Long Unstrung Poems
Long Unstrung Poems. Below are the most popular long Unstrung by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unstrung poems by poem length and keyword.
A slack line slaps a flagpole as the wind gusts through the park.
The band shell stands abandoned, but for dogs that sniff and bark.
I'd take my lucky penny, drop it gladly in the well
That all would be as music for my Lejna Tasha Belle.
The weedy footpath narrows, withered tangles intertwine
The partly broken trellis which the drunken rose once climbed.
I'd rake this moon-dark garden, work till Nature cast Her spell,
That all would be as flowers for my Lejna Tasha Belle.
I’ll not see end to end from in the middle
Until life’s brilliant necklace comes unstrung.
Where once I’d recollect, “When you were little…”
I now look back and sigh, “When I was young…”
I rustle through the clutter of November's dry debris
And contemplate the lonely leaf-choked fountain then I see
The fallen-in gazebo where the carved initials tell
That all was once as springtime for my Lejna Tasha Belle.
Aye Writhed With Agony...
Unbeknownst to any
innocent onlooker, aye
underwent extreme internal
torture with silent cry
ying whimpers, whence,
(either left or
right) post-
pubescent myopic eye
didst readily espy,
an aesthetically pleasing female,
and most likely stunning
to any other generic guy
and suddenly rendered mute, NO...,
NOT even daring
enough to say "hi,"
which close proximity of sizzling
hot babe wrought me fancying
myself being whisked away
(in a one horse
open sleigh, despite
the remote possibility livingsocial
in Montgomery County,
Pennsylvania suburban) igloo
to be frozen
with fear, petrified lo'
while terror seized thee Oh No
bliss oblige emotional status quo
of much younger Matthew
Scott Harris head to toe
induced a deplorable woe
imaging other (prospective
obscured individuals) probably
considered yours truly
tubby unstrung mama's yoyo,
and at this present time feline
less in timid
dated noticing a sultry,
leggy, and foxy anatomical
and physiological arrest
ting, though such hypothetical chest
a coy gal, nonchalantly, innocently
with non verbal expressed
charm and demurely
posing as if intending
to serve as guest
of honor, nonetheless,
this brief illusory invest
ment, sans quasi
voyeuristic poetic, shrug jest
sheen, and imagistic distraction,
thy sole rhythmical
motif, since n'er nest
sold with any
purdy young thang begrudging
natural animalistic proclivity,
which absence young adult quest
ting, oh yea
definitely in apropos now,
yet...that self deprived
self discovery stage of life,
that "smarts" me psyche,
when clumsy teen
age dating experience,
a electric kool
aid acid (litmus) test
until twilight age
senescence doth wrest.
“When we pray for the Spirit’s help...we will simply fall down at the Lord’s feet in our weakness. There we will find the victory and power that comes with his love”
Andrew Murray
WINGS FOR FEET
imagined he’d be strong with wings for feet.
he climbed the wall. . . unstrung his ankle hit.
the weep sustained — a shattered soul retreat.
(((a-ha))) the shriek of demons force feed fit.
the drool of woes, destined for thievery,
addicted to the pain and its killers.
it’s vain to float the thought ‘recovery,’
the slain, groomed black and blue with cruel chillers.
the teenager becomes a man, deep-drained.
he’s been to court. . . rehab and lost all hope.
((sad eyes)) look down. . . his up — at cross sustained.
the wings of ((good)) will carry him sans dope.
abstain from grip — unstrung from evil trip.
Adidas feet — the zephyr sweet - unbound.
his six pack abs confer he took a sip
of Living Water’s cup. was lost - now found.*
8/6/2019
Eight Word Challenge Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
The required words are in bold.
*Amazing Grace by John Newton
** My poem, Wings For Feet based on true story. It is not the perfect walk one has before God but the habit of walking with Him. God doesn’t turn his back on you when you choose him but changes you day by day as you are covered in the righteousness of His son Jesus Christ.
Brackets put around certain words for emphasis/emotion.
True add verse situation,
whereat me mission
trans send dint state didst ache
after yours truly nearly
did nearly break
chassis 'pon took drastic
over corrective measure,
not quite August,
nor jejune piece of cake,
while rounding raised
curbed contra corner
suddenly felt wrath of wife quake,
viz passenger rear tire
gone flat as a pancake
impresario found myself
hearing Thus Spake,
Zarathustra, when in truth...
twas ma constricted trach.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Some weeks back
acting so cool and chic - bank
king all bravado, machismo
self importance, and frank
lee babbling like a cripple creek
off by a black key with Hank
Williams tune imagining
myself swaggering like a lank
key trump petting Don
(feigning faw being "Beefy") plank
walking lampoon able
laughingstock Freaky, thank
less as a lapsed worn eraser head
pencil necked Geek yank
key doodle dandy hood be
forced to do penance as cap
pit dull leotarded asinine
arthouse flop, where nary any words
(worth their weight in gold)
described my benign
behavior, NOT even
smattering of unflattering deign
nig grating hammock colorful expletives,
that would find an ensign
sailor to blush at my inept
shameless travesty over the line
utter in apropos totally tubularly
moronic juvenile mine
ness zero car raze zee antics,
didst drive my doppelganger nine
tee bajillion miles away in search
of another auto body – pine
ning for newer model
then a 2009 Hyundai Sonata sign
ning off contract with this
stunt driver wannabe
unimpressively try'n
to act the blithe dare devil,
while thee spouse didst wine
and scream more'n bloody Mary
as the gunned axle nearly broke
trying my damn nest to
"FAKE" dagger a type cloak
his husband resembled a fool,
where angels fear to tread didst evoke
unsuccessful, unstinting, and unsparing
unstrung epithets of colorful expletives
unsuitable for poetic folk
boot urgent prayer went out
to incredible Hulk
Hogan, and/or even the ghost
of Andre The Giant, this haint no joke!
You are my Granite Soul
Elizabeth!
You are the queen
of my golden age
you were younger
than me, my now 39,
before you gave up
on womanhood ,
children,
and romantic love
long hair is only
long for long
and entertainment,
plays, comedy
and music
can only start
and end
( requiem means
“mass for the repose
of the dead,”
after all)
I never was
at my sister’s funeral
nor part of her
requiem
or celebration.
She still laughs
with me
at bad jokes
(in my mind)
and her laugh
was groundbreaking
and life-affirming!
I remember
the quills,
the copycats,
the dirty streets,
the tangibility
of too many mistakes
of white-lead beauty
and trying humor
of timeless history
and strong women
with or without
curtains of fabric
and heavy,
corseted fashion
and those looser
and tight-bound
socialites
who had more or less
fun, unstrung
your ladies in waiting
may cry, but you
will not
My hair is oily
after three days
of teaching and
no shower,
and I don’t like
mirrors
on Mondays
when I am not
made of hard stuff,
stone, or granite
“wearing the face
that she keeps
in the jar
by the door”
I am not
Elenor Rigby
To be married,
unflinchingly,
to England
outlives emotion
like the granite
of Mount Rushmore
(the requiem
cries your name,
as would Mozart,
a less durable artist
whom it hurts to
hear, sometimes)
whose work
poured out
faster than blood,
and it killed him.
“I have become
a virgin” Cate
Blanchett
confesses after
shearing her head
of hair.
The puritans were shorn
unwillingly and blood
stained the blood
rinsed in water.
They went
from water
to coughing fire
to be worshipped
as the Virgin Mary was
one must become
more than woman,
more than man,
immovably
inhuman
Elizabeth,
let lesser
women
respond as men
think women do.
You are
my granite soul.
Spring hasn't sprung: No bees have stung;
No painter's fallen off a ladder's rung.
No miner's contracted black lung.
Spring hasn't sprung: No batter has swung
At a strike three pitch that no hurler has flung
In a ballpark where Opening Day Game banners
have yet to be hung.
Spring hasn't sprung: No dry parched tongue
Has yet been clinged or been clung
To lips burnt by the rays of the sun.
Spring hasn't sprung: No song has been sung
Off-tune and off-key in an obscure mother tongue
By a lone crooner bereft of a love unstrung.
Yes: It's ok that Spring hasn't sprung:
--If certain particular news is not brung.
March 30, 2018
Contest entry in "Spring Fling Zing Thing King (or Queen)"
Sponsor - Michael Vacek
It's a tragedy to greet death so young,
not thinking how precious life is
and continue the journey anywhere else
without holding a warm hand;
did anybody notice the sadness you showed
and the coldness of your senses?
Did someone help you to be strong?
You loved and comforted others
and complete a mission too short;
your compassion was the will of good deeds,
but someone is missing that radiant smile
and beautiful eyes that offered a joy never seen,
never felt when a faithful friend is lost!
You seemed so brave hiding all tears
and cried when nobody was around, it felt fine
to empty your rage until your pain was clean...
making a choice that failed many times!
It's a tragedy to greet death so young,
and realize the reason for your worthless existence:
you did not fight like that captain
stirring his small ship battered
by wild waves in the vast ocean...
while the howling wind threatened
the flapping sails, but he wasn't afraid
and carried on with the long voyage
that had just started, never feeling sad or unstrung!
Weren't your horrible thoughts despised by God
who was weeping for your lack of wisdom?
He wanted you to live, not to despair
and put an end to a fragile life He valued too sacred;
the days he gave you were the beats of a loud drum
meant to be lived with rhythm and purpose!
It's so awful not to have grown old
and know the birthright of an heir
entitled to a happy existence!
The Day the Earth Shook
Today a place called Haiti,
weighs heavy on my mind.
A small island Country State,
where life has been unkind.
With little shanty houses,
no food to feed the young.
War and unrest through the years,
a trap to be unstrung.
A seven-point earthquake struck,
it rattled this small place.
Shook it to the very core,
it did not miss a trace.
Children died in the rumble,
the death toll yet unknown.
Please pray for the little ones,
and mercy to be shown.
Let's bring them food and water,
so swiftly to their aid.
And call out to survivors,
so they won’t be afraid.
Offer our hands in friendship,
to aid them in their plight.
Hope in the wake of sorrow,
and light to their dark night.
I think God says unto us,
we know what we must do.
When we open up our hearts,
it shows us what is true.
By
Josehf Lloyd Murchison
finding
a crumpled
dirt and water
stained piece
of paper
laying by
the side
of skid
row
covered
with news
paper next
to a brown
paper bag
filled with
an empty
bottle
the old
wrinkled
paper un
folded itself
stretching
out showing
tattoo like
ink writing
from an even
older pen
and so i read
what was
written and
written on
one of the
sides was
a score with
notes for what
must be this song:
"Breakup"
All things change and this is good
Cause a stagnant pond's the same
as a flood
One's too much the other's not enough
When it comes to people it may happen
with love
When you know the end has done begun
Why do you stay
When your tears run
Love becomes habit an expected thing
If you don't have it it's a broken ring
It means nothing and you feel the same
All except for the hate and pain
When you think your heart strings've done
been unstrung
Why do you stay
When your tears run
Now it seems your river has run its course
A dry bank and bed leave but one resort
You washed away so many years
And started another river with your tears
When it comes a time a couple's no longer
one
Why do you stay
When your tears run
Form:
Many British Thermal Units needed...
To heat these lovely bag of bones
more so than required to generate clones
aging musculoskeletal physique groans
kvetching synonymous nsync with exactly
indistinguishable among where generic
garden variety alter kocker and/or like
mummified Pharaoh moans.
Hence, I will beg, borrow or steal,
as profound philosophical thinker
oh no... no... no, this
non smoking bandit, nor drinker
will explain to police officer,
that me willingly doth plead
guilty as freshly showered stinker
without spectacles yours truly
can only blinker
if nabbed do time inside
state of the art clinker,
where ample heat warms hoodwinker
covering mine rickety musculoskeletal,
while escorted to attend requisite
appointment with headshrinker.
Token Doubting Thomas here
resorts to life of
petty crime without fanfare
for this common man
dirt poor bloke who doth air
(not that anybody
will rat's a$$, nor care
a jot regarding me
squalid financial welfare),
but analogous to Scrooge
grossly dislikes Xmas time of year
not always the case, cuz as lad din
Southeastern Montgomery County
one cute little boy with
short cropped hair,
(a 'curse unbiased
opinion), aye declare
Santa Claus and shopping amidst
madding crowd no living nightmare
like today December eighteenth
tooth how sinned nineteen
bajillion people angrily glare
with livid rage expect
whistleblowing thru air
courtesy bull-let-in aiming crosshair,
whereat vendors pushing merchandise
hooping he/she can scare
up brisk business, hence
caveat emptor i.e. buyer beware
aside from aforementioned
hypothetical scenario - won't ever
occur within glorious land
of bilk and money
America, the home of the free..., where
distribution of wealth very unfair.
Yukon still enjoy of beauty,
this po' witless can bet
dollars to donuts without
spending yourself silly
garnering mountain due of debt
subsequently weeping
(think guitar coming
unstrung at every fret),
thus... ya gotta get get
aware simple pleasures
experience mindfulness, such as
zipping across globe on private jet
hobnobbing with rich and famous,
then swing by utmost secluded un convent
chin null monastery, and meet...
nun other than one cell bated abbott.