Long Stricture Poems
Long Stricture Poems. Below are the most popular long Stricture by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stricture poems by poem length and keyword.
WHOLESOMENESS :
How bad this thing is,
For befriending colleagues he found in the office,
Who posited to have him dismissed.
In sheep cloaks they were his frenemies.
They all became very close,
Starts sharing personal life goals.
Showing themselves what each other knows.
Boom,rapport flows.
When the friendship seemed to grow,
Suddenly, they enviously had him opposed,
Unnecessarily as everything roughly goes.
Went about having his good intentions twistedly exposed,
So that administration will let him go home.
By grace it didn't happen as he hoped,
Even he wasn't reproached.
Such malicious things some people do.
Came back acting as if they've done nothing bad to him.
Good he now prevents them from seeing his moves,
So they don't make him feel confused.
Whenever opportunity appears on desk,
They choose to give them out instead.
Although he deserves them since he's the best,
And he works earnestly without stress.
But sake of discrimination,it goes to someone else.
God's work on him was in progress.
On his calender he's always placed first.
He is now a C.E.O of his own company
Sometime past he questioned himself "why?"
Thought nothing would have been fine.
Got locked up in his mind,
As he wished he could just die,
And leave this globe behind,
"Suicidal thoughts",
I prayed he doesn't confine.
Everything was going to be fine.
Jehovah keeps him with his eyes,
From the heavens, down to this earth.
The battle was hard but it's well.
Stood in front of a mirror,
Saw nothing but horror.
Stranded in meditation like moron.
Lost taking the stricture.
Couldn't identify himself in clear picture.
Unemployment, financial issues torn his structure.
All he wished for was restructure,
For life to return better.
He stayed in solitary all that while.
Praying all he's going through beguiles.
Day to day, ensuring his experiences are compiled.
After the dust settles down he'll reminisce and smile.
That's today,where life looks beautiful with his children and wife.
And everybody testifies about it, as everybody admires.
What If Destiny...
Deeded Mine Singular Default Mode To...
Communicate (temporarily,
strictly and hypothetically)
merely allowing me to burble
essentially rendering, limiting,
and fixing me tubby nonverbal,
where frustration ensued -
inducing passivity, asper myself
shrugging shoulders in resignation
coon sitter ring thy fate
nsync with that of a gerbil?
Thus codifying, con
fining, and consigning
stricture to a sorry lot
perhaps finding me
envying fun
Gus of ergot,
which organism at least participates
in a pro active life cycle,
though one may say,
said organism doth rot.
Now...all Joe King aside,
an attempt will be made tried
though daunted to cogitate beside
Ritch ching deep inside
and remain on - ride
ding the straight and true
so please dont chide
restricting me to bide
with guise of seriousness,
when aye decide
did to complete on
par tragedy thalidomide
wrought, yet this poem, though belied
and bedeviled pondering
how Yukon not induce tongue re:
totally tubularly restrained,
sans tubby unable to talk
plus afflicted with autism,
hence guide
did through extreme effort
pretending, thus
to feign being denied
critical skill to chat
with a snap allied
(NOT with van knit tee),
but dead seriousness try
ying with futility hypothetically
impossible to imagine tubby
accursed without means to speak
compounded by autism,
an immeasurable frustration
must mount inside,
viz unfortunate behavioral demeanor,
nonetheless I cried
inside when the limp deceased body of
six year old
Maddox Ritch – already died,
drowned mainly supposedly,
when dashing ahead,
he didst play hide
with his father (Ian Ritch),
while the special needs child
(unknowingly) both spent
final hours together
bonding at Rankin
Lake Park in Gastonia
within North Carolina.
Human life deserves a platform to unfold
Away from straitjackets of pious scrutiny
Whose eyes, ears and hands feel so cold
They reject freedom and project a mutiny
Born from the scorn society pours on freedom
Curtailing every progressive move towards expanding
Frontiers of free thought, thought outside the stricture kingdom
Where dissenters earn the label of antisocial branding
Perceived by untested notions whose dubious value
Lies in objecting to new ideas, new approaches
To matters where life suffers because critics with no clue
Claim innovations and expansions in thinking circulate cockroaches
In citadels that preserve culture and tradition
To limit the extent to which inhabitants expand the scope
Life ought to enjoy without any undue restriction
Imposed by custodians of traditions whose pope
Preaches limitations on abortion and exploration of modernization
In the wake of disruptive technologies
That spawn conundrums in which efforts of socialization
In traditional societies and African mythologies
Die a natural death
When social media facilitate new ways of communicating and connecting
Whose wealth and health
Diminish and extinguish mores, norms and customs, projecting
Arguments whose cogent basis tenuous at best
Can’t stand reliability and validity
Scrutiny and which traditionalists attest
Matter to defend the utility and solidity
Archaic notions offer to society’s progress
In which the worth and splendor of life
Matters more than efforts to suppress
Moves to eradicate and eliminate wife
Battery and slavery in the context of gender based violence
Rife in African townships and homesteads
Where traditionalists promote the importance
Domestic violence plays in subjugating stubborn heads.
She is watchful and ambitious in a nail biting fury
Another new victim another story
She pulls him in and caresses his mind
There in the darkest of nights where she finds
Keys are clicking faster and wild
The pupils of her eyes grow and her beat is riled
A tale and a lie or two, perhaps
A phone numbers and address now check out the maps
What to share where to go from here?
What will I say what will I wear?
A dab of makeup and perfume on her wrist
Her heart is rushing the thrill persists
Last but not least on go her black heel
Her mind is moving like a spinning wheel
Down the street she makes her way
A smile of nervousness and she’s ready to play
Will he be there will he look like his picture?
She wonders if he’ll like her or will he be her stricture
So they met and they smiled and carried on with there conversation
In the quiet of their minds falling to deeper into temptation
He took a chance and asked her to go home
Her eyes were perky and eager to roam
His lips were sweet his hands were warm
Soon enough it was time to perform
He turned his back to pour the wine
A chill of madness ran up her spine
She pulled out her bag and found the dagger
And struck him in back where he stood and staggered
She finished the deed and ran the course
She had to hit him with a powerful force
Her mind was cleared and free from the rush
She cleaned up her hands and watched his blood run in a gush
His fluids continued to prevail across the floor
On she went with no apathy or shame
Beware of the serial sweetheart she kills for fame
( Fiction)
Sweet September, see how splendidly she shines!
Subtlety submitting seasonal splendour, she
swamps summer’s splendiferous sights,
by stealthily shrouding splendid scenery,
with suffused sensuous, sybaritic, scenarios!
Sublimely serene, she spatters and splashes
slivers of saffron, sepia and sienna shades,
slapdash over the sedentary summer scene, sending
sightseers silly! Soon, spooky spectres sporting skittish
shadows, surprise and startle singularly sensitive givens,
seeking soothing solitude someplace. Suspicious solo
sentient stalkers, suspecting solo sailors sometimes, shiftily seen
spying on sequestered sibylline, spectator savants, stay silent.
Such suppressed servile sophisticates, spotting smart
Seedy Senators, sitting sloppily slumped - some silently
supine - send sensual suggestive signs to sexy secretaries, as
subdued sartorial suitors stand speechless. Some, sober and staid,
state spasmodic spates of salacious, and sometimes sanctimonious, statements.
Seemingly superfluous, scores of servicemen and seniors suggest
specific superficial senile support services, should shut shortly!
Studious spokesmen suggest scads of spurious suggestions in September,
send scrambled signals, since severely symbolic sentence structure,
should seek speedy severance from sedulous speculative stricture, and
stimulating scattered sophomore senses and sensibility is senseless!
Since scathingly scanning this alliteration, it seems successful!
Hopefully a fun filled frolicking folio with ‘fin-esse?’
Rhymer. September 6th, 2016.
If streams of my dreams should screech to a halt
Inside a smart heart gone stone cold
Enabling losses, mosses and tosses to unleash the thunderbolt
That with no iota of care clinches and pinches my gold
In addition to writing off prospects of recovery
From a bruising encounter I deem harsh
And if my heart should make the discovery
That scratches from a branch of love should smash
Points of view held dear and clear in my avatar
I’d beg to excuse fuses grown short
In contests driving a harsh bargain on a far flung star
Whose flight should crush every effort
I muster to master emotions swirling and whirling inside
My heart whose beats betray the certainty
That the future no longer cossets the pride sauntering astride
Past and present, hope and despair, humility and vanity
I should gladly fly my clout and doubt docket
Away from the business as usual model
To reinvent and reengineer my love rocket
And glide, ride and slide slowly but surely to the citadel
Where my sanity free of a stricture straitjacket
Should direct and resurrect immense possibilities
To recover the gold stolen from folds of the jacket
Stalking veneers and facades whose fragilities
Awaken the sleeping lions whose roar
Breaks the autonomy and monotony
Discernible from the unexpected uproar
My riposte raises in protest against gregarious gluttony.
Every morn, I wake to a blank page -
A canvas, on which I paint
Today
I often revisit past illustrations;
Some statuesque,
and others with rips, tears, and folds;
"Okay" at best
Yet as the sun rose Today,
I did not hearken back
nor begin the day’s depiction;
I turned to the future and wondered:
What will be written?
Rather, what will I write?
Forced to ask my reflection
what he wanted in his
Big Picture
I hoped to mimic his vision wholly
Without much stricture
Does he want uniqueness?
With splashes of vivacious colors
to strike society speechless?
Or just a camouflage to hide his weakness?
Maybe he wants a replica;
a proven success.
Tracing another’s outline,
not self-expressed.
He certainly won’t want a still life!
He’s destined to incite change;
That’s how he’ll fulfill life,
and how he’ll fill that page.
Gazing into this mirror -
into my eyes and my mind -
I find a cloud, nothing clearer
No exact path to which I’ll bind.
For I am no omniscient being,
as this blank page can attest...
I want to help.
I want to hope.
To show love to all life
through an optimistic scope.
I am no omniscient being,
as this blank page can attest.
But one thing is definite:
I’ll enjoy life’s quest.
Love Pictures
by Rick Rucker
The camera is a mechanical device,
It sees not a person's Heart, so nice.
With its metal and plastic stricture,
It can't capture a Love Picture!
When I see her, across the room,
I picture her with Me, the Groom.
I won't have to be told to kiss the Bride,
In fact, to stop me, I'd have to be tied!
And when I squeeze her, in my arms,
I fall victim to her Womanly charms!
Suddenly, the spinning room tips,
We're like conjoined twins, only at the lips!
I cradle her head, and smell her hair,
Wanting to remain ever there!
Beating faster, my Heart joins,
And with it, a Fire in my loins!
Chasing Love, so elusive,
We really need to be reclusive!
To show each other, with word and deed,
To satisfy our urgent need.
She knows exactly what I think,
Ahead of me, she does slink.
To a room, alone at last!
I cling to her, hard and fast!
At this point, I lose all conscious Reason,
No more flirtin', not more teasin',
Alone for what seems hours,
I begin to regain some of my Powers.
Whereas, not long ago, the Fires were lit,
I can now, once again, sit!
Some function returns to my head,
How ironic, my best work is done while my brain is Dead!
Dearest friend did I mention,
that I am not yet convinced about these coalition cocktails.
These cocktails of compromise can quickly cause confusion.
Traditional reliables, mixed with fresh and new infusions.
Watered down potency, muster these illusions
Of neutrality, accessibility, of binding, and of fusion.
Contrasting composites of strong and fruity mixtures;
Colliding compounds of strange, exotic elixir.
Confounding ancient wisdom, and conventional stricture,
On the logic of certain combinations, I'm sure you're getting the picture...
That I am not yet convinced about these coalition cocktails!
I'd rather just one strong taste, and done.
The first passed the tongue's usually the one.
Now undesired flavours solicit my reactions,
And unpursued tastes reduce my satisfactions
Each fighting for the limelight, each vying for my attention.
Like my pallot was the ballot, and my chioice like an election.
And though sometimes a blend works, to the point of sheer perfection.
As the flavours fall away, the after taste often reveals the nature of this artificial mix,
To which I'm sure I have mentioned...
That I remain to be convinced about these coalition cocktails!
www.mikeconcise.com
PRISONER OF POETRY
Is it me in this verse, a strange insight for sure
As it is someone who I don’t really recognise
Am I writing these words, or someone inside
If so, who might be playing the role of a guide
And don’t be too hasty in saying that it’s wise
As if it is encouraged, it will create even more
So, do I have any remaining control of words
Or now, a helpless prisoner of poetry and lost
Could it be a monster that I somehow released
Or that crazy idea that I thought was deceased
Allowing my creativity to dominate at any cost
Not even free to separate the whey from curds
The stanzas and lines do paint a strange picture
As the person in these verses can’t really be me
It’s my hand that appears to be gripping the pen
I should try closing my eyes and counting to ten
And can’t even walk away sane from this fantasy
Now bound by metaphor and subject to stricture
The poem is done, yet it describes someone new
As if I’m in a whole new and different dimension
An exposed inner self, that I never knew existed
Perhaps all this time, a side of me I just resisted
But I just have to stop this to relieve the tension
And I must look deeper inside, to see if it’s true