Long Scolds Poems
Long Scolds Poems. Below are the most popular long Scolds by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scolds poems by poem length and keyword.
Woe is me,
There is deep pain in my soul longing to be set free.
I feel as if my soul shall burst from within,
And I shall be annihilated for my sins.
God has carried me and still remains,
He is the One who covers my soul when it rains.
He has sent His Son,
So I can be a chosen One.
He will carry me until I am once again strong,
He will always be quiet if I am wrong.
He will send me peace,
And He will grant my tears sweet release.
He will heal my mind,
He will teach me to be kind.
He will teach me patience and skill,
He will teach my mouth to be still.
He will teach me obedience and tolerance,
He will teach me perseverance.
He will teach me to listen with my heart and soul,
He will be gentle when He scolds.
He will whisper to His fallen angel,
He will always get my life untangled.
He will always reside by my side,
He will always keep me from walking blind.
He will always be my guide,
He will continue to raise the tide.
He will steal my pain away,
Yet, I will truly be in His arms one day.
Then, in every way,
I can praise Him and for once I will stay!
“I’m fine” she lies
“It’s okay” she insists
But it’s not
“Don’t worry about it” she says
“I’ll get over it” she promises
But she won’t
Breathe
Forget it all tonight
Close your eyes and make believe that this is some other life
“Please” she thinks
“Someone help” she pleas
No one does
“Pull yourself together” she tells herself
“You’re weak” she scolds
She can handle it on her own
Cry
That’s all she ever does
Hold yourself and make believe that this is some other life
“I’m happy” she swears
“Really I’m great”
Do you believe her?
She’s so good at convincing
Paint on a smile and head on out
Who are you fooling?
Everyone but yourself.
The escape commenced.
The endless drive from middleclass suburbia
ala Levittown; across hill and dale,
packed in a 1947 black beauty
of a Lincoln Continental; to the land of Peyton Place
and Steven King; Maine.
Lemon up and tangerine down, Dad drives.
We wiggle and whine, Mom scolds.
A leg cramping journey made longer by
one too many pee brakes.
The dirt road pinged rocks of the chrome bumper;
we near the amorphous clapboard dream.
The violet light of the dash shows nine o’clock.
The ramshackle ashen white farmhouse
full of kissin cousins, cows and chickens;
Madonna’s home. Uncle Ken a mere decorative necessity;
Uncle ken who could charm the pants right off ya,
and obviously had, voila; cousins Georgie and Wayne.
Uncle Ken of the sweet smile and Chiclet teeth;
beer bottle in hand with his concrete company hat cocked to the side;
one long, tall, strawberry blonde, drink of water.
He was a God to us, two little girls, Snow White and Rose Red.
His only rival his son, gorgeous George;
Georgie boy, first cousin, first love.
Nights saw us hunker down under patch work.
Kissin cousins in twinned rooms.
Meeting for body heat in the frosted dawn
in a single wrought iron bed, scrawny eight year olds.
Heads under quilts breathing in and out to warm the pocket of air
we were the only heat on the second floor. With a mighty dash;
reminiscent of our favorite mouse [Mighty]
a charge was launched across the unfinished attic
to the backstairs to country kitchen.
Barefeet dodge raised square nails and splinters.
Bark bits impress frozen soles, as the stove's in house woodpile is jumped.
Twin dynamos skate across the linoleum to a copper kettle's whistle.
A white Windsor landing achieved, Aunt Madonna pours
cornflakes in porcelain white china bowls with a laugh.
If I rely on myself for truth, I waste my time,
for who am I, certainly not the Creator. —by poet
My truths are bubbly and smile
as light shines from my eyes and lips.
Like a blossom unfolding through the ages, after my spirit
was regenerated, through boundless weather, I hearken to God’s word.
My truth is found in careful study, each scripture verse.
God’s sword is sharp, surgically removes my sin and shame,
scolds me, builds me up, points the way to paradise.
In family and friends, I look for what is real,
stand back if I must to size up,
not for judgment, just for clarity.
My truth is found in peace and calm, humility, strife.
Experience rounds out my truths, for I’ve seen miracles happen.
I rely on Christ to brave
through the darkest night; and colors; and poetry.
mother child
nestled encircled
sings a lullaby shouts rebuke
forever giving endless forgiving
cuddles with soft hands scolds with look of eyes
a candle that gently guides a flint that fires up the child
kisses heals with tender grace hugs forgives all falls from grace
silence teaches more than words songs unsung are yet always heard
soft hands set child free yielding never losing touch
endless is the sacrifice small are the rewards
beholds the dawn relishes the dusk
laughs out loud weeps in silence
never ever forgotten
beget begotten
one all
I'm new to this language; it baffles me so!
With so many mysteries I wish to know:
Why doesn't 'resolve' mean 'to solve it again'?
And why are 'wise guys' not the same as 'wise men'?
Why doesn't 'extraneous' mean 'once was traneous'?
Why's 'miscellaneous' not NOT cellaneous?
Enigmas that seem to me very unmappable,
Unflappable me has become simply flappable.
"You're incorrigible", my friend Mike said to me,
I said, "Corrigible I'll endeavor to be."
One museum we saw had a fossil exhibit
I asked, "Every bone was at one time a hibit?"
"I don't care for inquisitive people", said Mike.
So I asked, "What's a quisitive person look like?"
He looked at me plussed with a look of disgust,
now I hope I can change it to gust and nonplussed.
"Disgruntled employees", my boss said, distressed,
"are a pain in the neck!" I thought, "gruntled is best!"
He scolds my appearance: "Your hair is unkempt",
so I'm bringing a comb to make sure it stays kempt.
"Avoid work mishaps, and do not act unruly".
"Yes sir, boss. I'll only make ruly haps, truly"
He tells me, "Just try not to look so disheveled."
My note to self: make it my goal to look sheveled.
"Intrepid Improvements" the work poster says
"Avoid trepid provements" is my New Year's res.
"Such reckless abandon" someone said to me
so from now on, more reckful I'm hoping to be.
I've tried to appear nonchalant and undaunted,
I'm daunted that I'm more chalant than I wanted.
This poem I'll write in indelible ink -
…much better than delible ink, don't you think?
It is so true that good mothers are rare.
In the furious face of hunger,
And in the ferocious jaws of sickness
You have always been near.
Mami Owon,
This verse could have been a salutation,
Expressing my love for you,
Or to seek help from you,
But it is not.
O! My dear mother,
I am penning this down in your absence
Now that death has snatched you from us.
I wish this was in your hands
And not in the hands of some strangers
Reading through this poetic letter,
Making meaning of my poetic intents,
Scanning through carved words-
Expressing human futility.
Now that your sleep
When November was just five days old
Has caused us to weep
The thought of you
Reminds me of my promise
My dear mother
Iya mi Owon
I have never written you words
To express how much I appreciated you,
The confidence I had in you
And how strong you had been in times of adversity.
I am left with no options
But to pen this at your demise.
I remember that market place,
I remember that Night
And I still remember that day,
But all these good I cannot pay you back.
I remember that puddle
Even though you thought I was far too young to recollect.
All that pains and trauma
My mind still replays the drama.
Omo Olumo
Omo Lisabi
One when angry
Scolds you with prayers,
One who beats with her right hand,
And draws you nearer with her left.
Mami Owon
I have tried in my little way
To be the best that I can,
I have come to realise,
That all the debts I owe you
None I was able to repay
And even in our differences,
And in the moments of pain
Your courage, and your kind heart
And your hope in God
Were your last breath.
Here we are moving on
Knowing not when we shall pay our final price,
Here we are still hoping,
Hoping for a cure,
And hoping for the winds of success
To take us from here to there.
But the truth remains,
We were helpless
To save you from the cruel hands of death
But God alone knows better.
Take a spoon and take a scoop.
Then the ice cream fiend comes out.
He doesn’t like foot prints.
In the ice cream.
Cold, but in a lively way.
As if there’s someone out there.
But they are dead.
Piles of ice cream-
They call it snow, but I see something they can’t.
The best type of food.
Is everywhere.
And a little dangerous.
Headlights.
It’s them.
Plowing snow away.
A good time to go inside and drink hot chocolate.
Shivering comes in cycles.
Some people do.
Take a spoon and stir your hot chocolate.
As she scolds you for your insanity.
She thought it was the effects of frostbite.
But I’ve been bitten long ago.
They call it snow.
Then they died too.
Inspired by Ronnie James Dio song
"Rainbow in the dark".
............................................
Again, shadows dance tonight—
this time, a grim tear swims down my cheek
as the light became less dim when the
thunder struck—
the cold scolds my hold, and I lost my grip,
reminding me I am free, like the lightning.
But morning light fades into the dark;
the night has totally consumed it.
I become lonely, like a rainbow
left to shiver in a dark sky.
The ghosts of my wife and children whisper
from somewhere above the roof—
their chill cry, as they succumbed to my rage,
reverberates from a broken mirror
I left in the dark tunnel of my conscience.
I am a lie, and I am shy that I know why.
My world is lived without words,
so I only mime to a fake rhyme.
Yet the morning light is lost in the distance,
with only a single star left in the dark sky.
I am like a shadow in a crowd;
my torment is like an echo in an empty room.
When all the world is a giant burden,
Banerji sir, my colleague, a true SST Allen.
“Maan ki bat Modi ke Sath; rest other shun,”,
Says always my friend Banarji, never stun
Or stagger or startle, never remains barren.
Best friend who teaches Dhruvi and others Balkan,
Or India with psychology, without an apron.
Kenil, Hari, Bhavin, Shivani had some unban;
With Favourite dish of Dada, a fish; talks on Patan,
Sings hymns, buzzes about Mahakali one.
Says, “Your age is less than my profession.”
Scolds us, “Worst batch of year” – a Pun?
He is Bangali babu, wears dhoti, kurta even,
Talks about SST, and about doors wide open.
He is a Brahman, takes plausible action,
Wearing a chevron, is our Divine’s lion.
Meshwa, Diya, and Pitambar are clearly won,
With Aryan, Harsh, Nupur, Dishal and billion.
Let it be Shakespeare or Keats or Byron
He is through with all, has a great fortune.
Appreciates my Monorhyme and region
Never keeps quiet, but is pure bullion.
Dear to my students, Esha, Jeet or Rohan.
Prosper a lot is my wish, Oh! Aaron!