Long Vague Poems
Long Vague Poems. Below are the most popular long Vague by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vague poems by poem length and keyword.
My childhood memories—some clear, some vague—
come to me unexpectedly at times.
A scene, a sound, a fragrance brings them back.
They weave their way into my simple rhymes.
Mrs. Janie was our neighbor. She would smile
and speak when I walked by. Her voice was kind
and soft, her smile sincere. My memories
of her are welcome, sweet, and well-defined.
Her grandkids, all my siblings, and I played
together in both yards on pleasant days.
These times, though, aren’t the major reason why
today I still give her the highest praise.
One day my mother noticed I seemed scared.
I told her I’d been touched in the wrong place.
I said Mrs. Janie’s husband did this--once.
The shock and anger showed in Mama’s face.
Some wives in this position can’t believe
such claims. Mrs. Janie did, and she would see
he’d not come near me—ever. She expressed
concern and aided my recovery.
March 24, 2020, entered in Craig Cornish's Lady Down the Lane Contest
You must see Slipback, the popular new app!
It's a primary clock of tick-tock;
brief time-travel is what you can make.
Anything can necessarily be changed in and for
just a few seconds.
Certainly, lives may unravel,
living life as a movie with a second take.
"Misremembering" becomes a thing.
Challenging what was done is done.
Eliminating what we thought was a mistake.
Creating misery for others, just for fun.
Mayhem only for mayhem's sake.
Now that we exist in this short world
of now and then,
the longer world of why and when
cannot survive.
And we will have vague memories of when
we used to be alive.
Shame on Us
By Franklin Price
9/30/2017
Shame on us for losing sight
Of what is wrong and what is right
Of who does what, no matter why
To get the one who makes us sigh
That's not the way it should be done
To watch what's happening's not fun
The spotlight's now on Mr. Trump
To send him to the swampy dump
The Establishment is worse than he
Don't give a damn for you and me
Showing themselves for who they are
When one of them is not the star
I'm tired of of watching, what they say
They're out to get him any way
The people aren't of much import
This president, is now their sport
The people brought him to this game
He's president, at least in name
He's there to execute the rules
Provided by the other fools
The rules are vague, at very best
They do not pass the litmus test
He isn't us, does not belong
So everything he does is wrong
He's often foolish, when he speaks
Of lying press and current leaks
Of striking back when others hit
I'm tired of all this foolish ****
We should, at least, spread out the blame
Level the field to play the game
Make rules the same for either side
Kick all those out who don't abide
So get to work, this country bleeds
Play the game to solve our needs
Play nice, together, left or right
Win for us all, and make things right
Glasses of different shapes
Showing out various shapes
Glasses of distinct hues
Blowing out vague and clear-cut views
Mirrors of you in glasses
Like crystals molded in mashes
Furor, dolors, splendor in glasses
Like petals defoliating in sashes
Mirrors of you on hand
Reflections of you unveiled
With all mirrors of the world at hand
Imperfections of you unsealed
Tales of the pasts, stories unmasked
Events of time lapsed, memories basked
Mirrors of you from the past
Blowin' winds in cast
Mirrors of you everlasting
Tokens of you not flabbergasting
Mirrors of you on the rocks
Dusts of you sprinkled in blocks
You are what you are in mirrors
Fictional or not in errors
Mirrors of life are in you
Mirrors of you are all but one in you
In the shimm’ring empty distance
Of a vast central Asian steppe,
A faint and formless shape appeared.
A soundless mass of black and brown
Rose like a djinn from out the dust
Of the long traveled Great Silk Road.
As it drew closer on its course,
Under a wide and hot noon sky,
That vague and slowly swaying shape
Cloned a train of two-humped camels,
And dark-faced nomads robed in blue,
Who marched in sync with Borodin.
On they trekked toward Samarkand
With their load of silks and spices,
Mixing sounds of bells and voices;
Indifferently passing by
To vanish in a distant haze
As do so many of our days.
Come O Death when bells toll, too late nor soon,
Thy fault too often times is waiting long,
Come at right time and thou art such a boon,
To scorn thee means: pain of life to prolong,
O come, carry out thy thankless duty,
Thou art benign, not masked in mystery.
Mortal mankind is made of shorter breath,
And journey’s milestones paved in paths of death,
One of which’s marked in my name, I believe,
Ye can’t be deemed as a monstrous devil,
It is the soul that has opted to leave,
And which having its own will, lives on still.
Death, thou art not an unresolved riddle,
Life lives on, firm in a long journey's saddle
To pursuit of evolution's struggle,
Wherein to die ere time’s a sin evil,
But when ye come, I know well not to haggle,
Not to die when time’s due is greater ill.
Scoring a goal but once is no life's aim,
I’ll strive on till ye break for interval,
I’ll keep the ball in play till last whistle,
And what ends is one round, not entire game,
I’ll keep in mind, there's always extra time,
To keep my grit alive, play with all prime.
And life that rises like sun in death sets,
Arising in time for the next voyage,
Death's like penning life's penultimate page,
Nigh like leaping in dark that frightful gets,
Just as in winter a migrating bird,
I’m a poet in search of my last word.
But when ye come at last, help me O Death,
With my baggage of burden, my pen's crimes,
Vague whispers and half truths writ in good faith,
Help me polish my pen in life’s new climes,
So, let me die pen and paper in hand,
Till then keep inspiring me O my friend.
Still, I’ve a lot stored in my aged mind,
I’d like to take forward, not leave behind,
So, O Flames, burn them not to ash, be kind.
___________________________________________
Musings | 02.11.2011, revised Jan 2023 | Sestina on death
try as I may I don’t remember
the forest from the trees
neither surreal lands journeyed
nor celestial seas I’ve navigated
all faraway beyond our earthly realm
no not one meant for mere mortals
in the morning the slate wiped clean
I have no hint of recollection
a vague reminiscence of mystic travels
amnesia of my rendezvous with you
I can’t remember the trees
from the forest of my dreams
but if that’s the price to pay
that’s fine that’s fair as long as
I keep waking with a smile and
in a haze the memory of you
knowing some day my day will come
and together we will be
your hand in mine you’ll walk me
through the forest and the trees
AP: 3rd place 2021
FROM RED APPLES TO CLEAR RIVERS
How stark is the vermillion
And cardinal red of the apple
Setting on the oakwood table,
The last of its five-pound grouping,
Still waiting to be chosen, although
It is the full vision of a comfort
Nature supplies, beyond any hoped-for
Measure, for such times of hunger
As these, when a muffin sits stale on the plate;
When the water in our cups tastes metallic;
When evening’s settling brings a tiredness
That makes any try for hope almost too hard
...To reach out for sustenance while our
Clothing hangs heavy; letters go unopened;
The pages of worn prayerbooks last unturned;
And , then, some vague, inner calling, too slight
To find its whisper, comes up, perhaps felt
In the position of a survival float, riding on a buoy,
Gently bobbing atop the surface of a deeper river.
Oh, Jesus, how utterly clear is the flowing
Water and strikingly pearl white and silver-tipped
Are the top current’ s bubbles, so fully
Perceived by our soul’s eyes,
Risen from their long nap to try, to go forth
By the sustenance of a knowing all things
Are made possible: living, believing, loving,
Resurrection.
**********. *************. ************
(c) Sally Young Eslinger
Memories of your loving
Still lingers everywhere
How great we were together
How much you showed me that you cared
You so gentle and the laughs we shared
And now look at all the years that have since past
The pains of live for both of us that could’ve been spared
If only I had understood then
My feelings would’ve been bared
The bits and pieces of feelings and of memories
Have always had their special place
Their own touch of grace
Where I could only go and still see your face
One day they were no longer vague
They were clear and coming back in my mind as such a fast pace
I’m constantly in my mind
Re-living all those days
And how hard it was to say goodbye
We had to break the gaze
Always thought that we moved on
And things like that happen when you’re young
So moments flew by with time
It was like a bell in my head
That suddenly rung
All I though about was you
All I could think about was finding you
And how my life with you had
Then only just begun
And now I’ve found you, told you
Some of what I needed to say
But that don’t make it any easier to get through the day
I fear it may have caused you to run away
I hope we won’t be victims of circumstance
That you give me another chance
To show you how I feel
Is true and real
I’m bleeding though all scars are healed
I pour my heart and soul out
In these words that I write
Needing the chance to say them to you
But my tongue gets tied
And the words don’t come out right
It’s an endless fight
With myself every day, each night
But I can’t never again lose sight
Of how I want my heart to take flight
Wake up with you in the mornings light
From holding each other so tight
Please come back
Don’t wait to long
Apart is where we are
Together is where we belong
It can’t be wrong
It will be all right
Take me once more
To those heights
People who are addicted to texting are textiles.
Ever have lunch with a textile?
You find yourself looking at the top of the textile's head...
More than their eyes...
Every so often they look your way, cross-eyed.
Head bobbing (like a baby bird searching for its mother's mouth),
Chirping vague words to catch up to the one-sided conversation.
But they never catch up.
Their food sits in front of them, half-eaten.
When it's time to leave, they stagger to their car while texting.
You say goodbye to the top of the textile's head.
They grunt something incoherent.
As you pull away, you see the textile slumped over.
Looking down at that idiot box.
Under your breath, you mutter, "I pray they make it home alive".