Long Vain attempt Poems
Long Vain attempt Poems. Below are the most popular long Vain attempt by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vain attempt poems by poem length and keyword.
It Was a Sad Day
It was a sad day, that day, when I
realized that I could no longer kiss
away the pain and trauma of a skinned
knee or solve the problem by putting
a band-aid on the boo-boo. Now I sit
and hold back emotions not quite my
own and stifle the urge to lash out at
my perception of what has caused such
discomfort in the world of my children.
I envision myself reaching deep inside
them and ripping the fear or pain or
loneliness from them, a form of parental
psychic surgery. Sadly, I cannot do it.
Cursing the powers that be, the fates,
and the gods in vain attempt to sway their
judgments I bargain and challenge.
Demanding that the trial be placed on
me, the pain inflicted on me, the fear
and loneliness placed at my door.
If I could give any advice to parents
I would encourage them to carry
band-aids and apply them liberally,
kiss every needy boo-boo, hold
every lonely hand, quietly eat
ice cream while fading tears dry
on the cheeks of a renewing grin.
So now I hold them in my thoughts,
kiss their boo-boos from a distance,
and hold back the tears of aging,
both theirs and mine.
Lady Mary Berkeley
Once, long time ago a Lady of grace and elegance,
her child and spouse in glamorous remembrance.
Chillingham Castle in its prime of residence and tragic,
Lord Grey in spell of love by Mary’s sister Henrietta’s magic.
Heartbroken and in despair with baby girl alone,
took her life and child falling from the tower like a stone.
The Castle already haunted by spirits from the dungeon,
crying female voices and rotten smells very pungent.
In her beautiful dress she walks the dark corridor,
surging in courteous fate for her husband therefore.
A friend of mine and phenomenon fanatic,
invited me to this Chillingham Castle haunt ecstatic.
We arrived at a misty midday, overwhelmed
are those spirits already aware of our intend.
Walking in this majestic place through history,
feeling chased by my own step noise mystery.
I dreamed that night to be with Lady Mary,
holding her porcelain face very wary.
Such a sweet and gorgeous virtuous soul,
slowly turning her veins into color coal.
Waking up, I feel in love with this beauty
wanted to know all her historic duty.
Warned by my friend of ghost camouflage,
nothing more but an emotional mirage.
My mind played all searching possibility,
convinced that my heart will change her debility.
To set her free from the pain of grieve,
giving her soul the deserved peace to receive.
In my vain attempt I wrote a little prayer,
that with God one is never alone sooth sayer.
Stuck that note behind her portrait in gold,
believing that it has consequences bold.
Many months later I received a letter by courier,
with golden letters looking superior.
Words of gratitude and faith to see,
“I will wait for you my love,
Lady B”
Is it a blessing or a curse
to know we are born to die?
Should we rejoice, be thankful
for feeling time's blood
passing through our lives,
or do we regret our ever
aging bodies as skin thins
and joints creak like unoiled
hinges on a front door of
an old house soon abandoned?
This knowing, this ever knowing...
why is but one species
out of millions so blessed--
or has it just been burdened,
so heavy with that unending
sense of good, of evil,
permeating each life,
a cognizance honed
by our early sins
and petty wrongs,
those child-born regrets?
And why must we always see
the gap, sometimes a sliver,
but often a chasm between
what is & what should, could be?
Why are we never satisfied?
Why are we never done?
What, or Who gave us this nagging,
incessant, relentless awareness,
and why? For is it not found in every
unhappy involvement... the
failed marriage, an estranged child,
the bitter, lost traitor?
Does it not torment the mind
of the suicide plunging into a river
in a vain attempt to escape this very
personal, unique, most singular 'gift'?
Yet gift it is--
for we are the judging animal,
the weighing animal,
always measuring, asking,
seeking, hungering--
never satisfied....
Because of you I will engage
In a futile, vain attempt,
To put in words upon this page
What loving you has meant.
Through miles between unmeasured
And the boundaries of time,
You’ve been my greatest treasure
In the back roads of my mind.
Since we were young and so unyielding
And impatient to hold on,
To what we both were feeling
That eternal, behemoth bond.
That comes but once a lifetime
And ends but never more,
Not every verse ends up in rhyme
Nor fairness even scored.
Somehow we turned one winter night
With neither one suspecting,
Cold winds cutting like a knife
And destines bisecting.
Into the snow and ice I steered
Off to find my soul,
All the while you cried your tears
For a love that lost its hold.
Though that’s a lie in waiting
If true love exists at all,
These words are well worth stating:
I still can hear your call.
Late at night with moon and stars
And comets flying by,
And morning when I think how far’s
The separation between you and I.
Not knowing if I’ll ever see
Your smiling face again,
Like a gentle breeze I feel set free
In the comfort of your memory, dear friend.
VietNam Sniper
It seems that the night lingers then departs clawing
for one more minute, but in a vain attempt to defeat the sun.
The encumbered fog groans and gently rises from
The ground to allow fixed eyes to see with piteous
recognition, the bushes that hide death.
Then as he probes, a shadow appears, then the black of the VC.
A thousand fears reach down to tear at his stomach yet,
that faceless body is grained, too late to question his mind.
The weapon jumps, down its barrel, a moan in silence.
Blood reaches down to paint its crimson stain on the ground.
He knows it’s there, the blood is spent.
Now, the weeping, something has died in him.
As for training he might have laughed.
They never trained him for this.
He thought it was just a target.
He knows, the truth is told, the pity of war, the truth war brings.
He lays there retreating into silence, retreating to hide behind
a wall. eyes see yet, not seeing.
ears hear yet, not hearing. The air is so still that he feels the vortex of his being sucking him slowly, irresistibly into himself.
They do not speak, no need, they both know.
He holds his spirit in for surely, it will leave too.
He bleeds where there is no wound.
It seems that he escaped down a long, dark canyon, only
to return moments later by blood thumping in his brain. He returns to his training as feelings are pushed back and he feels
his indifference replacing his thoughts and again it's a target, a face in the dark, a target and not real. The trace of a tear is all that remains. It is wiped away
It’s disturbing to see
The rise in unhinged left-wing violence.
A Leftist cause-celeb dies of overdose
With a policeman’s knee on his neck
And the nation erupts in chaos, riots, killings
And cities all aflame.
A Right-winger is martyred by a trans loving kid
And prayer and candlelight vigils and waves of peace
Spread out like a tsunami of healing.
Could the contrast be any greater?
Every day another unhinged shooter
Takes more lives, in some vain attempt at relevance,
And nine out of ten times it’s a Leftist.
When did the lie of Leftist peace begin?
Maybe when they were just dreaming
Because from the very beginning
It has been the side of revolution
And revolutions always justify the means
To achieve their ends.
But revolutionaries always get a pass
Because they dream big and try to change the world
But no one ever asks to and from what?
The time for death and destruction
Revolution and change for the sake of change
Is past.
Now is the time for the revelation
Of something new
Which has been here all along.
Something grounded in the best we have to offer
Not the most we can take.
What do you have to offer that makes you
On the whole a giver not a taker?
Because that is the turning point
Between being a child and adult,
A turning point we each need to face
And discover for ourselves.
Hinged or unhinged is not a matter of chance
It is a choice, our choice,
And when we feel unhinged
In the face of some terrifying void
We need to remember, true change
Only comes from within
But then opens out into a renewed world.
And those doors
Open best when their hinges
Are firmly in place.
And if we find ourselves too shaky to stand
And can’t see a way forward
Maybe it is as simple as recognizing
We are still like a child
In need of something to eat, a good rest
And simply a warm loving hug.
Being unhinged is not by chance
It is by choice
To destroy in the name of change.
Destroy because our fear
Has replaced that love.
(9/25/25)
We sailed upon a ship of fools
no sails and rudder bent
lost sight of land and pondered
“I wonder where it went”
As we chased the rising sun
we begged it: “please slow down’
for we hadn’t figured out
how to turn the ship around.
Becalmed amid a rising gale
we battened down the hatches
unfurled our tattered drooping sail
wind blowing through its patches
so we grabbed the long boat oars
to paddle to the beach
a vain attempt at seamanship
as they were too short to reach.
And here we sit on mirror sea
rewriting all the rules
too late to change the fate of those
book passage on a ship of fools.
10/19/2021
A Noteworthy Ship Poetry Contest
Oh, Lord, forgive such hubris
as would sum up the quotient
of an immortal soul……
I have…
spared the dandelions,
forgiven the birds,
washed the car,
parked again in the same spot…..
prayed for a different result
consoled a crying child
stifling my tears….
ego’s vain attempt at being strong
wasted in the trembling of my heart
cried alone, enmeshed in….. regretting
deeds that cannot be undone
words that cannot be recalled
faces….faded…. forgotten……faces
held the banner through the storms
of doubt filled angst….unbuckled
stood alone atop the chasm walls
raged against the shadows of dark canyons
shielding from my eyes an endless love
For Lord, if I be
but bone, and flesh, and sinew
what use have I
for dandelions unwept tears.
©6/2/2019
Soul IQ Poetry Contest
Chantelle Anne Cooke sponsor
My latest local farce, oh, what a schmooze!
oily words from his thick lips fairly ooze.
Behind my back, he must think I’m a hick,
ducking and dodging him doesn’t quite stick.
He’ll pop out of nowhere, but I don’t drool,
not when he treats me like somebody’s fool.
I want to purge my mem'ry of his muck.
He’s not really rude, just a roguish puck
or maybe simply an ill-behaved imp.
He’s like a certain, curious chimp.
He chatters away; I skip past his teeth
to hear what is the bewitching beneath -
affections which are a weak, vain attempt
to air his supercilious contempt.
written May 10, 2017
PASSION FLOWER
On thorny stem scarlet red rose to smile
in its specific charismatic style
as precious gem to allure.
When tempted to tear off, faced failure.
My finger was stuck on spiny spike
Pulled it, yet pain to endure
Drop of blood on fingertip in scarlet red.
Vain attempt to make me afraid.
Piercing passion in blazing flame
Lovely rose abloom in thorny frame.
Bright lustrous, yet thorns to blame.
Not the thorns, but the rose I claim.
To stop the blood, I had to suck.
Scarlet red rose! I must pluck
Again, I had to try my luck.
Got ready for second attack.
I tore the rose and won the game.
07/11/20
'The Flower, The Thorn or Both' Contest by Chantelle Anne Cooke