Long Tenuous Poems
Long Tenuous Poems. Below are the most popular long Tenuous by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tenuous poems by poem length and keyword.
Yes, as flowers, we doth bloom and one day will fall.
This is how life is, one day, we will hear God’s final call.
So, while we are here and have God’s grace to be alive.
Do not try to destroy others, that is just offensive jive.
But being vain and wanting to appear popular and better,
Some brand others with their own form of a Scarlet Letter.
So popular they wanted to be, they become so disingenuous.
Meanwhile, forgetting, indeed, our lives are indeed, tenuous.
Read any portion of history, you will find wonderful people.
since time began
Yet, others, who presented themselves as perfect but were
hurtful and plain shams.
Live your life, so that eternity can be yours.
We cannot fool all others, they are far from demure!
Not one perfect human skates upon this planet,
But the pretense that they do, has Satan’s hoof marks upon it.
I grew up believing the fairy tales and stories I was told…
I believed if I could make it over the rainbow…I’d find a pot of gold.
At the end of December this year I will be turning 70 year old…
and though I’ve seen a lot of rainbows…I’ve never found my pot of gold.
But yesterday I realized something I hadn’t realized before…
as we spent a morning walking with the birds along the shore.
Arriving before sunrise…there is this euphoria we reach…
knowing at that moment we’re the only two people on the beach.
But once the rising sun gradually makes her presence known…
we recognized, at first light, that we were not alone.
For along the shore we saw pelicans, willets, sandpipers illuminated by the day…
while in the waves as they crashed the shore we saw crabs and Atlantic rays.
The rays and crabs quickly dashed away…their faith in us was tenuous…
but the birds along the shore said…come…and walk with us.
As we all shared a sunrise…the birds didn’t make a fuss….
somehow sensing as we walked together…that they were safe with us.
There is so much about the wonder of nature and life one begins to understand..
as you wade into the water with the birds…and walk along the sand.
And as the sky took on an amber glow
thinking back to those stories and fairy tales I was told…
I realized I had made it over the rainbow…
I had found my pot of gold.
Perhaps there are an abundant pots of gold out there…
in places we never thought of before…
like sharing a walk with someone you love…
with some birds along the shore
I heard about your violent death...
And had not known about your poems.
I went searching for them, but it seems as if
Someone must have put them away.
Perhaps they would be just too lovely for our ears to hear...
Perhaps the words would be more worthy
Than our repentant hearts might be permitted to feel?
And I am left looking out of my upstairs window
At the mass of white blossoms beautifying the pale cherry trees;
Not even a wisp of wind ...the whole World is left
Silently grasping for breath;
And the fraught blossoms dares not even tremble
Should they lose their tenuous grip upon the crowded
Black twigs.
Like all things related to screwballs
and misfits
I was born looking for a word
inside a clock.
Back then, time ticked loudly,
clocks ran faster than chipmunks.
Young bones were fueled by green grenades
plucked from low-hanging life-lines.
I needed words to save the world,
I needed a clock-case to store them in,
I needed speedbumps for my brain.
Mother said that If I lived to be a man
I would be all strewn about
like a crow-pecked scarecrow.
Eventually I discovered
a way to make words bespoke,
to give them meaning
outside of the hide-bound
and buckram dictionary.
Naturally I had to invent my own time-machine,
and had to surrender to a fanciful argot.
For a long while, only blithe revenants
and their little helpers
could read my tenuous tidings.
It was only when my pipsqueak prattle
had the effrontery to call itself ‘poetry’
that some said sadly
that I may be ever so slightly explicable.
Alas mother was right, there is only the clock,
and it runs on mechanical words,
and so I remain a rare bird
bamboozled by age-worn chalk-talk,
a jargon that refuses
to jump out of its own skin.
Does the rain make you sad as it takes hold?
Tiny droplets once icy cold,
now, warm as the temperatures unfold
and what would have been the winter snow
slips into fields and streams that flow.
Don't be disappointed, please
it's only winters tease
to fool you with a warming winter breeze
while out north upon the open seas
wrestles old man winter's with a tenuous freeze.
Don't look now but this warm is short and brief
riding upon restless wind comes the heat thief
and graying skies with tumultuous clouds
are racing forward in the night's hidden shroud
and the snows of winter will soon fall steadily and proud.
My connection to Irishness is tenuous at best,
So, my habit of getting out of fixes seems to rest,
With my Guardian angel being one of the best.
For example, today I caught the bus to my Friday cleaning job,
Without my keys to do the job,
Not to worry my Guardian Angel managed the situation,
So, when I got to the bus station,
I was in time to step on a return bus to my home situation,
Retrieve my keys and step onto another bus to the right station,
Walk to minutes to my cleaning situation,
And finish the cleaning in time to walk back to the bus station,
To step onto another bus that got me home in time to sort my lunch situation.
Thank you Guardian Angel for saving my bacon.
Allow me the opportunity to acquaint you with a few particulars regarding the background to our story and place the principals securely in the context of the setting in which we take our sojourn with them. Our story begins once upon a Mardi Gras, in a mythical city where time and space maintain a tenuous truce, and logic figures into no part of the alliance. In that city, there lived a happy family that answered to the name of Babineaux. The Babineaux family lived in a tidy little flat on the corner of Iberville and Dauphine, just a few blocks from Jean Lafitte National Historical Park and Preserve. It is a historic neighborhood.
Algebra Babineaux, the mother, had been a schoolteacher on a Choctaw reservation in Oklahoma before she married Papa, whom she met while visiting relatives in Quebec. They moved to New Orleans after inheriting a small shop in the French Quarter from a benevolent relative. Algebra Babineaux is reverent. She sings grace every morning at breakfast while the family holds hands around the kitchen table, "The Lord is good to me, and so I thank the Lord for giving me the things I need, the sun, the rain and the apple seed. The Lord is good to me."
Algebra Babineaux also possesses a firm belief in the sanctity of justice. Her motto is, 'keep the faith.' She’s a country girl who likes her grits thick. Her belief in the rule of law is so strong, she makes it a point to always butter everyone’s breakfast toast on both sides so that if a slice might accidentally drop to the floor, there’d be no possible chance of violating the Tumbling Toast Corollary to Murphy’s Law.
Sue doesn’t sit so demurely in her motorised wheelchair.
She’ll tell folks to stop gawking as it's very rude to stare!
Beneath her tenuous frame is quite a formidable young girl,
born with brittle bones but in her wheelchair she can twirl.
Sue’s parents sadly told her that her condition is immutable.
She is bereft of strong limbs, but her courage is irrefutable.
Despite a recent interlude in hospital, she's always cheerful.
Don’t treat her like she’s invisible or you may get an earful!
She loves to sketch caricatures in her artist’s drawing book
and in her specially adapted kitchen Sue is learning to cook.
Her physical disability will not prevent her from achieving
and her aphorism of life's always been, ‘Never stop believing
Sue loves to spend time wheeling around the garden paths,
watching chirping sparrows joyfully splashing in bird baths.
She paints canvases filled with butterflies and lovely flowers.
Sometimes she is quite content to sit there and read for hours.
If you are feeling sorry for Sue, don't give it another thought.
In her scarlet wheelchair, she's accepted what life has wrought.
Each day she finds something to appreciate that gives her a thrill.
In truth, she sees more beauty in life than most of us ever will.
Eight word Challenge 5 Contest
Sponsored by John Hamilton
Required words: demurely, sketch, tenuous, brittle, formidable, interlude, bereft, immutable
10-23-17
It inflated, it vanished
and gone...no salt
not sweet...
So light it was lost
in the ethereal, and neither ,
her lightness was sustained ...
The tenuous network of fragile threads
broken..., it hoisted itself in the air...
but it fell...
Searched in the Fields
shelter and the field didn't donate...
She wanted to run away to the sea...but
couldn't swim and sank...
Being Mariana, she camouflaged herself
of submarine and went to atone
her mistakes at the bottom of the sea...
Because she doesn't believe in the real, she lost
faith in God... she went to rescue
faith in Neptune and Zeus...
to be able to continue,
dreaming of a green country...!
no shortage of familiar metier real
(material) aye attest
welling up within thy breast
merely a predicament how to winnow
junk bonded barnacled
accretion encrusted
amidst gems buried
within treasure chest,
yet vigilant to sift,
viz figurative fine tooth comb
uprooting excrescence laired plethora
incognito, sans faux
couture doggerel habiliment dressed
necessitating painstaking
poetic rock climbing
ala scaling Mount Everest
imbedding, hooking, grappling
fingered duple crampons
aye con fessed
to myself, the futility
to wrest Shakespearean nuggets,
which analogy hyperbole you guessed
nor does modesty allow me feeble effort
(trite) on par with August bard,
who would rank him,
the highest allotted value
upon assigned (absolute)
value of playing card,
hence tis the gold standard thee
verse a tile scribe based
at Stratford on Avon
this here wordsmith wields
his own literary might always on guard
to stave reprehensible tar tarred plaque
like encrustation glued hard
akin to a geode methodical
mother lode extraction jarred
by the slightest distraction,
thus with bold
ness sigh hermetically
seal off every cerebral fold
vectors against superfluous mind chatter
can upend fragile tenuous hold
when merest wisp of nearly
elusive mental thread escapes,
i feign scold
ding this paperback
bestseller wannabe with told
cha so Harris, thus
keep dreaming envisioning
an green acred Edenic demesne
sprawling across wide webbed wold.