Long Smattering Poems
Long Smattering Poems. Below are the most popular long Smattering by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Smattering poems by poem length and keyword.
Long In The Tooth Skeptic,...
Nonetheless Rooted With Gumption
Implicit virtue of humankind
figuratively locked horns with vice,
yet time and again this mortal celibate,
(not by choice) sexagenarian thrice
older father of deux priceless young
women chock full, sans esprit de corps
exude radiant ump pa vital to add spice
to an otherwise humdrum life,
begat by reproductive cells
smaller than a grain of rice,
yet whose exultant bloom, ah price
less bouquet far superior to any
treasure discovered within Nice
joyous reunion (torturing
mine psyche) finally won
after a hiatus, where four
Earth orbitz around sun
when last these myopic eyes
graced with amazing run
day view earlier,
this April 15th, 2019 pun
gent, (cuz visit with Shana Punim) one
thousand four hundred and sixty days,
that seemed more like a hun
dread bajillion quotidian tomorrows,
where continually fading poignant memories
from countless fleeting yesterday's done
got hermetically sealed bun
dolled into an irretrievable past smart
teary eyed floaters restored to this "sir"
after death do me part,
where memorable times at playgrounds
analogous to envisioning glory, heart
ache, cloistered blessedness
synonymous, asper once regal Acropolis,
and/or Parthenon, wherein
antiquity never did depart,
cuz during 21st century smattering,
viz artifacts retained preserved art!
It still hangs there,
there on the back of my door.
“Wa d’y lev ut thur?” I can hear you say
in that Chatterley-esque accent of yours,
rippling through me.
“It’s so I can smell you”
I’d reply if I could:
a waft and scent of your neck,
hair… whenever I’d leave the
room. When I’d enter it.
If I just pass by.
I’d tell you that, at night, my arms
loosen their flesh and peel on the cotton,
a needle sews blood afresh into my seams.
At night, the zipper puts my chest back
together and holds my knocking heart in
place…. my ribcage ivory buttons, poached.
My beard grows longer to the left, matching the
lopsided drawstring I pulled in a prank. At night,
the frayed knitting weaves its way into my arm hair.
The smattering of chest hair that made you laugh is now
indistinguishable from where a sewing machine once clamped
shut. At night my fingers become the tips of each sleeve – just out
of reach of your hand
but forever trying.
“It still hangs there” I’d tell you, if I could,
“there on the back of our door.”
It hangs there, it hangs there
still
I lost my mind today -
Oh boy -
and all the thoughts I had
just seemed to vanish
in the haze
surrounding my head
It seemed so wise -
so potent -
so infinitely dull -
complete with thought, effete with pomp
emblazoned on its skull.
An ounce of heart
a pound of spleen
a smattering of phlegm
A bit of code
a bunch of will
And a thick soup of memes:
All this was all mixed
and cut to bits
A chewy marble blend
From which I built
A vague relief
Of life that I intend:
Where has it gone, do tell me?
Where is my upscale mind?
I look without,
I look within,
But nothing can I find.
It seems the mind has melted
And I must build anew
Today's mind-melded structure
With but a quart of glue.
As with all things it began small,
As a whisper, a glint, a glimmer
A distant chickadee giving voice
To a sun that rose ever silently
And a morn that seemed ever,
And ever more promising of wonder
Fleeting westward the veil’d stars
And rolling thunder
Dappling tears
That shed their gladness
The growing light abate the fears
Wrought, the wet groaning night.
And it seemed a slow standing ovation
A clatter of chirps, cars and school children
Beginning their ritual’d day
A smattering of clouds forming and deforming
As the orchestra began to play
And my window became a ringing call
Beckoning me to my door,
To turn the knob that had secured me before
Symbolizing a threshold—of a freedom
That lay beyond—
And more.
It had not rained for months
the bush was dry as a tinder
clouds appeared in far distance
to once more fade and vanish
The sun beating hotly relentlessly down
everything resting in shade so sparse
the trees without their canopy of leaves
grass dry yellow and brown
A carelessly chucked piece of glass
sets the grass ablaze, soon all is burning,
flames moving on devouring all in their path
those too slow ending as blackened cinders
Flames that devoured and raged
devastating all as it pillages on
all in its way left as burnt embers
blackened landscape wherever you look
Can land so destroyed live again?
or will it turn into a dust bowl?
a breath of hope blows in from the east
a small smattering of rain gently falls
In its wake comes rebirth new shoots appear
soon the earth is responding with growth
a cleansing has occurred ripping out the dead
soon most signs of the fire will be covered over
All that is left are blackened gum trees
skeletons on the horizon a timely warning
that nature rules here and will take a hand
in keeping her world fresh vibrantly alive
Ode To The Hourglass
E'er spent in the margin of its clutch of us,
We breathe its granules in nighttide befallen,
Wanderers adrift campaign design to thus,
Daytime withdrawal of star hole we crawl in,
Be of that horizon art great plentitude,
A minuscule scope be a grand solitude,
The vast separateness, still, purposed value,
Withal, dissolve in its depths, I and shall you,
Sands prey unto gravitational split palm,
smattering contributions from character,
exfoliates abruptly the sedate calm,
genteel indiscernible that surrender,
the retired bit is given in chambered rest,
that visualness measuring of time's quest,
allowing the said duties of weightiness,
do the essential action of sublimeness.
2020 March 02
Howmanysyllables;
16 lines x 11 syllables per = 176 syllables total
As the temperature drops and the ground is covered in a blanket of snow
the animals who frequent our woods looking for food know exactly where to go.
Their a diverse groups of birds who come to our feeders…
where we do our best to supplement their basis needs
by keeping our feeders filled with a variety of their favorite seeds.
And the birds too big for our feeders…we find them gathered round…
enjoying breakfast, lunch or dinner from the seeds we sprinkle on the ground.
The deer who occasionally wander through our yard…usually in the early morn…
are happy when they discover we’ve left them a smattering of corn.
We feed the animals…when the weather is good
and especially when the winter weather turns bad…
and when I see the gratitude on their faces…I think about Deborah’s dad.
Her dad was a master gardener…there wasn’t anything about plants he didn’t know.
Consequently, when it came to gardening, there wasn’t anything he couldn’t grow.
Watching him in his garden…was a magical sight to see…
and though my thumb will never be as green an his…
I remember one piece of wisdom he passed along to me.
He was a gentle, quiet man…but I’ll always remember these words…
“When you plant a garden,” he told me,
“alway plant a little extra for the rabbits and the birds.”
That one sentence encapsulated the type of man he was…
His tender heart…to the world everyday he’d bring…
He was kind, generous, loving, accepting and giving to everyone and everything.
So when we feed the deer and the birds in winter…in the weather good or bad
we’re not just feeding the animals…we’re paying tribute to Deborah’s dad.
And when I think of the state of the world…and sometimes feel dejected, hopeless and sad
I wish those leaders who are causing this sorrow…
were a a lot more like Deborah’s dad.
Your own unique voice. You’re your own boss.
Sprinkle of humble and profound words.
Speaking in tongues that often crisscross.
Ink takes flight as experiential and seasonal birds.
Sprinkle of humble and profound words.
A smattering of what’s mattering in life.
Ink takes flight as experiential and seasonal birds -
The suffering, the woe, the pain, and strife.
A smattering of what’s mattering in life -
the smear of buttery imagery and ebonic light.
The suffering, the woe, the pain, and strife.
Poetics give the silent - speech, and the blind - sight.
The smear of buttery imagery and ebonic light.
A cruel twist of fate or a brilliant cliffside cascade.
Poetics give the silent - speech, and the blind - sight.
Forms, style, rhymes, refrains, freedom displayed.
A cruel twist of fate or a brilliant cliffside cascade.
Speaking in tongues that often crisscross.
Forms, style, rhymes, refrains, freedom displayed.
Your own unique voice. You’re your own boss.
12/23/2022
I just missed the contest! Oh well! Hope you all enjoy!
Autumn
….. is mortally wounded!
It sways, strays
across the silken sky
quivering over rusty hedges
shivering through shouldered trees,
splattering, smattering
everything in blood-red.
On it stumbles,
On it tumbles
shivering over the valleys
spearing through the trees
smearing the water blood-red
while the ground offers no sympathy
just a hardened, frigid face.
On it goes,
On it flows
gasping and grasping
at clouds of bandages,
hobbling towards the horizon,
haemorrhaging life
in crimson splashes.
While winter,
no ceremony
nor propriety,
just the sly smile
of an Arctic fox,
coldly awaits October’s
shredded, dreaded last breath!
Swath of pristine tractless snow white landscape...
tell tale sign where
winter storm Demi left her mark.
Beautiful and bountiful visual scene
(seldom seen around
tri-state geographic area
for quite a few years,
where temperate global warming
spelled unseasonably warm winters)
trumps the inauguration
for breathtaking view.
Immaculate conception birthed
awesome aesthetic spectacular
blinding heavenly creation.
I feel humbled
as an infinitesimal know nothing
wrought into existence
courtesy billions of years
evolutionary fits and starts,
and will exit stage door left
barely impacting the cosmic schema.
Memories accumulated across
six plus decades astride oblate spheroid
upon sixty plus shades of gray matter
sights and sounds transiently,
yet indelible impressions lasted a lifetime
eventually taken to the grave,
(or rather more eco-friendly crematorium),
which lovely bones once reduced to ashes
will leave nary a trace videre licet,
where joys and sorrows
dwelt within mine temple mount
unbeknownst to humanity
unless one attests to spiritus mundi
housing each and every personal record
that livingsocial (and more often
as an egalitarian, latitudinarian, proletarian,
solitudinarian, and unitarian) did emboss,
though uneventful existence,
would find any incorporeal passerby to gloss
tittering at reputation as spindleshanks
no doubt resulting
where chromosomes and genes
of interspecie breeding did intercross,
yet leaving some lucky *****sapiens
descendents of simian forebears
with eye catching physical characteristics
cases in point Heidi Kloss
or the waifish
former supermodel Kate Moss
testimony that either the former
or latter pleasing specimens
fortified with raw bits,
(and maybe even smattering
Norwegian bachelor farmers
big strapping men's bloodline
rumored heifer and angus outcross),
whose claim to eternal fame popularized,
and brought them renown fame
linkedin to "aphrodisiac hidden oomph"
of powder milk biscuits) sic erat scriptum.