Long Stolid Poems
Long Stolid Poems. Below are the most popular long Stolid by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stolid poems by poem length and keyword.
Once my love I dreamed to well
Of all that silence doeth entail
The hush and gentle quivering
Of midnight and the shivering
Of moon beneath the maddened night
Of moons celestial candlelight
There a morbid moon and gloom
And all the darkness that is doom
Should sweep in silence o’er my soul
And find me less that time ago
Less than times more dismal space
Which no candor can erase
Less than times unclosing eye
Gazing on a distant wry
Once my love I dreamed to well
Likes roses on a distant knell
Do bloom with red resplendidly
Do blush and then conceive
Once my love I dreamed to well
Of all that silence doth entail
The doleful sorrow and its sound
Like a whisper never found
Like a whisper on the height
Of romance in its plight
Far beyond the stolid trees
Far beneath the wake of eve
Where in the vast and distant deep
Only shadows subtly creep,
Once my love I dreamed to well
The wind off the cold North Atlantic ocean
smells of piquant seawater on its breath,
agreeably pungent, brackish and moist.
The legendary Nor'easter off Newfoundland,
the bane of so, so many ships at sea,
is not a breeze with a soft, caressing hand.
It kicks and knocks and slaps and whacks and thwacks,
pummels and punches, pinches and pushes.
The stolid, sturdy imperturbable island
sits there and puts up with the abuses.
The northeasterly wind is very resentful
of its odiferous reputation.
At night, it simmers and seethes and smolders,
writhes and trembles, weeps and whines, stirs and sulks.
But, like the song says, the wind and sea smells
are "perfume to my soul". I stand alone on shore
and listen to the ocean's roar, wind's woosh,
and my mind decompresses, destresses;
this is my peace, my serenity.
I am home.
Blue collared of the swindled lot, cannot resent just brace
Credibility so easily slapped for rough hide when pieces put into place
Daybreak compels list of chores into focus
Semblance to rain faberge for owners of circus
Stolid apparell for hauling load, a sanctioned acrostic of strength
Entered by destiny but no exit even if they desire from this labyrinth
Justice a joke in fractal trigonometry
Law a limbered warble for rich but austere for those in poverty
Dusk time in regailing assortment of means to satiate hunger pangs
Overlooking the shoulders, for the voted cult may suck scraps over tax returns
Samiha's serpentine gaze keeps vigil for mendacious ritual by rich perennially every May
Sustainance on others ration will ensnare them in a time warp of condemn and ruin someday
This one’s a castle, that’s a customs-house.
They’re stolid, listless, just a little dull.
The sky supports an arbitrary gull.
The languidness of Lizst, the style of Strauss
are wholly absent. Colours are metallic.
The eye sweeps over cornice, turret, steeple,
and then it dawns on us – there are no people.
Clock towers, mountains, minarets, all phallic,
are void of human life. Stark, empty chairs
adorn each arid, motionless interior.
As we apprise, eyes sneeringly superior,
we note acerbically his love of stairs –
a Will to Power, ever pushing up.
One daub there is, however, gives us pause:
it dates from long before Enabling Laws,
before he dreamed of Kesselring or Krupp:
a bridge that’s quite impossible to cross,
that goes nowhere, has never carried traffic,
bears one boy sitting on it. Startling, graphic,
without a hint of Schadenfreud or Schloss:
self-portrait, this. What features might we trace?
What’s here vouchsafed? Incipient racist brute?
Well, hardly. An endearing, awful suit,
and – most revealingly of all – he has no face.
Nothing boot toe till rot and duff feet...
Attempting nightly ritual
nsync with sole and
instep of beat
January second 21:08
two thousand twenty
footwear equipped with
custom made cleat
proudly standing tall
(think) as an elite
able, eager, and ready
to sprint skyhigh fleet
ting into netherlands
(towering well over
other wiry antennae thin contestants,
hence exception to
maximum height waved
outrageous illegitimate forfeit
chore blithely Atlas shrugged off),
whereby said marathoner Olympian
amidst godly pantheon did greet,
competitors crouched tigerlike
ironically melting starter blocks
deftly gunning generating barreling heat
fast as greased lightning
Achilles catapulted courtesy blur,
zee mist tree (oak kay)
man, i.e. helpmeet,
he roundly squared off
accompanied by his wifely entreat.
Thus situated, positioned, and finagled
husbandry duty obliging the misses,
no matter she kick started
(think thrashing outsize overgrown toddler)
childish task deemed
markedly cockameemie design,
subsequently these little feet (mine)
stood stolid upon bedroom floor
she did man date me,
I supplicated, necessitated,
implored, and decried divine
intercession, cuz thee mademoiselle
did authoritatively assign,
thee mister getting mine
handy dandy grip upon her supine
corpulent physique
outstretched leaden legs
awaiting (Abby) salute perfect sign
to commence powerfully
prying and pulling
first straight then nine
tee degrees practically prostrating self
footloose and eventually
detaching fancy free
thunder thighs, what strong
amazing anatomical design
nearly defying might
of super Matt nein
bird brainer heron,
an ill eagle cro-magnon scheme
to untie clodhoppers
snug as a bug in a rug,
whence laces got knotted
freaking me out clearly
out this world,
wide webbed formerly
Gordian tangled skein.
Life's thread is spun, measured, and snipped
By three dainty pairs of deft hands
To weave the cold words of life's fickle script.
Clotho spins life with a valiant grip,
Her spindle ablaze with gold strands.
Life's thread is spun, measured, and snipped.
Lachesis measures without pause or slip,
Deciding the length of life's band
To weave the cold words of life's fickle script.
Atropos carries the scissors that clip
The thread where her sister commands.
Life's thread is spun, measured, and snipped.
Every last soul becomes a conscript,
Drafted to heed their demands
To weave the cold words of life's fickle script.
With each stolid snip, our free will is stripped
As Fate's fluid flames are fanned.
Life's thread is spun, measured, and snipped
To weave the cold words of life's fickle script.
*Based on Greek Mythology's "Moirai"
angst settles in
within the cracks
of darkness
as night falls
beneath the lunar rise
of crescent moon
its lackluster glow
reflects upon the lake
in the swirls of cat's-paw
as i cast stones
at mind's haunts
in hopes
to slake pain
as it falls
like soft rain
fulgurant memories
beneath thunder
of emotions
slam against me
in stolid thoughts
while i try to weather the storm
as it falls within
again and again
i see you there
momentarily
and feel the lash
of your tongue
in unconscious frames
of mind
i am tethered
on the edge
of night's breath
as it mists
through my pores
and day's break
as i bleed its dawn
in the folds of my flesh
i awake
unsettled
in the angst
of yesteryear's pain
as it echoes
within my mind
again
and
again
before
fading
out
8/12/2019
Writing Challenge 1, August 2019 - Just Write - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart
Once upon a midnight, ghostly,
Partied many, dead ones mostly.
Feasting in the graveyard, sprightly,
White eyed werewolves gorged, engrossedly.
In the bone yard, drab and squalid,
Apparitions (staring stolid
Neath the veiled moon, clouded lightly)
Sought fresh bodies, lean but solid.
Fiendish eyes shone, light and sparkly,
Ghouls and demons danced so darkly.
Maggots munching mush unsightly,
Black blood streamed like ink, quite starkly.
Fetid flesh oozed, flowing freely
Through the crypt doors, cold and steely.
Shadows, ashen, pranced contritely,
Ebon serpents slithered eely.
As it happens, all too often,
Zombies dimly closed the coffin –
Ra, the sun god, rising slightly
Hunger pangs were soon to soften.
If you ask, I’ll tell you blankly,
When you’re feeling dark and dankly
Come to where this happens nightly.
They’ll enjoy the feast, quite frankly...
Green-eyed monster
Rears it's ugly head.
Those eyes
Seething
With contempt,
Trained
On his competition.
You-belong-to-only-me possessiveness
Betrays a stolid disposition.
His lover
And his pride
On the line.
The rope of emotional restraint,
Gradually slipping from grasp.
Pangs of intense anger,
Arrested;
A molten lava
Close to
Violently erupting.
Paranoia
Geysers upward.
Tentacles of insecurity
Steadfastly hooked onto him.
His jealous thoughts
Racing
In nanoseconds.
Date written and posted: 02/12/2019
Lake Léman must float
the weight of the city –
Its grey stolid affluence
needs hydraulic help.
Our paddle steamer chuffs
beyond the tall fountain.
For a while, grand houses
bob beside us.
In Geneva the poor must fit between
the opulence.
Up ahead, Mont Blanc,
and other Wagnerian massifs,
begin to shrink us into fisheyes.
Then sunlight spills its sky
into the deep waters.
Suddenly we are afloat on mountaintops!
I could be almost happy here
if we were not just renting this moment.
When we return to the city
the sky will be gray once more,
the poor will still be poor.
Outside the stylish patisseries,
sparrows will still fight for crumbs.