When you are obsessed by
the thoughts of just going away
somewhere and getting lost,
When the closeness
of the closest ones
get too close for comfort,
When you find there’s nothing
left to prove anything to anyone,
When no joke tickles your funny bone
And you fret no more
over a bad hair day,
When you forget to zip your pants
and just shrug off when pointed –
May be it’s time to
dog-ear the page of your life
and close the book!
~"Introspective" contest by Lewis Raynes.
What‘s better than a biscuit?
Hard to debunk
Treasure trunk funk
Should you let
It get wetter
Would you dare risk it?
The trick a quick dunk
Or could flunk..flick..kerplunk..
Mushy chunk sunk..messy junk
Slushy slunk..in the tea you drunk
So at your leisure
Pleasure one’s self
Don’t regret your stealth
Forget your health
Wealth beset on the shelf
So feeling restive?
Yearn for a digestive?
Appealing…suggestive
No shock..dark choc
What else will cut the mustard
With a brew…for a few bob
Recurring theme..does seem
Will always dream
About a custard cream
Almost sob…as I Lob
A hob-nob in me gob
Ta pour more cha
In fine fettle
Be a slob
Turn on the kettle
Bickies in the jar
On the sofa settle
Sins within tins
Spurn concern
Ignore the racket
As
Hats do doff
Knew from the off
On a roll
The sole goal
Quaff another cuppa
Down your cake hole
Scoff the whole packet!
There sat in opulent xanadu, the
demagogue of empirical hedonism,
his granary once fuelled regal reign of epicureanism:
gregarious, restive, much-awaited successor of imperial dominion,
neurotic, obstinate, was the cynosure of cynicism.
The eldest child of Duke and Dutchess of York, erstwhile Prince of Wales,
the proclaimed young heir, stood far from the course of sceptical euphemism;
The heir apparent had a historical encounter with Wallis Warfield Simpson by fatalism,
by wooing Wallis, the royal blood encountered, clangorous cynical criticism.
The resultant mayhem broke, the blue- blood became the bottleneck of idealism;
sagacious, was brooding strategies to be the prototype of unprecedented heroism.
The proclaimed marriage faced vehement oppositions:
encompassing : religious, political, legal and moral objections.
The outright denial to accept Wallis as the king's consort, broke the anticipated rebellion,
Edward's refusal to give her up, led to his final abdication.
When was quite apparent, he could not marry his beloved Simpson,
finally settled to rebuke the throne from etched imperialism as emancipation.
The man of the hour was then entitled "the Duke of Windsor", a transformation stunned the world and wrote an unprecedented statement in chronicle after abdication.
Edward VIII, once epitome of monarchism, became an ideal icon of asceticism.
A sybarite, turned commoner by deserting the successive chair of the british kingdom to wed his ladylove;
a tale of unprecedented impeccable loyalism.
The abdicator's epitaph on Royal Burial Ground, Frogmore,
is still bearing in indelible transcription,
the testimony of an uncustomary love saga of renunciation.
An epoch making transformation, decades have ever witnessed from iconic monarchism to transcendental loyalism:
through unprecedented renouncement
of the bequeathed throne
to array chronicle's unrivalled iconoclasm.
All Rights Reserved © SILPIKA KALITA
Hands hold tight to the loose ends of hope
As we toil and crack, night and day,
Hoeing up bits of earth and its fragile retributions.
Our crops and little beads of sweat drip to waste
On the ground’s boiling soils.
Eyeh is another name for a deceased generation.
The ones that sprout stubbornly through restive
Delays get re-greened, losing vibes of communal
Watering, ceremonial baptisms.
Birds build their nests in haste,
When bent cusp-blades sprout secretly at twilights,
Behind ethereal curtains of dawn falling
To the consternation of treacly, bitter syrups of time . . .
Is this continuous planting . . . and delirious season?
Has it come to that —when drunken war mongers
Form weapons from slats of pallid bamboo stationed
At the guard posts of violated yams and their flaccid
Tendrils?
I fear.
Such suzerainty over yellowing crops
Transcends the coats of black dust hiding from the disease
Of identity.
It is still planting season, brethren.
The deafening sounds of cannons shake the stalks yonder.
There's a smug dance of weevils on the graves of tubers.
The lifeless bullets bound as captive predator
in the restive barrels of the creepy guns of war,
chilling cold as the brutal shadow of death,
waiting camouflaged in the dark,
wake up at the strike of the trigger,
pulled by the frenetic fingers of entranced men.
In God’s own world so humane once
blood flows thick as incensed streams,
bullets rip through the buds of dreams.
The homeless soaked in blood drift as aliens
as terror flares up in their forsaken hearths.
The bullets to accomplish the lethal mission,
whiz in feral freedom on the wings of fire,
carry the predatory quirky caprice
of insanity morphing into spiteful insensitivity,
and shoot off toward the fated targets,
deliver the blood-scripted message of death.
Let all the bullets stop midair,
abandon their fatal flights of lunacy,
refuse to become the cold blooded killers,
stop and shed the facet of fanatic fury,
fling away the fatal intent in the free air
and disappear from the bleeding world forever.
Let the life they get from the forceful fire
in the stillness of the deadly barrel,
blossom into flowers in the arena of war.
Let them entice instead the living
to breathe in free will the fragrant air
in the beautiful world of harmony.
Debates and discourses galore
Trees and rivers are worried
Cruelty and hounding are torrid
A raped morning in the shore
Kindness smiles in the water
It fondles the skin still tender
Flying sands drop by to kiss it
Restive waves come on hissing
Intellectuals in the seminar
Shopping at fifty percent
Online bonanza for women
Pious hopes in the twitters
Success is celebrated globally
Molested school girls scoff at
Flesh is what the quest goes for
Pearls of friendship is a far cry
Sharks of powers and muscles
Untamed high-rise castles
Can’t we have joint umbrellas?
To share a grief or golf stick
Sublimate our glare of control
And avoid hundreds of shipwreck?
Discrimination will go away one day
We will need centuries to that end
Life will be the same celebration
For men and women together
_____________________________
Listless, languid, bridled heart
Saddled with yesterday's sorrows
Shackling stirrups hold my feet in drowning quicksand
Monotonous misery holds the reins of my fate
Haltered by grief; lassoed by suffering
Struggling as every bit of pain pulsates through my mind
Each rope, each strand pulls tighter the yarns of pricked spirit
Choked by the collar of despondency around my swollen glands
The trail is spliced with calamitous lifemarks
Fragile fronds of suffocating twine bind my steps
Asphyxiating plumes of acid flood my wounded soul
Dissonant chords warp senses; sounding melancholy chime
Body recoils as oppressive memories torture my psche
My restive thoughts are bound by the unforgiving chains of time
Pending doom wraps it's coils around my inner being
Smothering the promise of a brighter tomorrow