Long Staking Poems
Long Staking Poems. Below are the most popular long Staking by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Staking poems by poem length and keyword.
Mother would patschke
early that day in the kitchen,
and recruit any guest, who
blindly ambled thru front door
suddenly trapped unwittingly
squarely (triangulated) into kitchen
forcibly impressed to help
set up buffet tables
and/or given carte blanche to prepare
some mysterious dish,
(a hodgepodge of ingredients),
that suffered no shortages of compliments
unfortunately could never be duplicated.
Guests harkened far and wide
word of mouth boastful rantings and ravings
superseded culinary Michelin Guides
to dole out seven stars,
which wordsworth meant "exceptional cuisine
promised hungry visitor
a special satisfactory journey."
"Time to eat" (usually bellowed courtesy father)
generated an orderly stampede to jostle in line
and commence maximizing capacity
testing sturdiness disposable plates could hold
scouting, shoe horning, staking...
place to become comfortably numb with satiation.
Amidst various and sundry masticating jaws
(with each respective mouthful
of food glorious food -
cue said Oliver Twist song title)
followed by draught of spirits
ejaculations of delight issued,
and punctuated the sound of silence
when not additionally interrupted
courtesy sibilant crackling
popping, and snapping
wood burning stove,
which aforementioned heat source
lulled well fed tummies
whereby heavy eyelids drooped
while heads sank into chest.
No matter hunger pangs quieted
evidenced by casserole, glass, pyrex...
scraped clean rumors heralding dessert
quickly awoke wine weary souls
analogous to sluggish animals
awakening out their hibernation,
when self anointed maître d'
showcased good n plenti desserts
(pies, ice cream, cookies and cakes galore)
she made house special
comprising secret ingredients.
Upon being stuffed to the hilt
(dear kith and kin mother
all counted as family
think taxidermist specimen
readied for mounting)
all pledged a unanimous
New year's resolution
vouchsafed to start on diet
come January first.
The scorching sunlight binds me down.
Why is summer so cruel like this?
My friend left for Switzerland.
A letter arrived not long ago:
“It is stained with green meadows here.”
“No one tries to hurt me.”
“There is no such thing as rat poison.”
I should have been the one to go.
“Is my face really that hideous?”
“Oh, what a life of mine. Meow.”
Like hope seeping through the neon lights,
That man approached me.
I am a stray cat.
Yet, no mere wanderer am I.
I am a thinker,
One who deciphers the gaze of humans.
A Rolex watch on his wrist,
A calm leisure lingering in his eyes.
But I already know.
What matters more than food
Is a savior, a victim,
Who will clean up my waste.
“Meow…” My cry was a question.
Could this man truly be my butler?
Could he grant me the peace inside a box?
Could he buy me at least a single cat tower?
Or would he someday,
Fall for a girl, cheat on me,
And abandon me to leave?
I held my breath, hesitating.
Weighing you and me against each other,
At the very moment my heart pounded—
Before I knew it, I was sitting upon his lap.
It was not a chosen favor,
It was a gamble, staking my entire life.
Strikes relentlessly thrashing
(from all points
encompassing me) assigned
unforgivingly, vehemently,
witheringly, blind
ding figurative sight, then
I finally craft a title,
then subsequent lines
of poem (or prose) defined
incumbent to pay
proper obeisance deigned
then once a thread bare
theme more or less defined
unleashing skein of thoughts,
(that barrel thru
muss hike key)
utterly entangled,
enthralled and entwined
rather then panic, a series
of deep breaths
decompresses,
deemphasizes, and diminishes
a near futile attempt (thwarting captivity,
futility, and impossibility) to find
even just a faint coalescence,
essence, and furtherance
pitting ma small nose
to the metaphorical grind
stone calmly try
to temper onslaught
of tsunami like brain storm,
yet no matter
how fast fingers type,
a sinking sensation,
sans pursuit to process
this tidal wave sets me
further be hind,
this faux
cat and mouse game,
which forces bust
ting thru out this scribe
demand to answer himself
with minor expletive,
viz cheeses crust
why the ƒ¨ç° must
this doggone eventual dust,
when staking claim
on literary fame and fortune
will no doubt entrust
yours truly to pauper's grave
(if lucky enough
to garner gofundme monies
or not bother, and consign
any viable anatomical
parts of this
well kept body fussed
over with copacetic delight,
holistic insight, and magic night,
where a strong gust
of wind doth suffuse dreamy state
permeating mine subconscious,
where inexplicable
exemplifications doth leap
and prance, while aye
obliviously repose in deep sleep,
which may be the condition
of an unsuspecting reader,
whether an generic
guy or...a Veep.
When I look deep I see
I'm my own worst enemy
Hard as it is to believe
Trying my best to destroy me
Most of what I think is right
Packaged sweetly comes back to bite
With heavy heart and heavy sigh
Far too often this I find
Always thinking of myself
Disguised as being here to help
Selfish needs for no one else
As I play the cards I've dealt
Like a box of squawk that talks
Snake in the weeds before it's caught
What you see both sold and bought
Here for me, I'm thinking not
Staking claim to dirty deeds
Whispering this is all you need
As under my thumb me I keep
Who needs enemies when I have me
The Dark Side of October
Late October moon is waking, through this cemetery shaking,
shaking as the cold wind breaking, walking ‘neath an old oak tree.
Stones like sentries undertaking, guarding graves as hearts are aching,
aching for the still ones staking, such an eerie sight to see –
dark and dreary, I’m so leery, such an eerie sight to see –
is this but a reverie?
In the graveyard shadows shimmer, dark of night is growing dimmer,
dimmer still without a glimmer, shadows ‘round the old oak tree.
Shadows dancing ever nearer, nearer still and getting clearer,
clearer like distorted mirror, twisting ghastly sight to see –
growing vastly, looming lastly, such a ghastly sight to see –
certainly a reverie?
Piercing sounds are penetrating, ear drums deafening pulsating,
ringing louder, devastating, echoes off the old oak tree.
Echoes bouncing screeching grating, ever louder agitating,
instigating, fears creating, from this ghoulish sight to see –
Am I mulish, maybe foolish, such a ghoulish sight to see –
surely just a reverie?
In the dark my head is spinning, round and round these sights imprinting,
fusing on my brain beginning, questioning my sanity.
All these sights and sounds are weighing, weighing as the ghouls are playing
playing as they do their preying, preying on my vanity –
I am praying, ghouls are swaying, preying on my vanity –
have I lost my sanity?
Eerie night just seems persisting, lasting as my mind is twisting,
waiting for daylight’s assisting, lighting up the old oak tree.
Eerie sights and sounds now fading, dark of night for daylight trading,
light of day is now invading, leaving me to clearly see –
seeing nearly, life so dearly, oh so clearly now I see –
must have been a reverie…..
or have I lost my sanity?
July 26, 2018
English quintain
I’m leaving, going far away
and when I’m through, I will return.
But meanwhile, mind my vineyard, stay.
I’m staking out a risk to earn;
It is for you, to try and learn.
I lease to you my private land
which I have hedged. I’ve built a tow’r
so you may guard my kingdom grand.
Till I come back, you are in pow'r.
I will come back, an unknown hour.
Time lingers on, I send trustees
to test the fruit; the vintage won.
The tenants stone and wound all three;
more were dispatched , more harm was done.
They’ll show respect, I’ll send my son.
Imprudent keepers of my lease
imagined I was surely dead.
They saw a chance the land to seize.
My heir’s demise they thought ahead
would free the land to tenants’ stead.
This is a story Jesus told
a parabolic sermon heard.
The tenants’ logic had no hold;
God’s kingdom soon would be transferred
from Jew to Gentile. Thoughts are stirred.
written by Reason A. Poteet
first posted at Poetry Soup – 3 Feb 2015
Iambic tetrameter – an English quintain
for Giorgio’s contest: Structured forms-Iambic verse - Recite and analyze a fictional event
inspired by a biblical parable, Mark 12:1-12
O, I see you're coming back to Ella
of the Cedar's Tale, more and amore,
as she gets between your skin, like a beetle at bore.
Lang-wishing, fang-wishing her wiggle,
at open door stairs case on her forest floored.
This tales tail like a Cedar, mystery umm'biblical,
Laurel lining in-cyclicall of
Maples that get swathed,
in rainy season's roots spreading tows
in brackets math tables of shoots and ellipticals.
In shadows deep,
where whispers weep in the will o's
the shade desperately tries to cover
her in-seep of soil, like a tree snake in coil.
Ella of the Cedar, her name echoes clear,
a flame in hearts, dancing ever near.
The Cedar's Tale, algorithes, quickened, Time Ago.
A story sung where the wild winds blow.
Her spirit fierce, like a fire untamed,
a haunting melody, forever staking claim.
Lang-wishing, fang-wishing, the night's embrace,
unveiling enticing worlds with ethereal grace.
Her voice, a river of silk, in moonlight's glow,
imbued with sapporon, a delicate flow.
Washes a ways canopy, Kimono.
This ancient grove, where memories reside,
Ella of the Cedars, she'll forever abide.
Her resonance lingers, like a bittersweet sigh,
a poet's muse, beneath the moonlit beams
taking a bite of darkness in injection plunge and hallucinogenic strobe of light, slide.
So let us listen more, to Ella's whispered lore,
feel her essence as it stirs us to the core-
occupying like a lush dream.
In her words, emotions seam to adorn,
a garden of feelings, once in dormant sea,
now align with the O Pines scent of new winds whip of greenery creams to soothe like a suave poultice of potpourri over the mind pine al g land ent C.
In every verse, a wish song''s awakening,
sultry synthesis,
a bud delicately reaching for the light,
in a chamber of trembling treble,
naughtiness probing.
Lyrics to linger, imprinted deep,
like the rings of a tree as
counting your time of bondage..
Stirring souls,
harvesting their reap and frontage
of fond-agery.
The story continues beneath
the eventuality of hopes chest
pounding, hearts in the surrounding raw,
pump of primal, Forest maw.
Ella sets her sights...
They cut the grid
into the mountain,
breathing a poisonous cloud.
A frantic chaos,
Staking a fortune from
beneath the eucalypt,
pulling hollow bones
they did not heed.
They bet on success,
Assuming the heavy,
damp silence of the bush
was a kind of surrender.
But destiny ignores a frantic hand.
It woke not as a tremor,
but a shift.
A slow drag against the iron.
The ancient roots waking
their weight,
a deep,
fluid groan rising
through fragile ground.
And then—
the inescapable alignment.
The ancient land would seal their fate.
The land sheared
like a severed cord,
swallowing their plans
into the dark earth.
Within the bruised shadows
of the collapse,
the twisted steel rests.
An eerie monument to fortune lost.
the earth does not negotiate with fortune.
It simply folds the chaos down,
and settles back into peace.
The Coronavirus Pandemic
3/13/2020
It made its appearance on a Wuhan breeze,
then quickly began spreading to other lands.
From particles being spread by cough or sneeze,
we're advised, to avoid crowds and wash our hands.
Fear of this virus is now staking its claim,
now a pandemic and not lightly taken.
We search for a cure and play a waiting game,
it's caused anxiety and left us shaken.
Laying our Economic System in waste,
it's effect has taken us all by surprise.
In a search for a cure scientist make haste,
pray a vaccine is found before our demise.
Today to our nearby wholesale club we trekked,
many shelves lay bare due to panic buying.
Seeing empty shelves had a chilling effect,
this virus, peoples minds, was occupying.
head thrown back
eyes closed
water soaks her screams
(the mansion on the hill
still
as stiletto heels poke groundhog holes
the flapping of his mother’s dress
in duress
no floozy hugs shall hold
this man she’s kissed)
dreams, like newspaper ink
bleed down her legs.
she falls
as the steamy curtain winds
around the binding —
her book is closed.
like a bird
he flies away
his talons quivering
nervously he answers
too many calls...too many questions.
the door to the mansion eeks open.
the steps up to hell
never failing to warn
with a squeak and squawk.
the lipstick smeared on a psycho’s face,
his/her dress in place,
as they meet his mother
moved from the permanently molded mattress
to the steadily rocking chair
her bones and skull stare
a n d they R U N
as his/her knife whips at air.
Now he/she is staking out the psycho ward…
9/10/2019