Long Scarcely Poems
Long Scarcely Poems. Below are the most popular long Scarcely by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scarcely poems by poem length and keyword.
Baxter was born in a meadow
under a rotting plank
with hundreds of brothers and sisters
in a home both darkly and dank.
His momma was a June Bug
and he was a June Bug too,
schooled in all the sorts of things
that June Bugs love to do.
He grew up fast, it was time to fly
and leave his happy home,
his momma went to the book case
and pulled out a well worn tome.
She read from a chapter called "Hazards"
to each of her children dear,
“Stay clear of birds when you’re flying
or you won't last out the year."
"And one more thing that you should know,
and this you must absorb,
beware of the light in the evening sky
that's called the purple orb."
So he left his home behind him,
went flying all around,
he saw some birds in the tree tops
and headed right for the ground.
After landing in the tall grass
he met a stink bug named Dwight
who told him wonderful stories
of an light so purple and bright.
"Forget now what your mother said,
I'm here to set you straight,
the orb is just a doorway,
you know, it's like a gate."
"When you enter into its brightness
you're magically swept away
to a lovely world of happiness
where forever you can stay."
So Baxter started searching,
he looked both high and low
and if he found the purple orb
straight to it he would go.
But the light was very clever,
it kept its secret well,
but Baxter kept on looking
as if he was under a spell.
Finally on an August eve
just as darkness was appearing
he spotted a distant purple glow
across a meadow's clearing.
"It must be the orb,” he said to himself,
so he flew with all his might
across the meadow with all due speed
toward that beautiful purple light.
Soon he hovered before it
and bathed in its eerie glow,
what wonders lay in store for him
his mind could scarcely know.
Gathering up his courage
into the purple light he sped,
crackle and zap was all he heard
as he fell to the ground near dead.
He lay in a growing pile
of other bugs who'd seen
a purple orb up in the sky,
but it wasn't what it seemed.
So if you meet a stink bug
who goes by the name is Dwight
don't believe the tales he tells
of a beautiful purple light.
Remember what Baxter's momma said,
"and this you must absorb,
beware of the light in the evening sky
that's called the purple orb."
Fathers, Day 2003
"Boundaries"
Written: By Tom Wright
6/16/03
For the elixir of the vine,
Dad could scarcely refrain.
Now just thoughts of his labor,
Like green persimmons, remain.
Twas like some withered old flower,
That doggedly clung to its stem.
Fleecing each morning sun, until at last,
His petals blanched and eye's grew dim.
How oft have I wondered?
As this flower's memory I retrieve.
Questioning extenuating circumstances,
Which I have yet to conceive;
But in all my discernment,
Lay a garden in arrant waste.
Its corners marked by boundaries,
That was unjust and unchaste.
Time has moved hands clockwise,
And those boundaries that were set.
Occasionally grieve my spirit,
O’er that shadow that remains yet.
At my dad's final passing,
I was left wrought up, but sad.
For despite perceived deficiencies,
One fact remained; he was my Dad.
In the back streets of my mind,
tears surge as I revisit a page.
My mind clears, I recollect the rage,
the undreamed depths of hope caught frozen,
ceaseless love, a soul that's broken.
In the back streets of my mind;
can you die of a broken heart?
Adieu, had not been intended for our breath.
Swells of tears flow hot down promise path.
Ought, slumber be peaceful?
My soul burst with your absence.
In the back streets of my mind;
can you die of a broken heart?
Waves rush in and around, in the back streets of my mind
in a wakeful dream as I hear the wind scarcely defined.
9/26/2019
Black velvet sky with diamonds aglow,
Nature's serenade surrounds.
A gossamer breeze begins to blow,
Embracing young lovers around;
Their feet scarcely touching the ground.
The fragrance of love was in the air,
The language was being spoken.
Each soft caress, the kiss that they shared,
Became a treasured token;
Let not their bond be broken.
Young they were and full of dreams,
Dreams of a life together.
They spoke their vows 'neath moonlight streams,
Pledging their love forever;
Their hearts' most joyous endeavor.
12/8/2011 For Francine Roberts' English Quintain
contest 3rd place
For PD's 3rd Place winner only contest
7th place
O! I must walk the hidden span
That Generously embraces ‘Here’ and ‘There’,
And it is made of Glass, of Glass Impermanent.
My very misted breath, exhaled, is not enough
To show it visible
To show a way
Across the dark expanse
Of frozen night…
So, I must feel my way by barefoot steps,
And hope I do not step off it
It stretches from the Time I spent with You, My Love,
Unto the Time, interminable, I spend with me.
Sometimes, to urge me on, a Cracow Man
Who broke a tiny corner of the Iron Curtain
And slipped through
A Survivor born, born after, in Germany
A fair cousin beats back the dark
(She cared for me, when I was numb
and all the other tongues were dumb
for what to say)
And bright Irene who loves,
And cannot wait for Spring
With broken porcelain, sea sand, coins and sparkling moondust,
They show the way, spread these
Outline the Glass
But I must pass
My test with God's Bright Ray
(And I can scarcely find the Lamp
Within myself
To turn it on –
The switch, I fumble…)
But, Now!
Back to Hope in a breath!
Beyond the End of the Bridge the Night is glowing Midnight Blue
The Stars like Quasars, sing!
Elysium Lights my Way!
And You are there… and You are there…
And soon, it will be Day!
One cast his form upon the living age,
One lived his life above it, or below;
One legend for his vigor and his rage,
One craved the beauties only minds can know.
O, little good of either can be said,
“The Great” most so in murder and in wine;
And Cynics named for doggish lives they led;
But then, in all of life, there’s little fine.
A little thing, an idling of a day,
No, scarcely worth so small a poem as this;
Two lives a moment crossed upon their way,
And neither would the other ever miss.
But there in Corinth, now a common sight,
Where one cast shadows, and one sought the light.
We dwell in this body-mind,
which then grips us in its bind,
that bemused by senses five,
in truth we’re scarcely alive.
We wish to heavenward climb
but are hemmed in by space-time,
hypnotised by flow of thought,
trapped in desires and fear fraught.
The joy soul seeks is denied,
so it’s clear we’ve been to lied,
knowing not yet who we are,
from God’s light, drifting afar.
Our head and heart stand apart,
so this is where we then start,
both these instruments linking,
in staid stillness unblinking.
When thoughts recede, ego dies
and in the void, our heart sighs,
for therein we vaporise,
making way for soul’s sunrise.
Lonesome is the path of soul,
as it walks through this black hole,
having left behind life’s shore,
knowing not what lies in store.
For the brave hearts who persist,
poised without a to-do list,
choosing truth, renouncing greed,
lust exhumed, love takes the lead.
Breath by breath, making heart pure,
taunts of fate as we endure,
with God above watching this,
He fills us with boundless bliss.
With bliss rapture now the norm,
we thus begin to transform,
in time becoming the flame,
divine light that has no name.
By benedictions of grace,
we see God too, face to face,
living white light shining bright,
commingled with bliss delight.
color awe
so crystal as to hear an
enigma
whiffed fragrance
a strangeness to scarcely taste
obscure scenes
light is sown
feel the warmth that follows miles
minds do smile
-----------------------
"An individual whose conscious awareness is such that a sound becomes fused with a sense of color and taste; for whom each fleeting impression engenders a vivid, inextinguishable image; for whom words have quite different meanings than they do for us—such a person cannot mature in the same way others do, nor will his inner world, his life history tend to be like others'."
from:
Luria, A. R. & Solotaroff, Lynn (translator) (1968) The mind of a mnemonist: a little book about a vast memory. Jonathan Cape
I exist bound by you
like wildflowers planted pitilessly in dry soil
that plunder and devour the strength of my seeds
My stem grows pallid
My petals scentless and uninspiring
My roots withering in arid dust
strangled by weeds of apathy
Parched in the blight of callous care
Squandered in winds of insentient lies
That snare fire like fugitive arsons
Burning me with insensitivity to shrivel and sicken
As you beget your vanity with the strength
Of the Sun’s scalding degrees
So scarce the waters of your compassion
that scarcely feed my soul
I stand naked, bare and weak
in the barren home inside your pain
I cling harder to grip
As I wither in the dust of lonely casualty
Strangled and forfeited
I slowly die clenched in your fist of willful despair
trembling from your demise
As my unseeing love yields the compromise
May 24, 2023
Brian Strand Premier No. 1219 Poetry Contest
Dot to dot they join,
Line to line the word forms,
A word many have craved,
A word that made its abode with some,
A word that scarcely stayed with some,
This word was given to some and it made them,
This word was given to some but marred them,
A word that fragmented indomitable nations,
A word some sought with peaceful protests,
A word some sought for with arms and ammunition,
Nations' founding fathers were martyred for it,
A man was incarcerated for a score and seven years because he journeyed its road for his nation,
A word that has opened its
door to some only for a short season,
A word that I earnestly seek in its entirety,
Freedom is a bird I want to eternally take flight with,
Let it come to me like the east wind,
Let it take its seat in my chamber,
Hold hands with me in my sojourn,
Until I go through dawn's final door.
December 16, 2022.