Long Tempering Poems
Long Tempering Poems. Below are the most popular long Tempering by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tempering poems by poem length and keyword.
"Lemonade"
Agency sent me to
the territory of
Lemonade dreams
where secret rendezvous
were disjointed
and criminally spent
shooting the cool breeze
she blew hot and cold
covertly coquettish
while they waited for
absent common sense
to repent in her confessional booth
like diamonds their eyes twinkled
their smiles stroked
the changing colours of her
scaled existence, waiting
she smoked their egos
like she was patting
lackadaisical fur
she reminded herself
they were all reptilian
lazy nights with the
Blue Iguana
lounging long legged
stilettos sharp and lethal
schmoozing sonorously
with shiny wet lipped
slick talking smooth
barflies and lizards
talking tangled tongues
they kissed the air
hissing, this of course,
blithe and thin,
full of promises
and sensual missives
taking their lives
with shots of time
tempering caresses
along the tumultuous
tears in the fabric of a frayed life
short skirting the rim
swallowing a small esse essay
while they gobbled wild turkey
straight,
shooting words like bullets
no ice and bent stories
they would appear as monks
religiously flagellating
regular and on point
tomes of despair
lacking their one
shot at a heroine
whose fair addiction
psychoanalysing
muddled minds
bubbled like lemonade
cool, she was a long tall glass
sucking dreams up
her sucking straw
seen through her cut green
glassed shards of mirrors
they were all transforming
into colourful big beaked
squawking macaws
while she read lines
with her man Coleridge
and considered everything
“as if this earth in
fast thick pants were
breathing”
she turned their bent pages
fey and crooked and
burned the leaves for mystic tea
an aphrodisiac as sacrificial offering
to a plot twist
dei ex machina
surely all gods would come soon
in time to a party
bare of good men
where the rule
was no law
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
"There was a moment, a hole opened in the sky
A chance to join that pantheon
For all the times they never heard your battle cry
Now even angels sing along"
Aware of my attention to her as well as my proximate presence, she went on in a steadily refined rhythm, neither upset nor uplifted, holding my slick sight at reducible ductility and scotching its sneak stretch. Synergic is the comfort of her tangible prandial posture, neither demure nor obtrusive, salvaging my inspirational flotsam and jetsam and restarting its transmigration from annihilation to arousal. She also seemed occasionally absorbed in her own line of thought, though not so deep as mine; Her immaculate teeth loomed out of her dapper mouth from time to time in accordance with their nibbling cadences, as if double arrays of pearls peeked from inside a neatly halved cherry breathing brisk budding breeze. Constantly perceptible was her calm attitude toward me, neither aloof nor outgoing, holding my flaming heart at controllable temperature and tempering its premature incalescence. Synergic is the tenderness of her intangible inner temperament, neither obvious nor occult, enriching my shriveled Hippocrene hue and enlightening its transfiguration from wanness to chatoyance.
As the size of the servings on her platter dwindled, depleted, she deliberately finished her meal and left after spending a little while wiping and cleaning. Engrossed in her every move and my corresponding relished resonance, I'd been completely negligent of what food she had ordered, both the main dish and all the trimmings. On her table remained two slightly crumpled sheets of napkins without visible swiping trace, together with the spick-and-span tableware on the platter shining untouched grace. When across opacity shone a beam of brightness, when through aridity flowed a stream of ripeness, it was enough for me to parlay such flavor instead of merely applying myself to an insipid chat-up effort.
It works more wonders
to cock your passion by pen
than to cock a hen!
November 9 Relationship to God Bible Meditations Based on 1Corinthians 11-12
Key Verse – 1Corinthians 11:3 But I would have you know, that the head of every man is Christ; and the head of the woman is the man; and the head of Christ is God.
LORD GOD, YOU ARE MY SOVEREIGN HEAD
Lord God, You are my Sovereign Head and I follow Your ordinance
Thank You for covering me with Your assistance-dominance
Never dishonouring my prayer-anchored assurance
Yet, transforming me toward Your glorious appearance.
Lord God, You are my Sovereign Head and I come to Your direction
Thank You for teaching me with Your instruction
Never insulting my sincerity that admits Your guiding unction
Yet, declaring to me Your truth’s revelation.
Lord God, You are my Sovereign Head and I hear Your voice
Thank You for calling me, enabling me to rejoice
Never belittling my aspiration to show divine poise
Yet, helping me to have right choice against foolish noise.
Lord God, You are my Sovereign Head and I yield to Your grace
Thank You for strengthening me along life’s race
Never starving my soul seeking for Your contentment ways
Yet, satisfying me around Your compassion’s embrace.
Lord God, You are my Sovereign Head and I delight in Your majesty
Thank You for enlightening me with Your immutability
Never dampening my spirituality to wallow in vain futility
Yet, upholding me by Your wisdom’s authority.
Lord God, You are my Sovereign Head and I trust Your miracles
Thank You for working in me toward faith-acts pinnacles
Never despising my ministry participation midst carnal tickles
Yet, sanctifying me with Your forgiveness-buckles.
Lord God, You are my Sovereign Head and I praise Your goodness
Thank You for tempering me by Your bestowed kindness
Never frustrating my determination to serve with meekness
Yet, exemplifying to me holy self-denial’s excellent greatness.
November 9, 2023
Seeping through families of oaks,
Surrounded by pines, laurels and all…
Gentle leaves, so alive – yes, they breathe,
Silent like the peace I find here,
Enclosed in their embrace,
Soft music of dove and robin, praising,
Ever praising with their easy tweet,
Tempering the woods with their melodies,
So old, yes, so old…
Breathlessly praising,
Stirring the wonder often lying,
Secreted beside cool streams,
Abandoned by moss-grown stones,
Laughing, gurgling, gushing…
With liquid wonder, blessing spirits,
Risking their most intimate beauties,
Lingering in amused giggles,
Calm as the silent grace…
Gentling the wind, the wind’s faint
Struggle to bring with it,
A sense of God’s music, His mystery,
Hesitating to break through,
Intensity, powerful as the cloudless skies,
Yes, those cloudless skies…
Escaping the darkness of a lazy afternoon,
Screaming a warning, rumbles of thunder,
Defeated by the flashes of lightening,
Blazing across the silk sky,
Glancing over the aching trails,
Strewn with dried leaves, maples,
Poplars and oaks, pine needles,
Moments expressed…
Soundless colors, shimmering
On the edge of a prayer,
Mostly peaceful, but ever aware…
God is there – oh, yes, He is there.
Like the wildflowers,
Scattered on the distant dreams,
Unfolding blossoms for the soul,
Flourishing buds,
Crimson and soft, buttery blond,
Violets, wild and willful,
Pondering the sense of joy,
Magnificent…
Breaking through the seas,
Seas of laughing scenes, lonely –
Never lonely in the forest,
Where I go for the stillness, the calm,
The lingering touch of silence,
Blessings from One who knows me,
Knows just what my soul needs…
These forest walks with Him,
Who gives me a reason to believe,
Believe that I can find solace,
In the music of this melodious forest!
Was it said before? Sure.
Was it said this way? I doubt it.
Perspective is in no way obscure,
And his works are nothing without it.
His motivation’s observed in daily life,
Misery, not just some vague inspiration.
He begs for reason, some way to lessen strife;
His words reflect a resounding desperation.
There seems a need at times to clarify,
But that’s allowed in his terms only;
So many thoughts seem somewhat ‘rarefied’,
Fed his fire, but made him lonely.
No ‘underachiever’, not just another fool,
But still seeking solace by the glass;
Tempering his stagger and his drool
With just a bit of ‘kiss my ass.’
But, usually, genius ‘sots’ come to ground,
Lucid moments - on the square;
Their driving ‘bolts’ of genius, word or sound,
Only written because they dare.
Yes, you can feel the written “heart”,
But few of us can realize that sort of pain;
No isolated misery… of many lives a part,
Each begs an answer... “Who’ll stop the rain?”
Yes, he’s lived it, seen it, and told it well;
But Timing is the Master of one’s Fate.
Is the timing right? Funny…only time will tell…
Will you will be a whining sot or dare to be great?
One success can be lucky, we’ve seen that before.
One book, one song, then quietly fade away.
But six novels later, we should know the score;
He must have had something to say.
So, at the perfect time, someone heard.
Someone who was “someone” took someone under wing.
And to those with interest and empathy, they sold his words;
Saying they “are genius” and with “ugly truth” they ring.
But did he create any redeeming changes or impacts?
Yes, what singular influence did all his artful whining bring?
None... just a relentless, repetitive diatribe of sad facts.
Oh, yes…..and a little “ching ching”.
Entered in the "Idiot or Genius" contest 27 March 2014
not so genius
The logical way to deduce and to reason.
To monitor time.
To chart the changing of seasons
To believe.
To have faith.
To trust in sweet Jesus.
To pretend that god's will does nothing but pleases.
To smile.
To cry.
To hate.
To fear.
To compulsively
Consumingly
Long for the one you hold dear.
The slap of the sea against the jagged face of granite.
The profound, minute presence
In the universe, of our planet.
All that we know is known and not known.
Significance lost to the more significant significance.
The grandeur of the glorious lost to the tempering of the monotonous.
Every other day I dream.
Laboring away my life in the in-between.
Nothing said.
No breath lost to conversation.
Within my head
The perpetual drone of resounding contemplation.I steal from myself more than any thief could ever pull thru my bloody hands.
My fears cause more pain than any loss I have ever known.
My desires drive me with a passion greater than any pleasure I have ever
Gained.
All that I have imagined has dwarfed all that I have experienced.
And yet, the mysteries of my mind validate my existence.
So much power
Over such little substance.
Every other day I dream,
Laboring away my life in the in-between.
I walk without moving
Across a world I can't see.
I have devoured my own soul for sustenance,
Yet I am left starving.
Who could enjoy the feast,
Having eaten themselves while they waited?
Every morsel has no flavor.
Each bite of this life is bland.
Though I strive to enjoy and to savor,
I cannot help but spit-out your offering of sand.
A slight pause is taken between a thought
and the words that I speak from my heart
for words often rendered in too much haste
are frowned upon with wary looks of distaste
I have to admit that it's a voluntary action
Once my words are out, there's no retraction
Much too easily thoughts flow from my mouth
Things go downhill from there, heading south
Sometimes I don't stop myself right away
then find I'm caught in the middle of a fray
Being brutally honest doesn't always work
when it causes people to think I'm a jerk.
Enlightenment on the issue, I should seek
before I extemporize an ineffectual critique
Tempering my tongue is a work in progress
It still gets me into trouble, I will confess.
I really shouldn't say what comes to my mind
without considering someone may be maligned.
I need to consider how others will be affected,
and that their feelings should be respected.
Poorly worded phrases can destroy one's esteem
and tear apart someone's long awaited dream
Never would I intentionally say something unkind
so, to pause before I speak, I have become resigned.
My thoughts are whispers, merely a breath away
from what I should or perhaps should never say
before my tongue takes wing like a bird in flight
releasing words that could cause grief and smite.
Reflecting before I speak my thoughts out loud
is what I must do. To this I've solemnly avowed.
I will try not to make another emotional outburst
of what I can't take back. I will think about it first.
November 23, 2022
Just before release Contest
Sponsored by Unseeking Seeker
A small patch of flowers, a mountain top glade
slapped into twirls of magenta by cold rain~
voiceless but pleading for the purity of truth
to be taken by {a} tender into the beating of dawn
In sundream they'll play,black butterly and fawnheart
tempering time untill dusk makes the crows bark,
cackling where was the {us} when living turned to blood
drowned the frolick of every prayer for tomorrow-
was it a chain of slanted decisions,that minced the light
bad luck (as when a dime slides from the ritze to the grate...
maybe we met long ago, when we crawled from the sea
took different directions by the will of a rogue breeze
maybe we had parallel lives?
made from the bones of wild planets of fire
what happens when magenta meets black and blue
[this is a good time to dust of the pallet-start mixing the hues],
what colors do a rabid cyclone leave behind
the texture of twisted stars,
to be swallowed by the devil of devine?
young butterfly remembers the innocense of light,
when moonglow made love to the black lips of night.
'till a pack of knives slashed at its wings
(ta hell with the good fight).
..now it no longer searches for mountain top flowers,
or dreams in pools of magenta-
it lies in the mud juggling broken eggs
upon a pile of old dung-
how in the hell can such a thing... love
again.
but their is a softness buried deep
in this blaze of a runaway train
hop on board if you will
follow the reflection of manogre...
to be cont.
Loverly lusting everything living life as it's lavish
Learning to Listen lastingly liking the letters tragic
Trusting in ever targeted tempering tantrums tethered and
Tempting ticklish touching spots toggling throughout timings
Purposely pointing passionate porous is as it's potent
Slipping sliding and slithering seeking something seductive
Whating whimpering what was it's wanting wondering women
What if wanting was wondrous women would still pretend its
Nothing neither nor here or there noting that no man fears it
Figuring figures flauntingly finally showing spirit
Baby it's barely boundary bouncing between your bosoms
But boggling better boundaries backwards between horizons
Highly hiding what's hidden now happily hoping for it
Honoring hours honestly what was once mine is your
Maybe mimicking motions might makeup modern day moment
We can just quickly capture it calling it what it can be but
Baby you best believe me that better things don't come easy
probably overthinking it contemplation my thing see
Pondering every action as acted out in its post scene
I should just break it down I'm
Starting to realize that I'm
Thinking a little hard see
This is all in my mind we
Took a trip through my conscious
Train riding what I'm watch
Wipe your feet at the door so my mind doesn't get all dirty
Thanks for watching my stories
Hope to see you sincerely
Contemplation is over I hope that you all enjoyed me
The wealthy seek company with your ten-acre heart and one-acre mind.
Groupies swarm beneath your haloed window even on rainy nights.
Tapping tambourines and triangles to poultice out those nuggets of life.
You slowly walk away from the frame and tiredly kiss them goodnight.
You try tempering pace, but the takers ripped the sundial from you.
Swarming like locusts- toting manuscripts, a photo shoot or two.
Who new babysitting the universe could be so damn exhausting.
Impossible to escape from the talons of a new age paparazzi.
All that you loved and lived for, has long ago withered and died.
You barricade from the gaze of a billion grasping green eyes.
Another golden chessboard gifted to you from an aging king.
Yet another bribe to pry from your palm the secret of eternity.
It all became to much; you've become the world's origami freak.
Folding and unfolding to appease the whirling maelstrom of greed.
You realize (to late) that the elixir is no blessing but a cutting curse.
You've been committed to an asylum called the song of dead birds.
Your 6006 years old, playing endless chess with moonbeams and ghosts,
dimming lights-drawing shades to drown out the mirror and the smoke.
You try explaining to Dr. Narcotic you're not a goblin,God or prophet
just a blue collar pawn who stumbled upon an elixir of misery and rot.