Long Roiled Poems
Long Roiled Poems. Below are the most popular long Roiled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Roiled poems by poem length and keyword.
Sailing through
roiled, stormy seas
of life
unsure if I'll...
stay afloat or drown;
not knowing
if I'm
brave enough
to sail
through alone,
but my faith
helped me power through.
I reached safe harbor, now...
I
know I'm courageous!
(Yalto)
"Yalto" is a form invented by yours truly
Lines 1-15: 3,4,2,4,5,3,2,3,2,3,3,5,6,1,5 syllables
STRAND completely new ( 5 ) any theme any form (Winner: Honorable Mention)
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Date written: 07/05/2020
Meet me back on those effervescent days;
Let’s swing on shafts of their lingering light,
Like our childhood hero in vine-borne flight,
Till we’re again in that sun-swaddled place,
Where once we were colts free to roam and race,
On meadows with dews of innocence bright,
And friendship’s rainbow arching every sight,
Before we were called to the adults’ maze.
Let us leap across the years, my dear friend;
Though our bodies may balk, our minds are lithe.
On the playground of our youth we shall land,
Where birds still kiss the sky, stingless bees hive,
And our mischief roiled through a drowsy glen
Whose slumber still our laughing echoes rive.
chin lightly nested atop
loosely peopled interlaced fingers
supported via multi purpose table
bent arms displayed elbows cocked
(approximately gabled
at ninety degree angle),
which pose frequently assumed
when pondering what to write,
an idea spawned when clothed left fingered limb
inadvertently roiled the so called "funny bone"
named because of funny feeling generated
when Ulnar nerve compression
triggers pseudo shock sensation
coursing one direction or another
traveling from neck down into hand
constricted in several places along the way
such as beneath collarbone
or at wrist
most common place for compression
(hands down)
behind inside part of elbow
medical terminology tagged
"cubital tunnel syndrome."
interestingly enough, this scribe attests
more frequent occurrences along
liberal democratic side
no matter I claim dominant right handedness
and reckon eyes that human body electric
eel silly not perfectly symmetric
also chiming in that such vulnerability
a very minor design flaw
extant within the amazing
*****Sapiens anatomy.
A French Sonnet
Bonsoir mon cher was all she had to say;
a world at war - so cruel to every heart,
a million lives now lost and torn apart.
Bonsoir mon cher and then she walked away.
We shared our tears while parting on that day
and every wish our language could impart
revealed the truth we both knew from the start;
our temporary space in lives delayed.
Though years have flown I still see her first glance
and lovely smile she shared when e'er we danced.
A war that roiled about us long ago -
the Allied crush that saved the lld-de-france;
Life's twist of fate that begot our romance,
until, at last, I knew we had to go ...
When she walked by my side on a lonely road
And took me to the other side, much more verdant,
Through the barren lands of scorched desert,
Clueless I was about the paradigm of love.
If only had I asked, she would’ve taken me there
Into the sunshine from darkened shadows,
From the juncture of fears and saddened tears.
But I remained silent when it was time to speak
Choosing to not tell her how much I loved her
As I held the distance between bliss and sorrow,
When impulsively I veered in the wrong direction.
And I never saw the pastures beyond the hills
Or beauty of the terrain past the river bend.
Going where feckless ages have gone before
Embarking upon a path well-traveled
Ignoring pretty flowers in unkempt meadows.
Yet, she came to rescue at the edge of my angst
From caveats of today, cautions of tomorrow,
Standing with me in the midst of winter-storm
Promising spring flowers in colors of fall.
I saw the blossoms that were about to bloom
And blush on horizon hinting of the rising sun
And I heard the tempo of a concert on piano,
While roiled in turmoil of the unsaid, the unwritten,
Hidden within the depths of my vacant soul;
Incapable of voicing what the silence evoked.
September 18, 2019
Placed 1st: Crossroads poetry contest
Sponsor: Silent One
Placed 1st: Strand contest #710 by Brian Strand
I'm neither talking about the turkey
Who’s running for President
Nor the one which is a country
Now embroiled
And roiled in turmoil
I am talking about the huge pheasant
That we all like to fest on the last Thursday
Of November every year, and on New Year’s Day.
I can’t wait to enjoy its thighs and wings
I can’t wait afterwards to make the swings
Squeak and cry, because we all weigh more
Than before: the skinny, the rich and the poor.
Happy Thanksgiving Day everybody
The President already pardoned a gorgeous turkey.
Copyright © November 25, 2015, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
A hint of helping this wholesome Harris son
can across thru the air
Hence this poetic expression
of gratitude Matthew Scott wants to blare
And communicate my genuine
appreciation crystal clear
Toward one whose existence
more valuable to me and dear
As thee doth become older
with natural diminishment with eyes and ear
But lo…tis unproductive to fear
The diminishing sands
of mortal time as cognitive gear
Doth get clogged as well as one
or the other organ allowing ye to hear
The sound of silence echoing
memories of the past – now a blur
Akin to a warm fuzzy feeling
soft as moss or lichen – precious as a coat of fur
Which tomorrows speed faster
becoming yesterday’s lore
Mixed with trials and tribulations less or more
Thickening as starch and ever more difficult to pour
From the egged on noggin blended
into one glob kept in secret store
Perhaps comprising partially healed wounds
at your heart tore
As if a drafted soldier once
in tiptop shape now to the bone years wore
Away whet dreams housed
within myths indistinguishable from truths of yore
Though I too sometimes fret
as tempus fugit slinks away
Where methinks how the years spin
at a quicker pace each day
Inculcating me to savor each moment,
whether weather sunny or gray
Taking stock of self of natural world
as one named John Jay
Audubon, who captured pristine lands
of America as a frieze zing May
Whereby bounteous creatures
large and small at play
Until…the inundation
of settlers did slash, burn and slay
Indiscriminately - setting precedent
for Earth in a precarious balance oye vay
Whence Mother Nature
will win this global Olympic match – yet
By which time, both thyself
and ye will be long turned to ash
Descendants will be dust off
faded photos of me self
before senescence did dash
Totally unaware that me papa Boyce Brandon
with clenched and teeth did gnash
When I fought tooth and nail
and without a word did lash
Back as protestations against behavior
of mine ye disliked and found rash
With frustration spilling forth
like acidic froth that did splash
Slash and burn within,
yet kept mum no matter
from within did thrash.
I LOVE YOU TOO DAD
NO MATTER BACK IN THE DAY YE GOT MAD
YET NOW, AS A FATHER TWAS FRUSTRATION
PERHAPS FUSED WITH BEING SAD
AT MY LIFE & HARD TIMES WHEREIN
TURMOIL ROILED MORE THAN A TAD!
Canada land of the free, that is what my papa said to me
when I was just a little girl sitting on his bouncing knee
We grew up strong we group up brave we had no fear
in this fertile land of love and peace no enemy to spear
Then one day we apparently received an unwanted gift
causing division/separation, Government subsidiary rift
The world roiled forward not knowing whom to trust
news, science, God, experts, Gov. it all turned to rust
New laws, rules, segregation, all this didn't make any sense
if we were good we'd got more freedom & some recompense
if we were bad, we were called the walking zombies, really?
this, from an intelligence source? an army of tough but steely?
What happened to my free will and my corner store 5 cents candy?
my dad was an immigrant, no book smarts but oh so very handy
Today we got experts who know it all, give a s....but don't know tit
is this the end of the world papa? or just the start of a new summit
First it came from China, then it came from bats, I don't give a rat
I just want to be free again, not know where it is nor where its at ...
Life once was a journey through springs
And vistas of autumns in colors bold,
In splendor of morn rising on arc
And motifs on horizon sprinkled in gold;
But seasons soon imposed a heavy toll
Ravaging visions of emerald meadows
When echoes of nights roiled in turbulence
And days encountered darkened shadows.
Glad we soon defied the travails of yore
Turning focus to goodwill of tomorrow
As you stood there like a lighthouse of hope
When my heart was weak and full of sorrow.
And now I feel zest in breath of the winds
And pitter-patter of exuberant rain showers,
And now there's whiff of sweet fragrance
In budding new blossoms of April flowers.
No longer in our eyes there is hint of fear,
Neither are there tears of saddened years
For in your embrace wallows forever love
And in my heart dwells revelry of cheers.
September 15, 2019
Poem of the week..beginning on 9/22/2019
HM: Strand Special 4 by Brian Strand
Many Miles Away
The rumbling thunder said
the rain was many miles away.
The dry fields ached for the
slightest hint of moisture.
Everything that could be done,
had been done, the plowing,
the planting, the weeding,
the irrigation. Then the rain
had stopped. The irrigation
ditches dried and cracked,
leaving those dependent upon
them to bake in the unforgiving sun.
Hot, dry wind blew sandy soil
across the exposed roots of
a failing crop, dust limited the
visibility to one’s own situation.
The questions came, as they
always did, echoing from many
miles away, through many
generations, passing through
today. The whys and why nots.
The curses followed, of the land,
the heat, the drought, the
failing crop. The prayers came,
passing over dried lips, uttered
by swollen tongues, mumbled in
failing hope. And still the thunder
rumbled, the water laden clouds
roiled and taunted, the warm
moist wind blew across the
fields, a promise too
many miles away.