Long Slight Poems
Long Slight Poems. Below are the most popular long Slight by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Slight poems by poem length and keyword.
Staring through the window pane as her reflection peered back
A reflection full of pain, with her own life now being so off track
And as she continued to peer and the sun had continued to rise
Her fearful reflection became clear right before her very own eyes
The birds still flew about and the squirrels scampered around
All alone in fighting this bout for no one else could be found
Then a slight breeze blew as a few leaves went fluttering past
So with little else to do she decided to make the moment last
But as she went to turn she heard a little tapping sound
Looking back to discern, she was shocked in what she found
There staring her in the face a praying mantis on the other side
Praying right there in place as if he had nothing at all to hide
She moved a little left and then right but he just kept on praying
Even moving out of sight but no attention was he even paying
Despite all the danger around even a fear that he could die
Serenity he had found perhaps praying is what she should try.
He stepped down from the stagecoach kicking dust up with his boot
He stood a while, he lacked a smile, his teeth gripped his cheroot
His Stetson it was thick with dust, his guitar case was too
He looked around this downbeat town; found no man that he knew
He’d travelled to this lawless town of which he’d gotten word
Two preachers vanished here before, but he won’t be the third
For he had brought his guitar which, to praise the Lord, he plays
And when he strums those guitar strings, the congregation sways
Had this town been a Wild West town, he’d know which way to go
But how does one say ‘Hotel’, here in outback Mexico?
A man in a sombrero, three armed sidekicks in his wake
Sauntered up and told him to be gone for his own sake
“Hey, Cowboy, we don’t want no Gringo, messing up our town,
Take yourself and your guitar before we take you down.”
The preacher said, “I’ll play for you and if you love the tune
You’ll point me to the chapel and the rowdiest saloon.”
He’d travelled to this lawless town of which he’d gotten word
Two preachers vanished here before, but he won’t be the third
For he had brought his guitar which, to praise the Lord, he plays
And when he strums those guitar strings, the congregation sways
He reached down for his guitar case, the Mexicans took aim
And with a little slight of hand, the preacher did the same
But nothing grins as wide as when a bandit thinks he’s won
And when four guns are facing one the job’s as good as done
So was it skill or was it God who played a helpful part
When each of those four bandits took a bullet to the heart
The sheriff, if you’d call him that, said, “Have you got a name?”
The preacher said, “I’ll tell you Sunday if it’s all the same.”
The sheriff, having none of it, said, “Tell me who you are.”
He said, “I’m just a gringo with my god and my guitar.
But men of God preceded me and got no help from you.
So clear your desk, I am not me… I am those other two
He’d travelled to this lawless town of which he’d gotten word
Two preachers vanished here before, but he won’t be the third
For he had brought his guitar which, to praise the Lord, he plays
And when he strums those guitar strings, the congregation sways
Mystification prevails stupefying yours truly
befuddled, he blindly stumbles along rocky
pathway illusory impediments strewn helter
skelter intangible obstructions hinder access
psychological barricades effective impasse
detains, deters, detours manhood maturation
manumission manifestation materialization
linkedin, when permanent submission arises
beckoning corporeal leaden entity into avast
eternal realm, where material disintegration
promises venerable salvation releasing angst
strummed plucked fretful existence denied
utmost exploration sequestered soul hermit
tickly sealed courtesy custom made NON-
GMO supercalifragilous expialidocious
airtight, vacuum sealed with trademarked
matts scott good housekeeping approval
lifetime achievement award maintaining
quasi pristine mint like condition afford
double (FREE for the taking) full refund
if dissatisfied with stutt...tut...tut tearing
functionality, yet batteries NOT required
and assembly unnecessary, but maximum
remaining life usage, asper garden variety
mutant requires preservation within sterile
bubble, lest exposure to human contact are
rouse dormant (latent) propensity breeding
biologically pre programmed predilection
to propagate species, this despite low libido
level, thus Memorial sale steal (actually no
expiration coincides with natural longevity)
slight depreciation before cessation arises,
which I project - little less than half life of
ordinary Earthling, whose quixotic, poetic,
ecologic, plus conscientious ethos promises
greater fulfillment, sans spirit, mind, and
body versus being addicted, hypnotized, or
tranquilized by latest technologic contraption.
Years are piled in slouching display.
Dust bobbles on a sunlit window,
yet the small ragtag shop is dingy,
without and within.
Its second hand put downs,
left to clutter;
emblematic of one life with another.
There are other items, trinkets and
baubles, fleetingly made attractive,
in the glint of a few golden rays.
I see the ivory handle of an umbrella,
its shaft and canopy half-hidden beneath
a jumble of garments.
Could it be that its grasp
is old genuine ivory?
I see a slight surface crack
on the u-shaped hilt.
Yes, not a faux simulation,
almost definitely elephant tusk.
Shall I go in,
buy this half-buried treasure
for a paltry amount,
or should I walk away,
ecological principles intact?
Today, in the hallway
it is leaning against a small table.
It is raining.
yet I hesitate to be seen with it.
"My precious,"
I mutter to myself.
E'er the mists about the reeds
Retell of terror and ghastly deeds
The headless omen that wanders yon
The moonless shadows that fright the fawn
And gloom the meadow and grove beyon'
The slight weeping upon the breeze
The gaping maw betwixt the trees
The silver rill and naked chill
That glimmer and run down a broken hill
Where writhing shadows accost the sky
And blame the dusk for where they lie
For in the light they find no grave
For fear of night, never delved, -
Nor ritual spell their souls might save
Left to desecrate a verdant wood
Before the crying bowers the gawkers stood
The youngest screams seem turned to tears
In eyes and hearts and whelming fears
Cowards fell where courage made charge
Too late, too late by such wide a marge
They left them there, they could not bear
E'en their own blood could not drive them ere
And though the moon would have his head
Selene in wrath marked the children dead
And cursed the grove and the little town
That listened well whilst he cut them down
And bade them delve hallowed graves
But none such from such cowardly knaves
Nor mattock lifted, nor earth sifted
Nor spade, hence apace no curse lifted
Bleeding hearts doth mark the maw
The crow, the raven, doth caw and caw
Through the night and to the dawn
Hark sleepless cowards, ye curtains drawn
As barren as the desert, tears
No children's laughter heard in years
Nor fruitful harvest, nor answered prayers
Nor fortune weeping where cowards dare
Not lift the shroud of woven fear
The frail threads they hold so dear
Their own lives before others
Rueful kin, sisters, brothers
For whom the years have made so bitter
For the pulse would cease atwitter
And lay thee there bereft of graves
Nor painted upon the picket staves
Sorrow masks nor paltry remittance paid
At last ye layest in the beds ye made
Not one is left that draws a breath
Forever in grapple with their children's death
Never shall the innocents rest?
Never shall the guilty, by divine behest!
But lift each child to such godly height
That they may forever rest in eternal night
Wings settle, feathers light as the glistening dew who rests gently on each tender petal. The crimson edges of melancholy, roaring with the wind’s breath, listen to my prayers and I hesitate, uncertain. Will God hear the hunger in my voice, the famine that lingers, the need far greater than any prayer I’ve spoken in my sixty years? Will He hear, listening for the fear, heeding the tear, welcoming my plea for healing? And, will cancer fade into remission because my voice holds a thirst that I’ve yet to quench, a thirst for a future with the person who sits closest to me in the pew each Sunday, the person who rests his eyes on me first thing each morning, the person who is my person? Will cancer listen when I pray and will it listen when God says for its shadow to fade from my life, leaving only the slight impression of a memory where it once grew into a grief far more severe than the blackest night? It must listen to my voice, my prayer, my praise of the One who is my heart’s resting place at this moment when all else has failed and nothing on earth feels quite as warm as it once did. It must hear the voice of our Creator and realize that it has no right to consume the person that has been my person in good times and hard times. It has no right. It has no right. It has no right.
Wings settle on limbs
Leaving impressions of grace
My heart bleeds prayers
.
her soft Created stood
front i
she did not smile
no
nor had she thuh frown
there wuz not thuh slight uv
coy either
her peer
steady into mine
weighted with query lasted long enough
for my to recognize
hern connect with
Jehovah
my
her
Almighty God
The children climbed on to the wooden airplane
Their mouths were going a mile a minute to all the
Different kinds of places they could go even as far
Away as Zanzibar
Which I found quite spectular.
To hear these children be able to obtain
And sustain
This fascinating trip was almost bizarre.
The children climbed on to the wooden airplane
Their mouths were going a mile a minute to all the
Different kinds of places they could go even as far
Away as Zanzibar.
It was amazing how they ascertain
Through video games that they were real pilots who
Have for years been using radar
To cross Hazardous terrain
Which gave my mind a slight jar.
These children in all their innocence which they
Weren't aware knew how to entertain.
The children climbed on to the wooden airplane
Their mouths were going a mile a minute to all the
Different kinds of places they could go even as far
Away as Zanzibar.
LET’S TENDS TO OUR FRIEND CAREN
Caterpillar in chrysalis,
mummified pain,
sleep it off.
Doze o beautiful butterfly,
wings clipped
but for a raging season.
Fair garden waits,
as your friends
tend to pests,
at your behest,
and string pretty things
that will win your smile.
Fly, with your similitude of pattern,
delighting in your fairy garden.
The twinkle of green and periwinkle
dusty stars, grins of slight mischief
in their wiles,
while you sleep, heaven’s child,
while you dream in winsome hues.
Recollect your joy,
touch the milky white moon,
sleep, sleep,
rest your toil,
leave it all behind.
Weary eyes turn to opalescent skies.
Arise, dear friend, arise
anew.
Beginnings wait for you…
The gang you tend, tender hearted for you,
waits for the embrace of replies,
ever faithful Caren.
6/8/2019
why criticize when you don't even know
the pain inside I feel, I do not show
you just assume and think that it's alright
to voice opinions though they're meant to slight
why break what's left of pieces of my heart?
the wounds inflicted bleed and sting and smart!
I try to smile and bear this heavy pain
but censure makes the doubt pour down like rain
the burdens that I bear are mine alone
remember dear, I'm flesh; I'm not of stone
before you throw your words and run to play
just stop and think of what you do and say
I'm crushed; I'm hurt; I'm angry; can't you see,
For you prejudged intent, but don’t know me
Perhaps the lines I write reveal my soul
"Anonymous" will help to make me whole
I wrote of things I know of, things I've seen
Perhaps a path on which you’ve never been
So please take care when wanting to critique
The one behind the poem’s not a freak
Where would we be if great ones like Shakespeare
Could not write of the gory due to fear
What if his bawdy writes were censored too
Would world devoid of Literature please you?
So live and then let live; let poets free
To write of life and death and ecstasy
The words once penned will live and testify
Of one who lived and now in death must lie
Eileen Manassian