Long Ringed Poems
Long Ringed Poems. Below are the most popular long Ringed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ringed poems by poem length and keyword.
The old man was wizened from his oak ringed neck to his curled up toenails.
People kept trying to disturb him, but his determination was full of might.
I am looking for the secret to the joy of life, he said. So many have ails.
His face was in books from six a.m. to two a.m. He slept four hours a night.
Did not make time to do anything except search for joy, his obsession.
His family died off, but he did not notice, he was too busy looking …..
Did not have time to bake a pie, court a girl, have children or go to confession.
He finally died of starvation for he never ate or did any cooking.
Fort Clatsop is up and true,
50 feet square, with a smokehouse, pallisades, barracks and two gateways
furnished from the aromatic and reliable wood of the great Fir trees,
we keep busy by scraping elk hides for clothes, making moccasins, hunting
and boiling sea water in kettles to manufacture a nutritious salt,
the Clatsop Indians are not the onery thieves that the Chinook are,
in fact, they are merry hustlers with fine things to trade,
the Clatsop chief, Coboway was in fort today, smoking and learning how we leather stitch
when I began negotiating for his sea otter robe,
a fur of extraordinary waterproof warmth and deep colored beauty
several layers ringed, overlapping one another like roof tiles
with a thin elk hide underneath
the length of a knee cloak with the incandescence of morning mountains
snowy whites, granite greys and cool browns,
I believe that is why Clark and I are contending for it,
that rare robe reminds us of the Rockies, the rugged majesty,
Coboway isn't being simple though, actually he's being a prick about it,
refusing all sorts of neat and valuable things
and then Sacagawea comes into the room shakin her meaty hips around
and the chief comes to life and says he'll trade for her beaded belt,
Clark looks at me like hey, not fair
because he knows I can get Janey, Sacagawea's American name,
to give it up for my blue velvet coat that she just purrs for,
J.A.B.
Poof issued from invisible magic dragon,
which nobody dead sea
immediately disrupting electricity
whereat mice elf (Stuart Little), i.e. me,
no particular rhyme nor reason
called Mickey, plus the missus Minnie
found ourselves literally
in the dark, no pleasant thrill
as well adjacent community
named Maple Hill
approximately few hundred
residents in toto ill
nope, no light to busy
sanity claws writing with quill
thus no alternative,
but forced to remain stock still,
the provolone ideal time
to look for cheeses crust
or crumbs, cuz thankfully tenant
occupying unit b44 never dust
nor keep their apartment
spic and span trust
ting bulge of debris under the rug
not seen by jail warden this August
two thousand nineteen,
cuz she would most likely bust
with anger, which would
bubble forth analogous just
like when volcanoes blow
off their high top
most lava lee phenomenon
unforgettable did stop
people dead in their tracks
saw Pompeii pop
yule lore for tourists to shop
for timeless dude dads till they drop
similar to yours truly at my behest
recently awoken from rest
earlier could chest
barely breathe suffocating blessed
not only mister
and missus expressed
above regarding power outage no jest
gasping for air oppressed
without electricity - society at mercy
to guarantee life hums along
without power to the people,
I forthrightly attest
idyllic climate controlled nest
comes to screeching halt
creature comfort amenities rest
at peace as if lightly
sucked by black hole
this primate unaccustomed to test
his brittle mettle,
and loathed experiment
conducted by fates forced to sweat
approximately twelve long hours est
tab bull lest
stark admittance, I would be carrion
eh, a mere snack
if archaeopteryx made guest
appearance, a quest
going awry see Jurassic Park
object lesson aye did wrest
maybe genetic tinkering,
yes think GMO
microchipped *****sapiens
created with ablest
means to weather severing
how 21st century civilization did invest
ingenious dependence banked upon,
where electrons get fervently pressed.
It springs like rain on mown grass
Winds murmur over quiet pines
No hoofbeats of horseman lost
No limpid water from deep springs
oasis lift from arid sand.
Barbarian rides past towers without watchman
Deep thunder in mountain thrown up
Footprints of the darkness
stone like starkness
Harrowing & unhalting.
Grand inquisitor, earth's jailhouser
coverned deep and iron ringed
submerged in auto-cage of steal
Far from end and near to nowhere
lifting our heads to the light of God:
Spare my family and friends, thou great
keeper of souls
In its direness and darkness
footprints of light, our bodies taken,
our self retaken,
wastelands of ruins heaped with ash
mea culpa, mea culpa
SIR THOMAS WYATT TRANSLATIONS 1
Whoso List to Hunt ("Whoever Longs to Hunt")
by Sir Thomas Wyatt
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Whoever longs to hunt, I know the deer;
but as for me, alas!, I may no more.
This vain pursuit has left me so bone-sore
I'm one of those who falters, at the rear.
Yet friend, how can I draw my anguished mind
away from the doe?
Thus, as she flees before
me, fainting I follow.
I must leave off, therefore,
since in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Whoever seeks her out,
I relieve of any doubt,
that he, like me, must spend his time in vain.
For graven with diamonds, set in letters plain,
these words appear, her fair neck ringed about:
Touch me not, for Caesar's I am,
And wild to hold, though I seem tame.
***
My lute and I
by Sir Thomas Wyatt, circa early 16th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
At most mischief
I suffer grief
Without relief
Since I have none;
My lute and I
Continually
Shall both apply
To sigh and moan.
Nought may prevail
To weep or wail;
Pity doth fail
In you, alas!
Mourning or moan,
Complaint, or none,
It is all one,
As in this case.
For cruelty,
Most that can be,
Hath sovereignty
Within your heart;
Which maketh bare
All my welfare:
Nought do you care
How sore I smart.
No tiger's heart
Is so perverse
Without desert
To wreak his ire;
And me? You kill
For my goodwill;
Lo, how I spill
For my desire!
There is no love
Your heart to move,
And I can prove
No other way;
Therefore I must
Restrain my lust,
Banish my trust
And wealth away.
Thus in mischief
I suffer grief,
Without relief
Since I have none,
My lute and I
Continually
Shall both apply
To sigh and moan.
Keywords/Tags: Wyatt, translation, hunt, deer, doe, pursuit, net, wind, lute, grief, heart, love, desire, poets, poetry, poems, writing, heartbreak
"In the Arctic Ocean, the echoes of loneliness are silenced by the stunning beauty of its icy waters, a living testament to nature's delicate balance between isolation and vitality." by Jami Patterson
"No, the Arctic does not yield its secret for the price of a ship’s ticket. You must live through the long night... You must have gazed on the deadness of all things to grasp their livingness." — Christiane Ritter, A Woman in the Polar Night
Arctic Depths
A sorrow sinks into the deep abyss
The crushing cold, a heavy, marble shroud
Where the faint sun forgets to ever creep
And whispers are not meant to be aloud
The water tastes of ancient iron, old
A bitter, sharp tang upon the tongue
As the deep secrets wait, forever cold
The immense weight of pressure, sharply flung
The narwhal glides in velvet, endless black
Its ivory spear, a purely ghostly gleam
Along the deep sea trench's lonely track
A silent, solitary actor in a dream
The ringed seals exhale a vapor white
Their large, dark eyes reflect the fading gray
A fleeting warmth against the endless night
Before the heavy darkness pulls away
A mournful silence fills the aching ear
A sensory, profound, and deep despair
For every sturdy creature dwelling here
Breathes in the ice-cold, heavy, chilling air
The mighty Greenland shark moves slow
A cold-blooded phantom, old and vast
Observing everything below
A living relic from the past
Its body is a dense and frozen thing
Moving through the current's icy sweep
No joyful sounds the deep can ever bring
Just endless, chilling slumber while they sleep
The Ocean floor, a vast, pale sheet
Where slow-motion currents gently flow
A rhythmic, cold, and soundless beat
The profound, dark truth the deep must know
Red hot chili pepper poker face...
Born that way angry antithetical
mailer daemon when...
all of Christendom bows their collective
talking heads in supplication,
a temporary truce and reprieve
against bigotry, deviltry, idolatry (nah),
et cetera across the nation.
Yuletide pageant merry doth go round
where credo, ethos, and
faith no more jinxes webbed, wide world,
nevertheless soul asylum limned courtesy
peace on earth and goodwill
toward all men sentiment
sacrilegious to bully,
fully sully mankind's divine holiness,
and present disgrace to human race
in the dolled guise of heretic
quasi analogous to a matador ramrod ready
to Catch Bull at Four in a China shop
gored when muleta waved -
courtesy matador incited Bos Taurus
both fuming, fretting, foaming, et cetera
even the spectators
frothing at the mouth with lather
while smartphones captured tableau
frozen in time photo touched up
stripping bare every bloody
last vestige of cruelty
toward a gregarious animal
exclusively a domestic species
males genetic propensity
culled, goaded, likened as fearsome beast,
synonymous when anonymous nasty brute
fomented enormous disaster
monetarily eviscerated yours truly
an online scamming assault,
the repercussions I still forced to wage
depredations living hand to mouth
quaffing caustic acidic ale,
a cunning prankster did stage
comparable to kindle figurative
ringed fire of rage
within my still smoldering belly –
coalescence fuels tinder
while financial security riven
and rent asunder
severely dislocating, hobbling,
paralyzing vertebrae constituting
gray and white matter, appearing
in a cross-section as H-shaped gray matter
surrounded by white matter,
whereat the gray matter consists
of the cell bodies of motor
and sensory neurons,
interneurons, and neuropils
(neuroglia cells and mostly
unmyelinated axons).
with wanton cries of warning
stroke the waning moon
in the tongue licks of bonfire flame
dance oh dance, barefoot upon the loamy breast
of mother, let swirl within the orb of i
red embers of holy ash
let arms and legs akimbo tilt and rise
to point a beckoning finger to the passing light
milk white upon its sapphire slate
with wanton cries each man and maid unbraids
playful sirens singing to her opal
ringed and ringing instruments, shadows
painted the blue-green, black meadow
prancing star-clad round the
bonfire’s flames
*Dear nette i have been missing your moon dances
so I did one for you. I hope you are well and will come
back to us soon.
**This write is a tribute poem to nette's
free verse poem 'Uprooting the heart veins'
In the mists of the giant bark beneath
rise old growth saplings out of crag and earth,
where tumbles an ancient evergreen leaf
from that marvel of great and splendid girth.
That footing seed, that pod, that budding shoot
to spread its shedding crown in fulsome yield,
when ringed trunk buttressed by conifer root
in furrowed skin wraps its tubular shield.
High on sky perch over forest thickets
the sylvan canopy the clouds do climb -
to fell, to log, to mill into pickets
and trusses tempers not this heart of mine.
It does me good (those sap bathed arms bended)
to see your mighty scaffold extended.
Written: May 1992
Love without Beloved,
Beloved without Love,
neither alternative could be
me without you
you within me
both equivalent would be
We.
We without you,
or me,
this simply can not be,
we takes both equally
bidextrously
ambivalent
Without me,
just you,
or me,
which We cannot
co-arisingly be.
I could not be me
without a you,
nor you
without a me,
as I, you see
we're not at home
in silo-by-silo
universality,
confusing coincidentality,
poor performing
economicality,
dismal absence
of ecologicality,
teleologically teasing
merely biological We.
If no Earthy EcoSystem,
then no Me.
If no Me, then no exegetical
metaphysical
metamorphical
polycultural
permaculturing Be.
If no Belonging,
then no longing.
If no longing, then no hope
of Belonging.
If no becoming, then not Being
seeing
sensing
souling
solving
resolving
resonating
hibernating
sublimating
en-double-lightening We.
If synapse
were not quite so closely haunted
by relapse
deep learning might be
as boringly unpredictable
as gravity's self-creational
bi-relational
lapse.
When East and West learn to divest
of Othering culture's absence,
as South and North learn to invest
in Other culture's apart-sense,
then PermaCulturing Design
will co-redeem
sustainable We
polyculturing our healthy Planet
polymorphic economics
polypathic ecologic
becoming PolyWealthy Therapy.
Messiahs turn Left
to Rightly Prophet
and CoMessiah Right
to EcoProphesy Left
and back again
to revolution Earth ethics upside down,
with SunGod's cooperative rays on top
of Earth's economically rich
deep pie charts
and global graceful synergy spread wide
warm watery reception,
challenging bi-generic tree-ringed contractions
of grace,
karmic abundance,
a Bun Dance away from narcissistic ignorance
Ego's fancy prance,
of why when we each and all come together,
in love's full climaxing bilateral embrace
we turn our identities future side down
a pace
in this HereNow timely space.
We each come to redeem our Ego investment
born of Earth's long-spun
cosmic fun
regenerating narrative,
double negative binding Identity
creating SuperEco-Normic
sticky Bliss
Is not
Love without Beloved,
Beloved without Love
neither alternative could be
me without you
within me
both equivalently
must be
gummy We.