Long Vacillating Poems
Long Vacillating Poems. Below are the most popular long Vacillating by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vacillating poems by poem length and keyword.
My heart is like a swollen stream,
a current strong and swift,
beside which banks the mountain giants
their rugged forms uplift.
My heart is like a wilderness,
a darkening wood, a desert sand,
a tempest on a heaving sea,
a blizzard in a frozen land.
My heart is like the deep of night,
the pearling of a dawn in May,
a quiet pool, the winsome strain
a song bird sings at break of day.
My heart is like volcano fire,
seething terror at the core,
an open mouth, a vast desire
forever hungry, craving more.
My heart is like a gentle rain,
the greening of a field in spring,
a sighing breeze through tender leaves,
a butterfly on glistening wing.
My heart is like a somber dirge
in sorrow's lonely, minor key,
a gripping ache, a widening void,
a vacillating mystery.
How shall I ever meet myself,
elusive stranger, face to face,
when I must search a universe
where each thought holds a hiding place?
© 1987, Faye Lanham Gibson
Scents of apple spice
Vacillating through the wispy breaths of air
Hide through the crispy iced branches
Honey-vanilla spews into the thick, lush forest
And its sap trickles onto the mushy earth
Tiny iced droplets start to form icy pentacles
And the marshmallow vapor travels through the cerulean meridian
Shooting cylindrical globes onto the gigantic atmosphere
As the liquid gold oozes from the gigantic amber orb
And the neon magic marker pains the winter sky
Icy pellets shape into crystal teardrops upon the bent branches
And the neon magic marker paints the winter sky
The rustle shushes
The tiny creatures hide
As the red curtain opens up for a grand act
The earth awaits....
Pennilessness shadows black
unemployment endless track
rails tie-er less lee when dumbly staring
overdrawn account issues
another clattering smack.
Income pleat undergraduate degree
contributed to the role of a sporadic employee
time to acquire handy dandy blues clues key
lost within vacillating undermining spree.
Mental state can be a precarious widget-like thing
directly at the whim of financial sliding swing
self-destruction demonic ring
courtesy of pauperism
delivers the destructive poisoned scorpion sting.
Immortal force of please hear my cry
provide support while
under the sheltering sky
steady (just out of reach)
sought income bolster up high
mirage vision brings transient delight
to this great (former
Civil War Yankee) supreme guy.
If no breakthrough I do not foresee
charity not for profit (but only prophet) I will bee
and this blurb carved outside my cave-like hovel
many moons and break of the day find me
imploring existential vagaries this baby boomer
sans middle-aged man who hankers to be free
thus though aye to be a schnorrer
who scrounges parking lots for scattered change
yet...decries blubbering the beggar's credo
write out a check and mail to me.
Philanthropic persons
may rightfully balk and get irate
at such brazen plea to squelch
ma pecuniary financial state
yet where the crossroads of mine future
most likely crop up which
would cause far a tete a tete
meanwhile, stoicism bids me wait...
For Godot, Curly, Shemp, or Moe
the stand-in for a Stool Pigeon
or even an odd antagonist
or protagonist dreampt
by Edgar Allan Poe.
Ordained kaleidoscopic turn of the time wheel,
the vacillating vista of life’s lattice designed
on mindscape mimicking chameleon skin colors
of the wasteland ash or the meadow emerald.
Convergent vision zooming on diffused dreams,
glances at the tapestry of transient ecstasy
on the wings of the flittering butterflies,
brings to focus of fulfillment before they fly away.
On the journey across desolate desert dunes,
or along the glittering garden path in spring,
my mind’s shutter opens in lightning speed,
capturing in collage the snapshots of beauty.
May 16, 2020
Contest : Shutter Speed
Sponsor : Kai Michael Neumann
May 18, 2020
Contest : Double Exposure
Sponsor : Kai Michael Neumann
Imagine you’re a woman, with a mind
as trained, acute and fertile as exists.
Imagine that your erudite, refined
creations top each year’s best-seller lists.
You write in English, French and Portuguese.
Translating ancient classics from the Greek,
(for you, no bigger deal than shelling peas)
you thrill the world, to hear Orestes speak!
But this is eighteen forty. There’s a catch.
You’re middle-aged and single. “On the shelf”.
Your father keeps you housebound, unattached:
he wants you as a frill, not for yourself.
The man’s a monster. You’re not free to act.
He holds you here, unnoticed, bored, unwed.
Your only means of protest at the fact
of kidnap is, you’ve taken to your bed.
Like many women, both before and since,
you’re “delicate”. It’s how you take a stand.
But what of that long-dreamed of, handsome prince,
your rescuer? Don’t worry. He’s at hand!
Elizabeth M. Barrett is your name.
A gentleman comes calling, loves your work.
He’s Robert Browning, of “Sordello” fame,
and suddenly there’s light amid the murk!
He shows up every day at Wimpole Street,
and soon you loosen the paternal tether:
with Mister Browning, you’ve re-found your feet!
You’ll marry him, then run away together!
The banns were read discreetly, days ago:
the journey’s booked. No vacillating now!
The father’s out on business: down below,
in Wimpole Street, a hansom waits: but how
to saunter past the servants? What a fright!
My trusty Morgan – glad I could suborn her:
Well, here we go – I’ll sleep in France tonight!
Brave Robert’s waiting, just around the corner!
The thing was carried off without a hitch.
They wed, they fled. So farewell, Wimpole Street!
And far from wish undone her Dunmow Flitch,
Elizabeth’s contentment was complete.
One’s fate can turn upon a single act.
Two poets lived as one – idyllic bliss!
They now had what they previously had lacked –
each other. Fiction can’t improve on this!
The journey languishes in the penultimate misty mile
for the forlorn facsimile of my being silhouetted still
at the fading fringe of the unfolded future obscure,
observing the blazing skyline of transient radiance.
The ordained kaleidoscope turns with time
with the vacillating vista of life’s lattice laid
on the mindscape copying the chameleon colors
of the ashen wasteland or the emerald meadow.
The vivacious vision draping the delightful dreams
with the eclectic tapestry of the transient ecstasy,
engraved on the wings of the beguiled butterflies,
focuses on the fulfilled fervent form self-designed.
As I travel across desolate desert dunes to the oasis,
or along the gleamed garden path to spring’s sanctum,
I capture the collage created by snapshots of beauty
in my mind frame, the window of vision on the world.
The Barretts of Wimpole Street
Imagine you’re a woman, with a mind
as trained, acute and fertile as exists.
Imagine that your erudite, refined
creations top each year’s best-seller lists.
You write in English, French and Portuguese.
Translating ancient classics from the Greek,
(for you, no bigger deal than shelling peas)
you thrill the world, to hear Orestes speak!
But this is eighteen forty. There’s a catch.
You’re middle-aged and single. “On the shelf”.
Your father keeps you housebound, unattached:
he wants you as a frill, not for yourself.
The man’s a monster. You’re not free to act.
He holds you here, unnoticed, bored, unwed.
Your only means of protest at the fact
of kidnap is, you’ve taken to your bed.
Like many women, both before and since,
you’re “delicate”. It’s how you take a stand.
But what of that long-dreamed of, handsome prince,
your rescuer? Don’t worry. He’s at hand!
Elizabeth M. Barrett is your name.
A gentleman comes calling, loves your work.
He’s Robert Browning, of “Sordello” fame,
and suddenly there’s light amid the murk!
He shows up every day at Wimpole Street,
and soon you loosen the paternal tether:
with Mister Browning, you’ve re-found your feet!
You’ll marry him, then run away together!
The banns were read discreetly, days ago:
the journey’s booked. No vacillating now!
The father’s out on business: down below,
in Wimpole Street, a hansom waits: but how
to saunter past the servants? What a fright!
My trusty Morgan – glad I could suborn her:
Well, here we go – I’ll sleep in France tonight!
Brave Robert’s waiting, just around the corner!
The thing was carried off without a hitch.
They wed, they fled. So farewell, Wimpole Street!
And far from wish undone her Dunmow Flitch,
Elizabeth’s contentment was complete.
One’s fate can turn upon a single act.
Two poets lived as one – idyllic bliss!
They now had what they previously had lacked –
each other. Fiction can’t improve on this!
OF COSMIC TERRESTRIAL HUMANITY
We were born
Creatures of love,
And for a while
We remained so;
Unaware of knowing
And learning
Anything else:-
Then, as if
By a human-like
Summer solstice,
We tilted
Towards becoming
Creatures of hate:-
Now, we find ourselves,
Being confused, vacillating
Creatures of life, caught
In human-like equinoxes
Of love and hate,
On the terrestrial equator
Of human suffering:
Caught between earthly
Jaws of justice and injustice:-
Here, in the cosmic
Terrestrial nature
Of our humanity,
So much is taught
And learned
In our life’s seasons,
As we bloom and grow
From the womb to the tomb:-
A big conclusion by tomorrow I must hurry up and reach.
It's about what I am to ‘do’ with my doggy “boy, Billy ‘Blue’.”
Half-wittingly I just keep vacillating between two notions.
My mind is ‘churning’; my thoughts ‘turning’ like a tsunami.
A bouncy cute but "crazy critter" is making me feel so daft.
'He' may ‘BE’ in control of ‘ME’, a “bungling fur baby’s” Mama.
Do I give him back this Monday? Oh, I need to decide by then.
No ‘napping' for all his ‘yapping,’ but “his eyes” are "so sweet!"
Sept. 25, 2022
for Joseph May's The A's Have It Poetry Contest
(I sure hope I did this right!)
Drifting alive, waves of human tide,
money and power slaves nine to five
project deadlines nauseate in stress
endless chase, mortgages magnified.
Vacillating minds, weary woes abide
big cars whiff smoke on sullen faces.
insidious pressure, to be a 'someone'
mad huff and puff, passion slowly died.
Fake hierarchy walls , anonymous pride
unreachable goals, on invisible horizon
Don't know who am I ,Where am I going?
hare has turned a horse , the tortoise cried
A mimic in frenetic , never satisfied,
It's a Rat's Race , a finish line of cower
Pied Piper in bend,..the chariot guide.
9th March 2020
Sponsor Joseph May
Contest Name Lines to Awaken Your Muse 2
Based on the following line:
Down the street as I was drifting with the city's human tide.