Long Slowness Poems
Long Slowness Poems. Below are the most popular long Slowness by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Slowness poems by poem length and keyword.
These fingers were as restless
as a virile runner doing miles
around the fileld, never getting tired;
that young atlete must have been me...
pounding the keybord's keys
and writing another night away!
How can I get my lost frenzy back?
I get home at a quarter to one,
fix myself a cup of sweet tea,
hoping to fall asleep in an hour,
then glued to the computer screen,
I write another poem and enter a new contest;
and before I glance back at the clock,
it's already five o' clock a. m. and constantly
yawning, I moan with malcontent!
Only once, I promised myself
to take a break and let my fingers rest;
and that promise I broke with an incredible urge:
the very next day, I went back...
with the slowness of a hunch-back,
knowing that I had lied to myself...
I didn't regret my cheating on my weary fingers!
How could I have done such a naughty thing to them?
And now, I am typing very slowly
as if I am having a writer's block,
they are punishing me for being too unfair!
Oh, I should have shown a little pity for them,
let them relax an entire week...forgetting they existed;
and they would have appreciated my concern and kindness!
SNAIL MAIL
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Young Stu, with his shell brown and bold,
From the forest post office, he slowly strolled.
With letters packed on his back galore,
With slime as his tires, he slowly went to each door,
"Your snail mail's arrived!" he extolled.
“You fool! Haven’t you heard of email?” badger exclaimed
“Of all your slowness, you should be ashamed.
“With the click of a mouse
You no longer deliver from house to house.”
“But, but…I’ll lose my job,” Stu proclaimed.
“Oh, Stu, you’re so uninformed, so old school.
Your skill set you must totally retool!
Have you not heard of UPS or perhaps FedEx?
You can deliver packages and other objects!
“But snails don’t drive. You’re such a fool!”
“Besides, I’m looking forward to my postal pension
Not to mention days without strife and tension.
And all those Forever Stamps I’ve amassed
I’ll sell online or on my webcast.
Then with Musk I’ll travel to space, otherworldly dimensions.”
Swish thud goes the pendulum,
Giving every second significance,
With each moment as important.
Taking me into myself, for myself,
Able to access my abstraction,
Feeling my own presence positively.
The beats remind me of my heartbeat,
There, but not visible: just by intelligence;
Only these clocks emphasise the seconds.
Tradition can stink, but here it settles:
The invention suffices to help me think,
And ponder on my whereabouts.
The anchor escapement mechanism transcends,
Slowness for me to grasp various possibilities,
Ramifies that there are ways of leaving.
Of leaving the said, the ornate and the strict:
The old can often aid departure even from them,
As given, never to be claimed by anyone.
With the incoming sounds of spring, a resurrection of life,
the chilliness flees. Quote _ by Poet
Ready for a new season, Spring birds
Shake off winter; embracing
The bonniest warmness weather,
Babies born, and color of nature's crowns.
Scarlet Tanagers chatter, flying round,
Feasting on caterpillar’s slowness
And beetles boring away that are found;
whilst
Eternal sunlight reft through sturdy limbs
And myriad leaves of the mighty old oak;
Rapid rhythm clatter drum sounds
Of the Woodpecker on its breast shout.
A hum, a garden faintly woo a smile
At song sung by pretty red feather Robin dancing.
A sweet kiss, a seed, the male Cardinal
Feeds his blush pretty mate favor.
Yonder pond, tree boughs
Teasing the water's edge
Whilst
Little Mallard ducklings
Follow mamma to the bank.
Bluebird builds her nest
Right in the heart of the sprouting
Redbud flowering tree.
Camouflage in the red begonia
An orange breasted Oriole
With its sweet enchanting sound.
On the horizon the fire fades out,
Hush around in high perch, tiny roosting
Cold blue moon comes into sight.
2/26/2021
Poetry Contest: Spring Birds
Sponsored by: Constance La France
The Lord gives us so many blessings. I am lucky to have him on my side.
I woke tired, not too motivated to do much. I use my age for my slowness, I guess a crush. I did walk Peanut my dog a few times, he makes sure of it, he will detour me, every day to ensure.
About four this afternoon I decided to go into town. I wished I had never walked out the door. I live in a small-town, a farming community. I love the rural countryside. I got in my car and drove down the Highway. A mile from my home there were people in the way. Cars in front were driving slowly, got closer to the parked cars. People were sitting around, an empty semi-flatbed parked to the side. I did see some white debris on the side of the road, but no car that might have been in an accident. I passed the semi flatbed and behind it laid a motorcycle on its side. Then, I saw the horror. A few feet back from the cycle, a man laid on the ground with his back facing me, in a fetal position, wearing a leather jacket, and helmet. There was a man sitting on the back of his heels watching over the injured person (I think the cyclist was dead). There were still people pulling over and parking to see what was going on. I couldn't stop. All I could do but cry and pray for the person. Why were the other people not around him to help? They were all on the other side of the semi-flatbed. I finally got to the light almost a mile away and pulled over because a firetruck, ambulance, and police coming towards my direction. However, it didn't go on straight towards the accident, they took a side highway.
Death
The highway doesn't care if you're young or old.
The highway doesn't care if you're going home.
The highway doesn't care if you have loved ones.
12/5/2022
I rail against my feeble body that once was so swift
despair when tasks take three times longer now
it crept up on me seemly overnight, this thing they call age,
it pulls me down with it's agonising slowness
Always been the adventurer travelling the world
lived in some strange places with different rules
strived to live each minute to the max, exalt in life
taking no as no answer, digging under the surface
Many wondrous sights I have seen during my life
the miracle of birth, so fresh and new each time
so full of promise, a whole life yet to be lived
all that's before you is a blank sheet waiting patiently
I know for me that sheet is very full of doings
life is for living and boy, I have lived it in full
yet still I rail against age itself and the slowness
the saving grace is, my mind can still take flight when it likes
Yet this shell in which I abide is crumbling
each year I seem to get slower and slower
such a pain, a burden and a strain on me
oh, to be young once more and be able to be fast
We all need sun, O white pulp
Pineapple and soft light, mango
Me first, then the policeman, then Solène,
We need a long Brazilian nap,
in Bahia or on the fine sand of Copacabana.
The tanned skins are full of secrets,
Vitamins, pulp and sunsets
The tanned skins know our defects,
The erotic dreams, you liked so much,
I pray my Sweet that the time amazes you,
We all need sun, O white pulp
Pineapple and soft light, mango
Lyonnais as Parisians with glasses, need it
Acidulous slowness and charming apricots,
Come on, friend, let’s go to Brazil.
On a tous besoin de soleil, O blanche pulpe
D’ananas et de lumière douce, de mangue
Moi le premier et le gendarme, puis Solène,
On a besoin d’une longue sieste brésilienne,
à Bahia ou sur le sable fin de Copacabana.
Les peaux tannées sont remplies de secrets,
De vitamines, de pulpe et de couchers de soleil
Les peaux tannées connaissent nos défauts,
Les songes érotiques , vous ont tant plu,
Je prie ma Douce que le temps vous étonne,
On a tous besoin de soleil, O blanche pulpe
D’ananas et de lumière douce, de mangue
Les lyonnais comme les parisiennes à lunettes,
De lenteurs acidulées et de charmants abricots,
Viens l’amie, embarquons pour le Brésil.
I love the singinng silence as I muse
Listening to this silence brings delight
Deep within the silence are the cues
Everything from classic to the blues
Make my better sentences take flight
I delight in silence as I muse
Slowness with its thoughtfulness imbues
Words with love and depth and inward sight
Deep within the silence are the cues
Not like crosswords cunning little clues
The cues I find can make the mind ignite
I delight in silence as I muse
Not for me those spikey high heeled shoes
I want shoes that run till I take flight
I delight in silence as I muse.
As we write we feel the inner fight
Our language weaves a web but not of spite
I delight in silence as I muse
Deep within the silence I hear cues
I went to my high school reunion:
I wasn't sure what to expect.
Would those we once held so high
Retain our aged respect?
High school cliques had disappeared;
our hearts at last included all.
We understood, as our days grew short,
our differences must grow small.
The grey in our hair and slowness of step,
were the trophies of our days:
The wars we fought, the triumphs shared,
the loves lost while finding our ways.
Ups and downs and sideways of life
had been etched upon every face.
The joys and laughter and sadness
had given each an uncommon grace.
The reunion was nice, but I had learned
you really can't go home again
We were no longer those high school mates
Waiting for sixth period to end.
Friends remain pearls, diamonds the tears
but it's strangers we've become.
Faded photographs in a dusty box,
reminders that once we were young.
I hear the alarm and I think what? Not already! I have been up and down all night.
My usual pattern, I am used to it in many ways, because nighttime is my quiet, creative, thinking time.
I started fully enjoying the middle of the night when my children were small,
because it was the only time I could carve out for myself.
When they were freshly stork-deposited, I woke at every creak, peep, gurgle, and cough.
A whisper had me imagining a giant bull snake slithering toward the nursery.
I would swiftly be outside their door, turning the knob with the slowness
Of wallpaper breathing, and I could hear that too.
I would tiptoe in, trying not to wake them
And watch them sleeping with their
Darling little mouths, agape, drool
Spilling onto their lamb-designed sheets.
Now they are grown, and the grandchildren
Do not visit during the week so this is not
My three a.m. reason for being awake.
Like a jumping jack ma, I jump up at three,
Almost every night, thinking perhaps the
quiet of the house has awakened me.
Listening, but hearing nothing else,
It is the only guess I have.
Nothing can be done about this.
My body has convinced my brain
that three a.m. has always been the best time for me.
So here I am, awake, pen ready, staring at a lined page.
Ready to start.
I glance at the clock.
It is not three.
It is two.
WHAT?