Long Sullenly Poems
Long Sullenly Poems. Below are the most popular long Sullenly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sullenly poems by poem length and keyword.
Sassy sobriquets schooled sissy spindleshanks...
studious skinny scruffy scribe
Scathing, scolding, screaming,
scorning, searing, sing,
sociopathic sarin soaked skewed
squirt, sputtering, squawking, sleepily
staggering, stabbing, swaggering
sweltering sadistic, sarcastic,
savage, systemically systematically
stigmatized, supersized saber sharp
schick shaving, shunned, sabotaged,
scarred, scorched, smote, sanguine,
stippled, speckled schizophrenic
sensibility, spurring, seething,
somewhat stultified, sophisticated,
spellbound spirited scabrous
schlemiel schlemazel, stenciled,
sundered sniveling sanguine storied
snakebitten sojourning smartass,
skeptical shoddy sophomoric
screwball, subtly sagacious,
stunted, sclerotic, scrappily
shuffling short, Shylock
styled sideburns Semite,
sainted Shasta sipping
shriveled sad sack,
sullenly syncopated, synthesized,
slobbering sybaritic, scruffy
sheepish sketchy scalawag,
Socratically scrutinizing, seizure
stricken, stoically sneezing,
shamed Skidrow skeezer, shifty,
sweaty, sham shaman,
supremely spidery, schmaltzy,
sylan seeking subsidized succor,
self shuttered, sequestered,
sidelined, shiftless, shabby,
semantically snazzy, soldiering,
shrieking, skulking, somber,
stooping, Segway scootering,
schmart spendthrift, Swahili
speaking, straitlaced, streamlined,
spongebobbing, sandal shod
sealegs, squarepants sporting
spectacles, sedate, sensate,
sentient, ship shaped,
shanghaied, salubrious,
slithering, snakish, stuttering,
sluggish, smashface scarred,
sober, solitary, sangfroid
skidamarink singing, Shamokin
speaking scrivener, scuzzy,
spunky, starved, submissively
suicidal, sunburned,
salaried shuffling senescent
snoutish soundcloud shutterflying
snapchatting schnorrer.
A bit of nostalgia, in 1979, my senior year of High School, our English class published a small book of poetry. I was pleasantly surprised that my poem was one of the ones selected to be included. The book was called "Reflections" and included student drawings as well. Unknown to me, my older sister kept my copy of that book and returned it to me recently via my younger sister. The following is the poem I wrote to be printed in the book. I was 18. This is the only poem I've written that still exists prior to my posting on PS. It is posted exactly as it was printed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Over the hills
The flowers grow,
And deep into the senses blow,
The breezes of calm yet illustrious flows
Of streams of thoughts on the coming low
Of winter and the fallen snow.
Yet this air, so still and sweet,
With clouds which so sullenly reach
To every hidden earthly retreat,
Merely to bring forth and to greet
Thoughts of the soft and gentle feet
Of spring in my mind.
?/?/1979
Dad is out back,
speaking to his swedes and turnips.
He only grows tubers, root vegetables,
that I sullenly refuse to eat.
There is one flower
a Passionflower, 'Passiflora Incarnate'
that clings to the garden fence.
I could not see any passion in it,
until mum showed me
the creamy crucifix within
the blue and white corona.
Dad belly laughs
as mum, showing me,
piously makes the sign of the cross.
Dad is digging up a real beauty,
that's what he called it,
a 'real beauty',
a soil crusted cannonball,
the monstrous offspring
of a cabbage and a turnip.
He was not a religious man,
but he did believe fervently,
in those strange passions
some have
for cabbage soup
and mashed turnip.
Folks say I'm struggling
That I'm old and confused,
They don't see all the haggling
Which leaves them bemused.
My colleagues are wordy
My enemies too,
But my willpower is sturdy
As I'm all for the Blue.
If now a bit slower
Even friends I seem faze,
But post Trump the bar's lower
And that's my fail safe.
The Media's a pain
What's with the shouting,
I shan't play their game
Their continual doubting.
Then there's old Bernie
And his Marxists galore,
With their bone headed journey
To simply point score.
Republicans matter not a bit in my mind
Obstructive and loudly they wail,
But Politics taught to never be kind
So let them act up and sullenly rail.
As to the Trumpers, what can I say
They live in a universe all of their own,
Their partisan anger a cause for dismay
While the stolen election they relive every day.
When all's said and done I'm proud of my job
Obama's on side to bring me relief,
My one secret weapon to quieten the mob
Sharing the load to make my weeks brief.
Weary, sluggish and silent with apathy and
disinterest, I sullenly reflect and
languish....
My thoughts—thick and heavy like
molasses—painfully churn and swirl in
and out of my head and spill against the
background of dead silence of my living
room....
They are in constant motion, while I sit in
the living room mute and gagged and bound
with the world-weariness of a lifetime and
stare blankly into empty space by looking
inward....
Even the furnishings around me defer to
my now sullen mood. Not saying a word
and bowing their heads, they hold their
tongues and keep their thoughts to them-
selves out of respect and deference for my
silent and solemn doldrums....
The flat-panel TV, otherwise always on
and hyper-gregarious, for once regards my
sullenness and apathy with its own....
I sit exactly thus—
alone,
but in the sympathetic company of my
furniture and belongings....
They whisper to me of a time when I was
sinful and wanton and remind me of the
need for redemption....
I remember, and take heed by repenting....
And by doing so, I have narrowly avoided
reaping and gathering the terrible,
karmic consequences
of an unspeakable harvest of sins
for myself!
We are sullenly mourning
For security from the demoralizing night
I am despairingly probing
For mercy to carry us back to our divine flight
We are all wishing for infinite freedom
We are all seeking for an abundant kingdom
If we are living in pure happiness, why are we so emotional inside and out?
Why are we painstakingly tracking down a getaway away from this mystifying dilemma? What is all this venturing about?
If we are swaying in the rhythm of faultless jolliness, why are we vexing about the departure of our best friend?
It isn’t in our control…so get a grip or we'll fall!
If we build up our friendship, we'll have wounds to mend
So stop your blaming and cursing or we'll be in appall
If we are all leaders, why are we panicking?
We are all leaders…we aren’t senseless pleaders!
So face your phobias and get out of the deserted state!
We are all leaders…we will not give in, vile deceivers!
Saunter out of sight, so we won’t meet our unsettling fate!
You meddled with our cries
So don't point fingers, you insidious devil
And forced us to believe your jaded lies
SHUT YOUR MOUTH! I don't want to consider your excuses, for our truth stands still
If we are living in pure happiness, why are we not meant to be?
If we are living in pure happiness, why are we battered and bent?
If I am living in pure happiness, why am I not free?
Could we ever discard this horrifying dilemma that pounds on us like cement?
We must act like a leader—tough and vigilant
Striving to survive!
We must mimic like a leader—buff and independent
Struggling to stay alive!
Disregard the mourning state;
Drive out the defiant enemies and make them face their damnations
So we can joyfully integrate and negotiate
You’d do me a favor to cease your supplications!
Our eyes may be the windows of the soul,
through my windows I see all the sorrows.
Where sorrow's tears always do take a toll;
hoping to improve everyone's tomorrows.
My fortress, built as a face to the world;
reveals that "fair is foul and foul is fair".
Discerning what is just and unfurled -
then can we ever see the real truth out there?
Bound by my fears and tears I sadly weep.
Is something within sullenly seething?
In my soulful refuge I "murder sleep" -
like widows in back of a church fretting.
From my perch my judgments are on the brink.
Now I see the slanted ways people think.
Grumpy Gray was not afraid of judgement day
He groused and griped and sullenly made his way
He had been a church goer, had missed no Sunday
What have you done for others? Peter asked Mr Gray
I gave money to the church, they bought cushions for the pew.
That’s what the church did; I am asking, what did you do?
He made our long walk here dreary, somber, angry and blue.
Suggested a small child who was wise at the age of two.
Grumpy Gray had to sit in purgatory for a long time said Lu.
He had to learn a lesson about being kind to people too.
He had no idea his job on earth was to not be so danged blue.
When will he finally get released? Asked his cousin Sibbly Sue.
Realizing where you are,
Your heart silently bemoans
Having seen those warning signs
As you entered a dreadful zone.
Yet, you pretend to be happy
Refusing to hear the pensive vibes
Emanating from forlorn sound
Echoed by your strife-ridden mind,
And while you wear a smiley mask
Denying anguish resides in you,
Ebullience has already escaped
From your saddened landscape.
Let the loved ones see your pain
In your frame sullenly flawed
For they've already heard
The cry of your pseudo facade.
Hope cannot find its way
When you keep hiding despair,
Until you admit you've been lost
Don't expect to find your path.
January 14, 2018
Germany, 1964
In barracks bare of beauty
I lay restlessly in bed. Around, a rife
of lifeless characters
from some Saturday charade
sullenly invite me to their ghastly parade.
I merely pull my blanket higher up
and blatantly yell out "Shaddup!"
A spot of flesh unknown to sun itches
so I scratch. Musty curtains run
in dusty ripples on their pulleys.
The room overflows with bullies
but I turn over in my bunk
and choose to spurn,
scratching a spot that doesn't itch.
I glance up. The light bulb top is dirty.
I reach up, unscrew the bulb,
lay silent in my patch of dark
and try, vainly, to extinguish
a more persistent spark.
The air around me reeks of smoke and beer,
is heavy with the weight of discontent.
I lie still darkly fomenting
an impotent dislike
for atmospheres like this one.
I writhe upon my squeaky cot and dun
and growl like some ancient,
burly, and barbaric Hun.
Vehemently, I vocalize my intense tension
with interjections "nice people" would never mention.