Long Stoically Poems
Long Stoically Poems. Below are the most popular long Stoically by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stoically poems by poem length and keyword.
C. Cure T. Clarence
Been making, (sans
daily) regular appearance
in the news oval
hate gambling arrogance
vis a vis spewing,
shouting, and scathing rabidly
foaming explosive clap
trap in ascendance,
asserting how incredibly
tremendous collusion between
CIA, FBI and media
(must warrants revocation,
hence heroic intervention,
and emergency dis
Pence sing balance
of security fabled
clearances Aesop - Asap)
hounds engaged "brilliance"
in (community) chance
of making an very
usual fool of himself,
viz the "FAKE"
trumpeting dapper Don
expostulating the latest ploy,
raging against the machine
i.e. entire popular culture
will get their comeuppance
being so freely outspoken,
a disgraceful unconstitutional defiance
which oh press
sieve act of deviance
spluttered, thus an extreme
measure to clamp down
on all news outlets,
and immediate disappearance
all the while poor
Melania stoically, objectionably
and lamentably stands
right alongside him,
(nonetheless nonverbally
metaphorically exhibiting
vitriolic livid rage)
as he rancorously spouts
(ala VERY) convincing impression
of la va reenactment qua,
Krakatoa volcanic disturbance
lambasting utter disgraceful disservice
(foxy Dis Putin
commercial stations construe, conspire,
conjure egregious collusion
outlets asper dominance
a pugilistic ringside fan loathsomely
(re: scowling non verbally),
wherein pejorative spectators whether
(moral less minority, and/or
majority whips lashing) weather being
OF SAGE LEAVES AND SWEET FLOWERS…
While flowers may be deemed
The sweetness of nature and life,
It is the leaves of her trees that are
The essences of life, death, and rising:-
It is the leaves of the tree
That feeds and nourishes her;
That ensures her branches’ bearings;
Photosynthesizing her peace and love:-
While living flowers are plucked,
Vase-like buried, and housed until death,
They are later thrown away—forgotten.
But fallen leaves reflect resurrection:-
Yes, in nature, trees shed their shading blades
And for a while, stoically stand in nakedness;
Piercing skyward to the coming resurrection
Of their green and rainbow colored leaves.
Thus, I’d rather be a leaf than a flower;
All trees bear leaves; but all don’t flower.
Leaves—nature’s resurrection symbols;
Her saged bristlecone pine allegories:-
Silence quells the bells
as dawn sneaks into the space,
where darkness reigned supreme.
All is hushed and holding back.
For something to be assembled.
From the dis-membered memories,
littering the floor from the day before.
Mists slowly spread their pale white tendrils.
Down dark dank valleys, too dozy asleep to notice.
The trees stand stoically, resigned and watchful.
Knowing they only play a silent backdrop role.
Their stand-ins and understudies.
They've seen it all before anyway!
Birds call out, timid and trembling,
afraid to be the first solo voice,
to breach the heavy quietude,
imposed by the dawn chorus chorale.
“Too soon, Cock; Too soon,”
cluck the bleary-eyed hens,
still clinging to dreams,
while perched in their drowsy lofts.
The sun sneaks a peak over the horizon,
hoping that no one will notice.
it's up so early, but its game is up!
For rays of searchlights have already,
breached holes through the gray cloud cover.
There are so many memories to recall and reassemble.
The echoes of boots on stepping stones.
Brooks still murmuring their lullabies.
Waves lapping on hushed lake shores.
White beaches clad in their nightie gowns.
All the alarms in the cottages are holding
their breaths, counting down to explode.
Dawn takes time to re-member,
what dusk dis-membered
and unpicked at close of day.
Neatly storing them away in its toy box.
'Forgotten' is never a word,
for lay of day, or daybreak display.
For no day is discarded.
No moment is deleted from yesterday—
They day is re-assembled and re-built
from the dis-membered bits
it set aside in the toy box.
Beautiful Scars?
Scarred
by the vagaries of life’s insistence
that I persevere, stand stoically tearless,
amid such lonely pain.
Etched
onto my heart – the agonies of a child
I could not protect – only save –
to become a man.
Seared
into my soul – a pain no scream
could ever release, an anger that
would never cease.
Stained
by the blood of a guileless victim
shamed by the stabbing cuts
of evil’s needs.
Strengthened
by the sting of hate’s smoldering rage
seeping through the wounds
welcoming pain’s healing heat.
Scars
visible only by looking at the eyes,
through the windows of the soul
at the broken – now made whole.
John G. Lawless
11/18/2015
submitted to – Beautiful Scars – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Laura Urbaniak
My muse is animated anytime I sit silently
Awaiting sleep stoically sliding into
A sacred onyx veil of poignant peace
as if it is my personal death angel
For we all yearn for eternal rest
Never knowing what we will find
Within the final moments of slumber
To wake again perhaps a curse
If you journey beyond this existence
Shedding earthly body gaining growth
Becoming light pouring into the universe
As I slip into the void of this endless black
I feel relaxed and soothed by a higher
Consciousness as a piece of a puzzle I fit
My rebirth from this body is like awakening
Silver stars guide me through a tunnel
Where my next journey awaits
I hear and feel ancestral heartbeats
My anxiety is peeled like an orange
The fruit of my spirit blends with light
I have only to submit to my calling
If I am ready for the next level
I gain a golden insight as I
Open the third eye and find
A rainbow of souls welcoming
Like neon ornaments on a tree of life
I feel love and fulfillment
I know it is only a matter of maturity
I feel the old world like sand on my feet
Feet that no longer have a purpose
As a new form I can submit to the
New existing light or I can wake up
And continue in the classroom called life
upon one or other posterior cheeks
of ma bony derriere no lie,
the sharp pain of the needle
stoically I bore, while my
thoughts adrift upon cerebral raft
of mental weaknesses de nigh
yule lovely bones epitomized
by refusal to eat -
no hands could pry
jaws of death clutched stranglehold
on life without bing shy,
heavily impinged ability
to function, and fatigued
when aye did try
to exert myself even minimally,
and now wonder why....
An accomplice devilishly game
more dishabille coaxing
than any bon mot
inside Kapellmeister Matthew Scott
possessed upper hand.
lack of will power
to expunge did rot
exhausting cerebral dual
nihilistic paradigm plagued
ever since a tot.
Mindset robbed positive growth
development locked with lost weight
indifference affected gamut of other persons
ambition to terminate tender teen
dominated, wrought asunder
aim toward deadly state
impinged witnessing barely squeaking
thru majority grades rate
to fail paid poor dividends reaped
Absent perseverance found pate
never sought academic support,
hence high school diploma hate
to acknowledge, when
no effort made plus spectral
of near invisibility
did NEVER steal a kiss nor date.
Thus an attempt for companionship
(even if limited to online realm
reasonable rhyme I tried to create
also cathartic, holistic, and therapeutic
courtesy linkedin words
mental anguish I alleviate.
I’m always there, the mask of bravery
steeling your spine,
fixing a smile on your face
Then suddenly I turn and
I’m the Protector,
claws slashing
teeth snarling
Then the Comforter,
soft and soothing
Then the Sentinel
stoically keeping guard
with the Brave mask not far,
...not far
lingering below the surface
Sometimes you feel
you’ve worn this mask of Bravery
so long it won’t come off,
and you wonder,
Where is the Dreamer?
The Poet?
The Child?
The wild impulsive Spirit?
They’re here...
Just waiting for you.
Be Brave
....change the Mask.
TDR
3-3-2010
I am free as a bird
Ready to discover this wondrous world
I am dressed to the nines
Seeking a knight in shining armor
He will be handsome alright
Defending me from life’s lows and sorrows
I shall be his flower, ready to be plucked
Oh my petals shall lust for his kiss
The big city a delight, as I shop all night!
As I gaze upon the handsome men all over
I am hopeful one shall take my hand
So they we might begin a lovers journey
Night time jazz, clubs filled with hazy smoke
Man after man after drink and nothing of substance
What’s a pretty girl to do?
Another night of blackness and no shining black knight
So off I wander to the city park
The lush smell of green filling the air
There is a graveyard up over there
A promenade among the dead
There under the moonlit sky, is an old man
His hair all white, his dress somewhat wrinkled
He seems to star into nothingness
Ah but his eyes are clear blue like the ocean true
I am abashed yet I stare into these crystal blue eyes
Something stirs from within me, yes I see as clear as day
The kindness and compassion within this weathered old man
I lose my breath, this is foolish for I just know somehow, I know I know
I walk up to him, and kiss him on the lips as I should not
This is not me, yet I know this is exactly me, I just know
He looks with sadness, and says simply "I am a dead man, from long ago"
I kiss him once more and say “I will return three days hence and we shall see"
Three days later, like a statue he stands stoically still and almost in fear
I take his hand, and whisper, life is full of miracles
We have no time to lose, I see into your beauty and I see into your pain
Hold me and love me, I am yours completely, in the falling rain
The forest's morning sunlight tip-toes through the trees
casting puzzle pieces round, oh so, carelessly;
hiding all the corner bits scattered by the breeze.
The slighter boles of ash whisper endlessly
as their upright slash of gray teases 'tween the green
while their larger cousins stand, oh so, stoically.
And, the sky far over head blues the in between
back lighting, spruce and pine, as far as the eye can see.
Man intrudes like a child, man and his machines.
Knocking down the squirrel's nest, disturbing the bee
leaving waste along the path, muddying the stream
misplaced is his disregard in that we all agree.
Oh so brashly, mankind walks through nature's domain
a misfit son, a terror, crippling while he reigns.
A final ugly bellow followed by the front door's slam and then. . .
the natural and sweet respite of silence.
She remained where he'd left her
and faced a pair of stony eyes staring back at her from the bathroom mirror.
Stoically she stood, anger-fingers pressed to the inside of the basin's rim.
A gall of indignation clutched at the inside of her throat.
Her whispered curses waxed into a scream, "I hate you. You bastard. I Hate You!"
Moments later. . . sad, kindred eyes met hers,
asking what they always asked, "How do you support this all these years?"
She gazed at the only one who truly knew and felt a rush of utter desolation.
Concentrated rage was channeled to a river of self-pity.
It spilled up and into the bile of her throat, erupting in her helpless gasps,
transforming into hard and bitter sobs,
and with this lament came gushing tears.
Nothing else existed but the woman in the mirror and the grief.
Some moments passed. She sniffled.
Further weeping now would take some effort.
She sighed the sigh of familiar resignation.
Glancing at her consort, red-eyed, in the mirror,
she turned the faucet on and dabbed a tear-streaked face.
The telephone was ringing, so as she went to get the phone,
she steeled herself
in case the flood had not entirely ebbed.
For the Catharsis Contest of Nayda Ivette Negron