Long Shirks Poems
Long Shirks Poems. Below are the most popular long Shirks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shirks poems by poem length and keyword.
I see a Santa Fe upon its rail;
It deviates not to the left nor right,
Nor hills, nor miles, nor weather can prevail
Upon its constant task come day or night.
I see a Christian running the long race
Who never shirks the hard work to be done,
In spite of tribulations she must face,
Blesséd is she to glorify God’s Son.
I see a faithful mother, wife, and daughter
Who brings to mind these Scriptures I now read:
“Go in my name and give cold cups of water,
Extending to the needy a kind deed.”
For one whose deeds upon good deeds get blurred
I think that ‘saint’ is not too high a word.
[In the U.S, 'Santa Fe' is a well-known railway. The words translate to 'holy faith']
Written in 2016
Slotted abruptly into a concept
Bold intimation begs he correspond
Gypsy psyche brown moth becomes windswept
Attempt to bracket him or wander on
Waiting with pattern disrupted, fear tinged
On crops offering fluffy promises
Closing chapter rips lustre from bronze wings
Field generosity astonishes
Cotton airborne released from spindly twigs
Soul exfoliated floats borderless
White flight blank wanting absorbs all of his
Virgin shirks burden of choice, subordinate
Soft vessel travels to land's bitter edge
In salt soak Pacific, brief life extends
9th May 2021
Written for Contest: Summer Love Sonnet
Sponsor: John Hamilton
The crab on the salty sandy sod,
Making his way to the cold sea,
This odd crustacean decapod,
Crabbiest thing in the briny deep.
Yet, there is a swagger about him,
That’s the envy of all others,
Doesn’t value being proper or prim,
Nor have need to regale another.
Confident he will make the water,
He has done it a thousand times,
Nothing in his way that bothers,
Only nine empty diet drink cans.
Yikes, there approaches a dark shadow,
Must abruptly move all those legs,
This could be something of matter,
The shadow is carrying a keg.
It’s a mad dash to the ocean blue,
To escape what could be trouble,
This could be day a crab might rue,
Time for the ten-legged crab shuffle.
The crab makes it to the briny deep,
Shirks a crustacean tragedy,
Wasn’t the time to slumber or sleep,
Or shadow claims his anatomy.
So much help day one day two
Impressed us all this man named Shoe
Three and four was there at the bell
Helping out and rather well.
Where is Shoe? I asked week two.
Laughter came from one, now two.
Let me guess, one did shout.
On week one he came right out.
You will never see that again.
He shirks his duty like a second skin.
He will probably forever now be in.
Tries to impress first week, my kin.
Well yes he had impressed me.
Lots of help he’d kindly be.
I guess this is only on week one.
Other weeks he hid when work was to be done.
So much help day one day two
Impressed me for sure this man named Shoe
The others had his waterloo
For they had worked longer with Mr. Shoe
I love to see the previous order turning,
when the old leave all their property to youth:
it’s this, not buzz of bee or flowers returning,
that makes me feel the world has found its truth;
and if a man produces sons enough,
the chances are at least one will be tough;
and a younger loyalty in love or war
will make the heart and sword arm young once more.
A woman is old who sets no warrior yearning;
she’s old, if she keeps faithful to her spouse;
old, if she uses black and sorcerous learning,
or lets more than one lover in her house.
She’s old, if her hair’s a mess of ragged stuff,
or if she takes a lover who is rough.
She’s old, if she thinks that music is a chore,
and she’s old when all her talk becomes a bore.
Women are young, whose hearts remain discerning,
whose actions show the values they espouse,
who do not look with scorn on merit’s earning,
whose virtues are a light no scandals douse.
A woman is young, whose manner is not gruff,
yet gives impetuous youths a wise rebuff.
She’s young, if her figure’s nothing to ignore,
and she doesn’t pry and listen at every door.
I call a man young who’s passionate concerning
jousts and courts, considering thrift uncouth.
He’s young, when he thinks that money is for burning;
when, ruined, he smiles without a trace of ruth.
He’s young, when he stakes his fortune on a bluff,
and feels that no extravagance is enough.
He’s young, if he is skilled in lovers' lore,
and he’s young, if he judges risk what life is for.
Though a man be rich, I say that he’s old, if, spurning
pillage and war, he wastes away his youth
piling up bread and beef and wine, then turning
monkish, serves eggs, as if we'd nary a tooth.
He’s old, if he muffles himself in woven stuff,
and can’t command a horse and ride him rough.
He’s old, if he rests in peace when battles roar;
old, if he shirks the field and bars the door.
Poet Arnaut, go take this song of youth
and age to Richard, that he may feel its truth
and never wish to heap up worldly store,
since youthful daring enriches honor more.
— translated from the Provençal by Jon Corelis
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Barely weeks of seven of the orgy
Space crash of 117 people in a Bellview
Tragedy came knocking
This time harder with anger to
Ginger blood off its hunger
Unto the street of heaven came the commotion
On the Flyers descendant to the open
Field in the Rivers of Port-Harcourt
Emerge the Sosoliso Tsunami
Sixty future seeds of the Nation with
Fourty eight others including the Woman of God
Who churn out words for the Bachelors and Spinsters
Burnt into ashes as the Flyer caught fire with power
Before their very eyes they got burnt with
The Sosoliso bird of 1145 providing the
Shield to which the fire fired in Port-Harcourt
Parents of the future seeds of Ignatius Loyola Jesuit
Were garbed with the toga of helplessness
Other loved ones waiting at the open field
To receive them, had the cap of loneliness on
But for one survivor they had all perished
Burnt for their Negligence
Burnt for their palpable Levity
Burnt for their Greediness
To whom shall we point accusing
Finger of Sosoliso Tsunami?
Unto whose neck shall we hang
The blood of the Innocent lives of Bellview 117?
Unto whose head shall we heap all these
Garbage of calamity and catastrophe?
Who shall replace the three shinning
Future seeds of the Ilabor family?
Unto them that sold the People’s
Fliers for surplus value
Unto them at the top of the Rock
Who loot and siphon cowries meant for the People
Unto them I say ,Unto those who shirks their
Responsibilities and hang it on Private mediocres
Unto them whose insidious desire is to sell
Our land and the inhabitants
Unto them whose long throats and wicked eyes
Is driven only by profit
Unto them all who shall be burnt into
Ashes of Filthy history and memories
Alayande Stephen .T
14th of December,2005
11.23pm
For Victims of Bellview 117 and Sosoliso 108
Those that Nigerian Government sent on a
Mission impossible on air for their negligence
And looting galore in the Aviation Industry
Form:
O gossamer, thy needles.
They shine like suns at play.
Bands of fate in full? She pulls!
Faster grow, O hay!
Erosion, art thou harbinger?
Kingdom gone? Returned?
Battlefield, thy prey! O cur!
How my heart has burned!
Tremendous time, thy measure.
Each minute to work out.
Poisoner, thy pleasure!
Dismay, decay, doubt!
Fine flickering in free fall?
Plight of a far-flung hope?
Funeral, thy darkest pall!
Invincible rope!
Creek trickling down the cliff?
Cold the water gets.
Faster, peasant! Pole that skiff!
He who shirks regrets!
Thistle in an empty field?
Spartan on the shield.
Wound in side that never healed.
Heart-blood a-congealed.
O xylophone, thy plaintive note.
Balloons love to float.
O ye travelers, pack thy tote!
Red the riddle rote...
Today Joe Biden spelled it out crystal-clear
that he's 'leading' solely from the rear
Our sanctions, he stressed, were never meant to deter
Given that, why on earth should Russia ever fear
A country whose president shirks helping democratic Ukraine
with its two biggest needs: a no-fly zone and up-to-date planes
Mr. Biden just sent Zelinskyy 300 fighter planes built in the '80's
and he's bragging as if he did something quite weighty...
As a matter of fact, not only is Biden leading from the rear
He's betrayed the ideals free people everywhere hold dear
~ I pray fervently that an end to JB's presidency be near
And they came home battered, bruised,some we had to carry, unlike other armies ,we don’t shoot our wounded
We give them fresh water, tend their wounds,, sustenance to mend their soul and nourishment for what ails.
They come back from the front lines at all hours and always with love their bound
Stroud where their love is abounded
To cheers and salutations and our greeters summoned great support
Some of our wounded suffered Covid and death ,the pyres stacked high with wood and carried
Meetings ten ante meridiem and ten post meridiem , everyday of the year
Bloody and ragged, torn and hungry
Stroud where we are proud to serve,
God isn’t afraid to walk freely and His grace loves His steep streets
Mums never hide and Me Dad never shirks a duty nor a pint ,My sister is
quite the sassy one though