Long Unshod Poems
Long Unshod Poems. Below are the most popular long Unshod by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unshod poems by poem length and keyword.
Old Bald Frog and a toad named Ander
saw Sally wander down by the road.
Said Frog, "Now Sally, me and Ander
been wondering where you do meander?"
Now, Ander was a three-toed toad,
had four before that Sally strode
upon his feet, a feat that slowed
and hobbled Ander’s hopping mode,
and took him longer when he mowed.
See, Frog and Ander, seeding sod,
done seen a scene they are thought was odd.
Miss Sally Mander did meander
on their sod with horse unshod.
And furthermore, she spared no rod.
The more they rode, they trampled, trod,
the more the sod got ample flawed,
a fact that gnawed, till with a nod,
Frog hopped the road with Toad in tow.
He looped his shawl and roped the rod,
and to a crawl, that horse was slowed.
Say, what’s the matter, Sally Mander?
Why you race the grass me, Ander
Working so to get to grow?
O, Froggie, don’t work up a dander,
I’s just taking me a gander.
See, I’ve a plot to buy that plot;
By Jove, I plan to pay a lot!
How’s we deal instead of grouse?
If you and Toad will move my house,
including all the stuff I’ve cached,
I’ll even plan to pay in cash,
and you’ll be rich and maybe hot,
you slap a toupee on that spot.
And so, he’d cede the sod he sowed;
she’d sew the shoddy shawl he showed.
Then he, that three-toed toad, they towed
her new abode down by the road;
the cattle lowed under their load.
Then, since they had no grass to mow,
they ambled by another mode,
There on the lake by her abode,
‘twas not a road and so they rowed.
Truth told, too old, he rode, toad rowed.
And with this cache of cash, he near explodes.
With tears, he tears the note he owed,
the last that lien is ever seen,
leans back his head and sings this ode.
----------
for the Homophone Rhyme Poetry Contest
sponsored by Hat Bueckert
written on 10/11/22
may not be exactly what was looked for since a lot of
the homophones are used as inner rhymes,
but it was a fun write, so there's that!
Worshippers at the Mountains of Madness
Worshipers at the Mountains of Madness
zealots seeking kinship of distant god
await the searing wind of cold duress
tattered clothe - torn robe - beggars now unshod
clutch thinning air in folded hands of doubt
beseeching of the peaks the madness there
blind seekers panning gold - veins long run out
follow deep crevasse of lingering fear.
Yet, lost amid frigid glistening peak
resides a hidden truth as yet unthawed
that they must coax the frozen voice to speak
and listen to its truth however flawed.
Cold peaks, those bell-less towers, should incite
rebellion in the eyes awakened sight.
5/17/2016
submitted to – At the Mountains of Madness – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Timothy Hicks
I know of a secret place,
where we may imbibe God’s grace
after giving love our nod,
tiptoeing therein unshod.
Let’s cut to chase, cave of heart,
is where our quest we should start,
invoking bliss magnetism,
to ignite mind-body prism.
First things first, we must be pure,
recognising love’s the cure
to all conflicts in our life;
futile and needless is strife.
If we’re not love enabled,
with narrow fears yet tabled,
knowing not how to behave,
we cannot enter God’s cave.
I know of this secret place,
where we see God face to face;
bliss nectar soul may partake,
once lower mind we forsake.
23-May-2023
This or That, Vol 18 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Each time soul’s reborn, it begins anew,
with memory of its past life wiped clean,
feeling vividly each hue as though new,
truth of existence attempting to glean.
Love’s the only rule in this earth life school,
so on blank canvas of soul, we should ink
colours of joy but then lust makes us drool
and in quicksands of desire, we soon sink.
It seems then we are doomed but there is hope,
for God has provided us with a guide,
being voice of conscience, that we don’t grope
in darkness, reclaiming soul’s light inside.
The table is laid for joy readymade,
if we but opt in stream of bliss to wade.
If we but opt in stream of bliss to wade,
being flow of soma nectar within,
cravings of ego soon begin to fade
and our heart is purged from demonic sin.
To embrace magnetism is up to us,
simply since love employs no use of force,
so melding head with heart, making no fuss,
currents divine sublime steers our life course.
Love’s the magic that has no opposite,
resolving within its womb, past conflict,
making mind, body and soul composite,
provided we are not by ego tricked.
In void-centric stillness, witnessing life,
animating silence, our heart’s bliss rife.
Animating silence, our heart’s bliss rife,
tiptoeing softly in the void unshod,
allowing love to act as the midwife,
revealing inner light that leaves us awed.
Life is the fabric upon which we paint
emotes of soul, inked by our childlike heart,
so treading gently, mindful like a saint,
let us then make each breath, a work of art.
Born in the aether, God’s magnetic heat,
enlivens head to toe, our feeble form
refrain of love that always does repeat,
imbibed if we surrender to this storm.
Just as each morn, we’re graced by pristine dew,
each time soul’s reborn, it begins anew.
in ambedo trance
we wished
the sun of joy would never set
but it did
since the matrix
is designed to bind us with mind
remorseless
and unapologetic
as we decay … is the flow of time
as long as we dream
which in truth is up to us
at any moment, silence sets us free
there is a catch
of course there always is
sans thought, our ego, our identity dies
do we dare
to meld with the inky black void
if we do, then tip toe into heart unshod
embrace silence
where bliss magnetism beckons
our formless awareness to merge with God
When the world was quiet
and life moved with grace,
time measured by seasons
and years instead of minutes,
and people saw the world as
close by, with foreign lands
far away, another universe,
not quite real, not quite true--
then the mind could rest,
enjoy the simple pleasures
of family and friends and old
neighbors to share old tales....
Life was taken slowly then,
no faster than a carriage ride,
and evil belonged mainly in
crusty books of ancient times.
There was no rancor, no bile
stirred by relentlessly biting
news that chews at the soul
like the devil's own pitchfork.
There was no magic screen
to capture you slave-like and
bound for barren lands filled
with children starving, babes
dying before they walked, and
War and Disease and Death all
coming through an open door.
Once we trod the earth unshod
and breathed the virgin air and
sang love songs to God in heaven
and saw others as brothers, some
lost, others newly found, all to be
welcome, all to be heard and seen.
Now we see the other as less than,
as missing our noble sweetness--
sure we have found the truth and
those who do not march alongside,
must march against us-- we need
no god to be on our side to know
what must be done for justice....
A poet like Emily could write in
peace though a terrible slaughter
raged far away, its madness slow
to reach her ears, giving her time
to let it sweep her untamed soul.
But she could not breathe today,
her spirit smothered by the loss
of distance and time and mercy.
When the world was quiet
and life moved with grace,
we had a sense of ourselves,
our footing in this world,
our dreams of the next....
In he whom I endued with life and love
does to one patient in hope bear reward -
a trueborn heir a man can be proud of
and whom well affectioned is well adored.
Follow the pathfinder maps to your soul
and hold fast its moral bearings inward -
trust in seen and unseen, in faith uphold
and in your heart recompense good for good.
Thus be not reckless in your own conceits
but wise to just cause and love’s whispered breath -
walk safely in the world in all your feats
lest it suffer me and quicken my death.
Make your way like him ragged and unshod
and bend your knee unto no one but God.
Written: March 2009
How chafed the foot bereft of sole,
when unshod thoughts meet splintered floor.
Known terra firma drifts from whole,
as reason loses sight of shore.
I’ll wander where the breeze seems kind;
sweet apple blossom fairies lure.
Away from those who cage the mind,
indulging revelations – pure.
I’ll play the bride in quaint repose,
replete in sagely fettered yearn.
A farm house dowry, heaven chose;
soon I will quell all mused concern.
Old voices join the pipers tune,
a melody once clear – opaque.
Reality lies roughly hewn,
upon this page; my soul awake.
**29 May 2017**
Perpetual beginnings
avoid uncertain endings.
The day ends
forgetting where it started.
One hour wipes a moving face
you had hung on the wall
thinking to mark a passing,
but there is no passing
only the begun again.
A tiny speck floating between us.
Your eyes flicker over it
tracing its erratic passage.
My features are wiped away
as your mind follows your eyes.
Only another distraction
can bring us back together
into the same space.
Abandoned footprints pressed
into the earth between night and day
Muddy shoes, empty, discarded,
their throats wide open,
mouths mutely appealing,
caught in the act
of escaping both dark and light.
Here, where elderly men sip tea with
the loud ticking of a communal clock,
unshod feet shuffle in white cotton.
Their thoughts begin and end
in the gaps between their words.
Perpetual twilight stirs the milk
in dimming eyes.
Exasperated attendants hunt
for lost shoes,
while the old men
play an invisible game of chess
with specks of awareness
caught as they are
between somnambulant journeys.
feet tracing ruts
softened by the weight of others
the path was worn
polished
not by insight
but by generations
unquestioning the same direction
a weed split the sidewalk
where my foot hesitated
they handed us maps
already marked, folded
creased at the routes
they wanted us to traverse
walls hung with heirlooms
no one claimed
shadows
longer than the rooms
classrooms’ chalkboards of certainty
offices pressed flat with protocol
we learned the art
of veiling the eye behind the eye
we drank from vessels
lips like waiting mouths
etched with forgotten crests
believing the shape of the cup
taught us thirst
air rehearsed its return
like a tethered animal pacing
the same invisible circle
inscribed with grace
shaped like a cage
narrowing the limit
of knowledge
of wisdom
altars made from repetition
shaped our days
to fit the mold
filed down the splinters of doubt
until only smooth compliance remained
tell me—
what is awakening
if not the moment
your hand reaches
for a handle
no one told you was there
and the quiet moment after waking
my heart
uncertain
unshod
hesitates…