Long Rutted Poems
Long Rutted Poems. Below are the most popular long Rutted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rutted poems by poem length and keyword.
I lie and think..? And think then dream..On how it will end?
What will be the scenes? The die is cast..' So many now
Know.! Many more will soon, and that will show.' Will they
Lose some more.? Do they know they can stand? and truly defeat
This evil plan? Lets assume they will, arise as one' and
Start at home, were they are well known.' I guess? they'll
Root out the 'low life agents local ' starting at town and
Shire, and gettiing real vocal.' I can imagine up in Yass i
Bet those hills will ring' People greeting freedom what a
Wonderous thing' along the Bidgie out Balranald way
Where the river winds through endless days..The tracks
Are rutted the earths kinda softer, it would suit a dragging
I know its not a hanging.' But murder i'm not for' yet two
Stock horses and a brand new rope.' Tied round the ankles
Well it wouldent be a joke.' I guess albo should survive
A good thirty yards? or twenty five metres, you see i'm not
That hard.' Then off to the smokey a two hundred stretch
LOL)) just a little humor, yet i'd save their necks! And their
Time won't be wasted..Not while they reside, at the peoples
Pleasure..I'll let you decide.' now experimental medicines
Seem their thing.' So as soon as they get made they can
Take them in, they'll be doing their bit and can even report
Right on t v, to the nation what do ya think old sports? And
They can also have our old tramping staple, salvital and
Meths..To keep their health well.? kinda stable.'
In its place, not on a cart,
rutted and mixed with dung;
consistent too, in its purpose
as it was when the world was young.
No shame attached that from it came
fell man who disobeyed.
Man, who needed an ark and law;
who brought the curse and strayed.
The ox had stumbled in the mud;
the ox who pulled the cart,
which, though brand new and garlanded,
should not have played a part
in returning the holy object;
and as it slid to fall to the road,
Uzzah thought his hand more pure
and reached to steady the load.
Profane flesh touched pure gold
instead of wet chaste earth;
when a man thought too much of himself;
too much of his own worth.
He died right there with good intent,
and cheering turned to mourning
when mud was better than man
and God gave us His warning.
I will watch the sunrise and the moon set
I will taste oysters and reap mint
I will harvest vegetables from the farm stand
I will live as an orphan adopted
finding joy in rain and in snow
I will walk on many often peat-ed paths
my paths are dune bound
and stretch to a salted dark pea green sea
The songs of gulls and osprey decorate the sky
inner ear re-peating long after they are flown
I tiptoe where the plovers nest
challenges come
seem insurmountable
and then flow away ....on the trivial tides
My heart is broken today
Tomorrow
I will learn to worry only when asleep
I will ask humbly
for acceptance of the hard and cold .......like those 4 nails
embrace the bloom...but adore the fall
When the sun sets early
I will adjust my internal organs
wooing them
I will rejoice more having understood darkness's seasonal game
So when spring next year kisses me full on my pale waning lips
driving me closer to the close of my life
I remember that you loved me
I will remember that I loved you
I will not argue that we are not together
I will not rage against the almighty machine behind
the soft flowing velvet curtain
I will not ask
why I can't have everything I want!
Before
beautiful heartbreak was dark chocolate's
burning bitterness
fraught with the bows and ties
flaming storms of mental confusion and conflagrations of desire
I no longer hold onto loss
You will die and there's nothing I can do about it
I will keep walking down these -bike tire and flip flop rutted paths
scanning the horizon for boardwalks ...that stretch out into the sea
What a gift it is to walk out deep past the cresting wave breaks
Without fear
Without sorrow
Without regret
Trusting the current to take me gently... insistently into the bliss
I carry vials in a pack on my back
containing the remnants of my past
desiccated into dust
pulverized into powder
At the side of the rutted road I stop
at intervals as I aimlessly wander
Carefully choosing one, mixing the contents
with muddy water from puddles, drops of blood
I prick from the tips of my tender fingers
creating clay I attempt to sculpt and mold
into something more than before
A life I was not allowed to live
A golem of a me that will never be
A form pleasing to your finicky eyes
that favor petite perfection
blind to the beauty that resides beyond
that time cannot touch
transcending the transient physical
She cracks and crumbles in my hands
before I can complete her
as I do not know the name of God
He has never cared to know mine
Truth and death in art
but a letter apart
Phobia? Irrational?
When was that the case?
Empire, art thou factional?
Fractioned by the chase?
Satisfaction? Where to find?
Thousand-faced, age-lined?
Freedom lurking in thy mind?
How the dark sun shined...
Vehicles, flutter about!
Effect what ye can!
Ailing aged, random rout?
O for, fate of man!
Shark in shallow waters?
He escapes from the tide?
Be-tentacled slaughters?
Deep wounds in his heart wide?
Transformation! Metamorph!
Poems writ in blood!
Causality, how you dwarf!
Ocean, cause a flood!
Chambers in the rutted deep?
Shadows, soar to seep.
Boneyard robber, do ye creep?
No more time for sleep!
Dun as yellow metal?
O gold, will e'er we meet?
Flower, hast thou petal?
Is silver just as sweet?
Almost. Related? And how!
Captain on the prow!
Audience to cow or wow?
Performer, take bow!
True, but after this, abyss?
Blowing death a kiss?
Serpent coiling, now to hiss?
Family to miss...
Thus, the storm to weather?
Well, if we can, we will.
Tougher than old leather?
Forever may fit bill.
Turmoil in the tamarisk tree?
Blossom by the sea...
White-capped waves as stern taut tea?
Tee off, O my plea!
Fee of ancient demon?
Exactly what to pay?
Kings and queens a-dreaming?
Waylay, O disarray...
I have saved one tear
in the event that time
may someday pry it from me,
ask of me once more
to grieve in endless death.
The rest, those shed
pre-mortem
agony, long dried,
upon this barren, rutted, face
this monument to intransigence.
Yet one I save, protected,
lest it weep for itself
fall selfishly to vanity’s
search for sadness,
sear the surface of hate
with the coolness
of passion’s pithy lies,
with the truth
of its emptiness.
One last tear
to prime the pump
of pathos
to drown delusion’s
endless death.
©2/4/2019
One Last Tear Poetry Contest
Silent One - sponsor
An old man plods slowly down the rutted middle
Of an ancient dusty country lane, unmindful of his steps.
His calloused sandaled feet know the way,
As he has trodden this path to market for decades,
Or centuries perhaps,
He no longer tries, or cares, to remember.
Time has lost all meaning.
Bowed beneath the heavy weight of years and toil,
He wears the mantle of his life,
Not proudly as he once did in his hopeful youth,
But now the way he bears his cumbersome burden
Of broken limbs and sticks and twigs,
With a resigned and weary sadness as immutable and maimed
As the arthritic stumps and knees of old cypress trees,
Or countless other old withered and withering men
Like him.
Author's note: This piece, dear readers, was inspired by "Man with a Sack of Wood", a sketch by Vincent van Gogh.
Life’s Jackdaws
I wish it were now! Yes now!? ?Seven tens and two years further along,
like that dead headed summer garden, you know the song, you a long time gone,
In your eyes I saw all the answers, to all those questions which I never knew then,
you never spilt any, I constantly watched for drips of clues uttered unhidden.
Oh, and how, now, that impossible conversation would level this rutted path of blunder,
wonder rattles those memories, stirring thoughts echoing as loud, rumbling mind thunder,
in a spiteful way, where washed up confusion reigns answerless, wishes would become,
a frail burnt paper kite in a storm of lightning shadows, no solace to share just numb.
Instead, we coral horses galloping in endless circles, ridden by yesterday’s spectre,
So, we as empty wonder boxes, move on in the shadow of the hourglass’s collector,
we don’t see the time pass, we see the thoughts pass, on a destiny bound runaway train,
amid the cackling squabbles of life’s Jackdaws wielding their blunted knives life stained.
The beaten clay of the market road is thick and heavy underfoot,
clinging to the tires of purple line 7 seaters and boots of the commuters.
The silence of the Kasane tarmac feels a thousand miles away
the moment I step across the border line and drop into the shouting of the crowd,
where the zinc sheets of the stall roofs are still dripping onto the mud from the sudden downpour.
I navigate the narrow lanes, my sneakers sinking into the wet, rutted earth,
as the sharp smell of dried kapenta mixes with roasting maize and hot diesel exhaust.
The money changers lean past my shoulders, aggressively flashing thick bricks of Kwacha notes,
their voices competing with the loud, erratic vibration of a petrol generator
that someone is fueling with a plastic funnel just a few steps away from the food stalls.
The woman who sells tomatoes doesn’t look up as I squeeze past her wooden crate;
she is entirely focused on using a piece of cardboard to sweep the muddy water away,
her plastic apron heavily stained with the dark juice of crushed vegetables.
Beside her, a trader aggressively unpacking secondhand jackets from a damp canvas bale,
shouting out prices to consumers who keep their heads down, calculating the cost of a meal.
A couple of young men stand huddled together under the narrow shelter of the butchery awning,
their smartphones held high toward the sky to catch a flickering network signal after the storm.
They are talking loudly about a music gig in Lusaka, using big words and forced laughter,
trying to pretend that the wet mud on their jeans doesn’t tell the true story of their morning hustle,
but the market doesn't care about their city pretenses.
It only asks that you look closely at the people who do not have the luxury of quitting,
and that you write down their names exactly as they are written in the mud.
The afternoon sun begins to drop behind the floodplains, turning the puddles into sheets of orange light.
The freight trucks bound for the north begin to rev their engines, waiting for the customs gates to clear,
while the vendors slowly fold up their damp tarpaulins for the night.
I walk out toward the edge of the clearing, leaving the smell of wood smoke and wet earth behind,
as the market closes its books and prepares to do the exact same thing tomorrow.
Bursts Of Creativity...
Asper myself tend
to occur late at night,
or early morn 'o follow
wing day unbeknownst
despite acute insight
how, when, where, why...
ideas swarm and bite
inspiration doth alight
try as I might to
coax, anchor right,
burning candlebox at
both ends during midnight
oil, and pry open hermetically airtight
noggin, where my poetic
(side) juices glommed up tight
blew silly blackened, and barbed
as though cold anthracite
ash coal lest futile effort
fueling mental cogs synaps (snaps),
sans each axon and dendrite,
and damn pinwheeling frenzied
writer's block won't budge,
no matter intense aghast fright
regarding drawing nothing,
but blank screen, an unpleasant sight
which activates greater fright
concentration stoppers appetite
to satiate agile literary skill
invoked with all mum might
encountering severe
resistance along well worn
nicked, pitted, rutted...
central processing unit abysmal sight
core cratered tracks analogous trite
other places blasted as if by dynamite
nanobot size infrastructure blight
hmm... huff frayed
to admit fifty plus shades
of grey pock marked beltway abustle
with at least bajillion
self important cosmopolite
avast friggin buzzfeed contrasted with bevy
of heavily rowdy, yet polite
sumo wrestlers exuding
spongy dimpled cellulite,
nonetheless grueling effort experienced
with craven half starved diabolical spite
undermining, jackknifing,
dogging... literary endeavor to expedite
satisfactory pièce de résistance flight
of fancy, though challenged
every step of the way,
once ambition fired up...at twilight
as mortal passion
unstoppable to complete
crafting daily poem
kindled with emotional lignite!