Long Shriveling Poems
Long Shriveling Poems. Below are the most popular long Shriveling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shriveling poems by poem length and keyword.
7/9/20
"Sickening"
This is sickening
And quickening
Not at all, what I was envisioning
Nobody listening
Most chickening
Fidgeting
And limiting
Themselves to the point of being crippling
The effects rippling
And tripling
On top of it, we've got social distancing
Still dribbling
I've been chiseling
And scribbling
No matter what has been incoming
Pivoting
And occasionally grimacing
The temperature freezing, cold, mild or sizzling
The weather icy, windy, calm, scorching or drizzling
Clowns continue giggling
Petty people are still belittling
Over every little thing
Not all that riveting
It's becoming uninteresting
Sometimes I sip, sometimes I swig
Sometimes I flip the script
Even though sometimes it's rigged
Before opportunities are shriveling
And dwindling
Got to get it quickly
And differently
Meanwhile all senses are tingling
Standing in the wings, on the periphery
of her cultivated world, inhibited only by
station and space, my head slowly spins
into her orbit, my eye lids twitter nervously,
my titillated ears vibrate, my hands tremble,
inner being disassembles, kneeling in deep
contrition, my flattering pose, covered by
plebeian skin, without merit or standing,
not in her purview, goes unnoticed.
Straining to capture a meaningful memento
of her regal essence, if but a quick glance,
token gesture, two or three words spoken
in jest, but, alas, no comely features with
which to attract even a passing stare.
Shriveling in her presence, my net value
laid bare. On my crown, a matted toupee,
a disheveled mound of bristled fibers.
No sterling jewelry to sparkle in her
turquoise eyes. On my wrist, a cheap
sports watch with a plastic band. My
colloquial speech contains no majestic
refrain, her delicate drums to tap, and
no rhythmic cadence, her cochlear bands
to serenade. En-wrapping my taut
form, the trappings of a commoner.
No velvet suit or silk cuffs, her refined
fingers to address; no cashmere
slacks, only a stiff pair of unpleated
Dockers to brush up against her
glimmering, polished legs. But, at
my lowly base, a pair of Dolce &
Gabanna wingtips, exuding a waxy
shine, casting an enthralling glare,
a magical spell with which to cloud
her discerning eyes, and to dissuade
her genteel mind. With one lengthy
stride, I introduce my intentions. Her
condescending eyes now peel away
my pretentious threads, and, with an
outstretched hand, beckons me to
her side, presses me against her
throbbing bosom. The lurid dance
begins, ending only after the darkness
filters the floss of my wingtips from
her dilated eyes.
Was life so bitter
That it wore you down
Turned you blind and indifferent
To the good around you
The magic died long ago
Nothing marvels you ever
Your eyes sealed tight
Slowly your soul receding
Slowly your heart shriveling up
Till no one can reach you
Or reach inside
There but distant
There but not
You turned into an empty shell
While some people
Didn’t stop to notice
Others tried in vain
To answer the muffled cries
For help to fill that void
That painful abyss
With warmth and love
Or something like it
You didn’t want the help
You gave up on yourself
You gave up on us
AP: 2nd place 2025
Submitted on June 10, 2018 for contest HOLLOW sponsored by ANTHONY SLAUSEN - RANKED 4TH
The bears and wolves are few;
one threadbare widow mourning,
two grays as consumptive as smoke.
The large dwindle,
their bodies grow more awkward,
more at odds.
The heavier beasts sway
like drunks in the scant woods.
Under a pelting dark they come.
Beneath a stabbing ice, one by one-
the animals.
I listen to their shuffling,
the scrape of a delving nail.
They are stealing, they are burrowing
led by the visceral prod
of a shriveling wind.
Hesitant paws withdraw as they near,
a restlessness keeps them gnawing
a middle ground.
I crane my neck from its ribcage;
they fall back and return,
wanting, always wanting.
The small creatures enter
where cracks fill with moonlight
they scuttle and hesitate,
a little way,
a little.
I am Turtle,
a makeshift thing,
cloud-splashed and sullied.
I sing back the needy shadows,
sing back the devouring light
in its little glass suns
least both meet and both fail.
False Warrior
Cold spear of winter’s harbinger
pierces the heart of summer
leaving her wounded beauty
bleeding out upon the landscape.
Autumn – cruel mercenary force
despoiling the scent of bounty
laying rot the un-ripened hope
denuding the cloaked forest,
Driving color from the stalks
into the shriveling roots
unable to withstand
frost’s crippling grip.
Marching under grey skied guidons
trampling the browning fields
mocking the heraldic false pride
of rainbow colored foliage.
Pawn – sacrificed by Winter’s greed
drawn into the icy depth of loss
duped by the beauty of the battle
to expire on the winds of change.
John G. Lawless
10/16/2015
Drain out all the agony
Help me fulfill my destiny
Catch the waves…it’s coming from all directions
And wipe that frown…
I’m trying not to break away…in front of you, I’d rather stay
But it seems like…the clouds decide to fade
I’m dying every day…I’m making time to survive this day
I’m drying… I turned out to be a hideous shade
I’m releasing the sorrow… clinging on to gloom...
Your affection and glory
Set me free from despondency
Stand up and face the emotion – your heart mends my infections
And don’t weigh me down…
I’m trying not to break out…but it sparkles in my bloodshot eyes
My sorrow is exposing… but you’re still willing to stay
I’m caught in midair…I’m a slave, pursuing my demise
I’m shriveling…I embrace your departure…I’m wasting away…
I’m soaking up the sorrow…poisoning my bloom…
A simple design for his two-term campaign
They waltzed right through to hold America’s reign.
With every stride and every step, he paved upon
His slogan, “Change You Can Count On!”
His certainty, assertiveness, and lean demeanor
Placed arrogance and haughtiness on the back steamer.
Courteous smile and well-mannered self
Proved such simplicity bore a mine of wealth
Deep within the essence of his being.
Whether his slogan was taken
Or mis-taken,
Whether deemed positive or negative,
It was definitely not interrogative
To proclaim that he never defined “the change”
To be up-close or at a distant range.
He simply declared, “Change You Can Count On”
And “A Change” is what Obama brought and stood upon!
Standing lean and standing tall in tailored suit and tie,
Alongside Michele – America’s First Lady – his active wife,
They surfed together through America’s highest tidal wave
Without shriveling back, but standing brave.
Together, they pulled through the night
Until America awoke a the break of light!
Leaving the office after the race,
Their heads held high and full of grace,
The mess they knew they stepped into now was clean
For another ruler to fulfill his dream!
No mess on their behalf left behind
As they walked out the front door
Having honorably resigned….•
She rose from the table moving slowly to the sink. This was not her favorite time, too much time to think. Her body moved from memory now, the right bit of dish detergent, she must refill that bottle soon, moving the faucets to memorized positions, water streamed out on cue, precisely the right temperature, “hot to clean - not to scald”.
She and water worked well together, having partnered in so many chores; laundry, toilets, sinks and floors. One plate now, one knife, one fork. Sometimes she would cut things like meat loaf or fish with the edge of the fork, skipping the knife, one less utensil to wash. Less time at the sink, less time to think. Against the outside darkness she could see her reflection in the kitchen window. How old she had become. Reminders were everywhere of how her life was dwindling, shrinking, shriveling. She felt too small for her skin, which hung loosely on her like a half-filled bag of potatoes, pouches and folds everywhere. She would need to put this dishcloth in the laundry after finishing. She always rinsed them in cold water to inhibit the bacteria growth but they would start to smell after only a few days. She had become accustomed to foul smells. The smell of dying cells and incontinence pads and bad breath, side effect of certain medicines. She hated eating alone, living alone, being alone, but sometimes she hated it even more when memories of better days settled in upon her. it was like a visit, full of joy and expectation, exciting conversations, catching up, and sharing fond memories. But it was always followed by goodbyes, the pain of separation, and a return to loneliness. She put her plate in the cupboard and was reminded of how she had put other things in her life away; her younger sister from an accident, her only son from someone’s war, her husband three years back from cigarettes she had threatened to divorce him over. She put her silverware in the drawer and closed it tightly, closing her mind tightly at the same time. It wouldn’t do to dwell on any of this, what’s done is done. The dishes were done
The United Nation of Trees
held their annual Falling Leaves Conference.
I was invited as a silent witness
and a loudly investigating reporter,
recorder of curious water-bearing and leaking history.
Our sacred water is now bought and sold
in mostly plastic bottles
manufactured by oil-fueled degenerators.
Our roots are robbed
of shrinking water tables,
underground rivers plundered and fracked
in vain genocide
against future EarthLife.
Our fading and shriveling leaves,
severed trunks,
raped forests,
cannot keep up with clean-air projections
for future EarthTribe health care.
Therefore,
Be it resolved
This United Integrity of Trees
shed our last leaves
to heal our soul,
longing for future healthy soil regenerations.
And so it was,
this united ballad of Trees
hosted our final Falling Leaves Conference
for a thirsty while,
hoping future AnthroSapiens
might learn to hear
this deadly fallen silence.
Too many know
what they don't know
certain of it –
have faith in others
knowing even less
but think they know
more –
a bunch don't care to know
not wishing to do any
of the heavy lifting
too much wasted brain work
if some know already
who say they know –
Putin says he knows
so Russian soldiers
murder and rape –
Xi knows
so the Uyghurs must go
tortured
organs harvested
from the living –
Joe knows
so his son is made rich
dealing with Xi and Putin
who know –
trust in those who know
for what do we know –
young boys worshiped priests
and now know
years of therapy and shame –
crack addicts trust
who know the best stuff
their blood and bones
disintegrating beneath
poisoned
starved
shriveling flesh –
therefore what do I
almost know
besides not trusting
those who trust
in those who know
what we don't really know –
those on US Southern border know
victims of crime in defenseless cities
know –
or do they
I would like to know
someone please tell me