Long Slog Poems
Long Slog Poems. Below are the most popular long Slog by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Slog poems by poem length and keyword.
grief— posture stiffened
blurred disheartenment
the visage of subpar
staring back, hopeless
guttural midriff reverberations;
sighs, tolerating platters
ultimately grasping—
everlastingly out of reach.
fury— condemned to observe
perfection elsewhere, nevermore
my own, imperfection a bitter
aftertaste of juxtaposition.
perpetual torture,
sickening phobia that
I slog a laughing stock, a
blissfully ignorant jester.
envy— offhandedly able
to swagger, bareless upper half
devoid of inner critique
waltzing a cruel shape.
Yet shackled slithers of
short-lived contentment for I,
unchained humiliating realization
that all click and stare mockingly.
anguish— social gatherings,
stuffed faces converse heartily.
nibbling, flavours burst,
overwhelming explosions
from bare toast. bated
belly hoping that it
can cherish too, but
terror. to the surface afresh.
futility— monotonous drones
“it does get better”
void promises, attempting
to blanket stark reality.
a piece of cake for them,
ironically unfortunate.
my stomach doomed to muse
what cake even is.
weakening, my mind asks me
“will it get better?”
as my bodily systems
shut down one by one
it never hears me
utter my response
just the empty grumbles
that never get cared to.
It was a never-ending slog
sequential acts are untamed and stochastic
but ultimately all perish
genesis and epilogue
that sums up life perfectly
man can bridge the life-death chasm
love abounds even with death
one precedes for another must follow
yet, doesn't that entail a frame?
Is our serendipity hollow?
indomitable, invincible
If death is truly the ending
yet, life may be born from death
God, who gave us life, inhaled our dying soul
so, after many years of life's last breath
will death be granted life?
the life-death boundary is shallow
Yes, it is the answer
life is nothing but a dream
hence, it certainly makes sense
What might this possibly impart?
that dreams require dreamers
or there wouldn't be any angel of death
possibly this is the way life is
in the spiral of unwavering dreams
seraphic saneness
or
demonic sadness
strives over a common goal
that there is doom and gloom
as well as tomorrow.
Written: October 27, 2022
Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Black widow, thy fabled mark.
Through a knothole seen.
Moonlight, light path after dark.
Glitch the gangrel green.
Flickering flame, wax candle's gleam.
How to extinguish?
Air. Snuff out. Cut off the stream.
Cover up the dish.
Hellfire, bloom. O woodland, burn.
Ghost, hide in the leaves.
Pain, approval, taciturn.
He who loves, soon grieves.
Life, red ruins. Fain, fast fade.
Silent is the shade.
O for those who were played, glade?
Blighted, bound, bombed, bade.
Will-o-the-wisp, deep the bog.
Follow where it goes?
Light, thy beauty. Slick the slog.
Carrion for the crows.
Tiger in the tall grass?
He's waiting for a meal.
O young suitor, lass? Best pass.
Never shall ye heal.
Vicious viper, poison pit.
Well, we should have quit.
Firefly, how to keep lit? Flit.
Otherwise get bit.
Slit throat, O anodyne? Helped?
Seemed like he had died.
Holluschickie, how you yelped.
Children, woe betide...
My favourite animal in the wild?
Brumbies and mustangs when I was a child.
But now as an adult I really can't say,
There's such a magnificent diverse array.
But I suppose upon some introspection,
With my lean towards natural selection...
The dogs I keep are as wolfy as possible;
Faving the wolf seems the most plausible.
But if I have to pick one, pets aside,
There is one particular handsome hide;
Seeing beauty in a mug that's for others a slog,
I positively adore that fang dangled Warthog!
May 7th 2018
Line Gauthier
Your favorite animal in the wild - Poetry Contest
Trackers follow the animals,
herd them towards the waiting guns.
Big money paid by lazy hunters
who just want some trophies.
Not for them the slog through bush
they want an easy kill.
A bit or two taken to hang on walls
meat left where they fell.
Uncaring if they are endangered
they drink their beers in the hides.
Not wanting to get dirty or sweaty
they picnic on delicacies and wine.
Bodies of the slain beasts pile up
to be dragged away by scavengers.
While the men toast each other
proud of the day's work.
Tomorrow it will all be repeated
who I ask are the real beasts here?
Belladonna blue.
Scenes in a mystery, do.
Hope, need ye accrue?
Indeed! Heart, why bleed?
Lead? Others or ye? Be! Sea;
Four seasons; change? Strange...
Cold core, darkest door?
Ancient lore, forgotten shore?
Anything for sure?
Weathervane, point! Taut.
Stretching out without a doubt?
Shout? Pout? Win? En route...
Sickle of death god?
Hand, hold on! O carrion;
Seen thy crow? Slow? No...
Poets, why write? Sight.
Procession, no end? Night? Light.
Gods of thunder, roll.
Oracle, thy fate.
Sylvan, honeysuckle, wine.
Fates Three, Muses Nine.
Choose? Which direction?
Suffering, set us free? Plea!
Flea, heard ye of she...?
Yes, so lose heart not!
Automaton, run robot!
Thought, caught? Got the lot!
Deep creek, art thou wound?
Hurting? Me too. Life? Strife, knife.
Blink back, tears of years...
Ravine, emptying?
Silken purse on cotton string?
Sling, shot out? Without...
Great queen, thy machine!
Devour, cursed dog! Smog, slog.
Waterlog, thy bog...
Illuminate, Fate!
Crossing o'er the double strait?
Staggers in my gait...
Soldering, soldiers?
Aim for whites of eyes? Surprise!
Criticize the flies!
Tympani, turmoil.
Garden soil knows when to boil!
Ask and receive? Sieve!
Generation, gone?
Kingdom maun on grassy lawn?
Carrion crow, caw'n...
Pick up and flee? When?
Old master, disaster: been?
Yes, and, then again...
Fireplace, hearth! Hot stone!
Sparks on loan to thrones of bone.
Loan what ye own? Cone.
Ahead? Tread well, step.
Causality, thanks.
Fortune, maybe. Soon...
Vespers, thy bell. Well.
Fish, in ocean stay, today.
Runaway? Of course.
Black abysm, home?
Void, employed? Thus say some. But...
Just what is a job?
Hand of God? Well, no.
That's a position. Mission!
Purpose, define! Shine!
Shrine, thy offering.
Magic, thy ring. Ladder, rung.
Under tongue? Sing? Sung...
Glasses, clean? Seen? Lean.
Prospects, time to rise. Hies? Prize.
Hurricane, spin! Span...
Plan, made? Ocean, shade?
Game, played? Forest, glade? Trade? Slayed?
Anyway, delayed...
Gaunt gangrel, golden?
Stolen. White snow, hide nothing.
Loving mother, you!
Sail for home? Poem.
Stern caps on huge waves, flavor.
Salt, deep water, time...
Ripping nostalgia right out of my veins
Crippled curtains living in psycho domains
We demolished this city not just this city the World
I can't live slow enough to get to pretend
People go crazy and the next day all mends omens
The trenches I call home
They said a 15 year old couldn't drive
I Showed them
My mom said I'd never amount to nothing
I'd say nothing is better than a bull life
I know my age by the release date of a LP
I answer to any name you can call me
People complain about the weather
I say follow the path to better toils
I got my digs in 6 feet of soil
Its a humble abode
Its where they want me
Out if the public eye
My home deep in the trenches
Sure let's walk down memory lame parking lot paradise
Check out where the best bar used to be
Some gangster slog slinging brass
Torn it down
Saying stick all the memories up your es
I got al the lowdown
Creatures who stole out right our past features
Playing domino's getting high while some great band plays on
Best you tear up that joint yourself
Cause money shakes the moments foundations
Money is robbing us
Our memories liquidation
Its a humble abode
Its where they want me
Out if the public eye
My home deep in the trenches
Ditch greed, self-satisfaction, and selfishness.
Break free from the high-stress atmosphere.
I aim to overwhelm myself with full awareness.
wasting my breath by uttering worthless fear.
Break free from the high-stress atmosphere.
Cast wayward in the raging wind and thick fog.
wasting my breath by uttering worthless fear.
Grief breeds faint hope as it dilutes grim slog.
Cast wayward in the raging wind and thick fog.
This is a purification treatment for myself.
Grief breeds faint hope as it dilutes grim slog.
Flown over streams, lakes, and the house shelf
This is a purification treatment for myself.
Swimming in my huge ocean invites me back.
Flown over streams, lakes, and the house shelf
And moon-glazed seas send me to sleep track.
Swimming in my huge ocean invites me back.
I aim to overwhelm myself with full awareness.
And moon-glazed seas send me to sleep track
Ditch greed, self-satisfaction, and selfishness.
Written: February 17, 2023
The Old Black Dog. Dave Taylor.
It refuses to die, this old black dog.
Matted and lame but on misery he thrives.
Makes existence, seem one, long, slog.
How long `till it curls up and dies.
Even on days, when in line with the shame.
Of feeling downcast, and pitiful.
Just wishing there was other, than my mind to blame.
And soothing words, prove far from helpful.
When malicious whispers, in cold tones say.
“Face the truth, you are UNTERMENSCHEN!!!!”
And dark forces, hold me in sway.
The lone host, of their ill attentions.
The triumph for me is to stay in the fight.
Wait out the dark, and know it won`t stay.
Hold hard for the sun, to illumine my sight.
And cast myself into the fray!!!!
The dog may bark, but it`s lost its bite.
And I can take, it`s toothless grin.
Knowing in the end, all shall be right.
If I don`t allow the black dog in.
Demagogue not pedagogue
Aghast & agog
Perfidious insidious fog
Reeks of the past
Slog through the smog
Musk seeks to flog
Earth & its serfs
Downed & drowned
In his dystopian bog
Even starry nights
Elon’s neon satellites
Seedier media perch
Utter nutter besmirch
Thriving in the gutter
Conniving depriving church
Vex "X" & Tech T-Rex hex
Or next bogus Rogan
Bogan slogans prevails
Alpha male tales derails
Sod the planet’s scars
Cruise trips to Mars
Odd bod driverless cars
Spawn a fake Tarantino
Remake.."Musk till Dawn"
Devil may care lair..
Loads of lies..skies chock a block
With spies...all eyes on the prize
Everyone Everything Everywhere dies
Let's not parley with gnarly snarly
Musk...takes the mickey & the bicky
In the dock for running amok
Time guys he did finally own up
To being as grown up..
As a Farley’s Rusk (a British biscuit/bicky for a wee kiddy)