Long Weaning Poems
Long Weaning Poems. Below are the most popular long Weaning by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Weaning poems by poem length and keyword.
When I think of poetry
I think of a child manipulating
his first steps, the wobbly nature
of his strides~that confused, meandering
toddle, and then trip and fall – the dear
first efforts of us all. When I think of poetry,
I think of my introductory cords attempting
articulation: the naive study of lips, the spitting
aspirations, how the throat struggles, and then the
mouth opens to the notion of sound. When
I think of poetry, I think of the squinting and the
rounding of the eyes first awakening to light –
how the heart adjusts to thought...and how,
somehow, it is all related to love, the cooing,
caressing of a mother, before weaning.
Then when I think of poetry, I finally think of nothing...
empty myself, letting poetry think for me –
become my sight and voice, my very direct
line to God~knowing best the language
of creation.
I made the fall,
Answered the call,
Climbed the walls,
Still i feel small,
Crawling forward,
Toward the unseen,
Inbetween thoughts,
Weaning from an onslaught,
Always being distraught,
Taught to endure,
My intentions remain pure,
Sure of who I am,
Scrambling steep slopes,
In hopes to reach the top,
Make the pain stop,
Propping myself back up,
Until my cup is full,
Pulling up the forgotten,
It has gotten out of hand,
Demanding more then I can stand,
Destroying such beautiful land,
I don't understand what to do,
And can't see the way through,
I've fallen just for you,
My view now askew,
Due to the fear in me.
Am I here to fight an enemy,
Or find right in every entity?
Lighting a way they all can see,
Or fighting my way into eternity,
Finally free to be me.
If poetry channels our anger and sorrow
Who then will want to write it tomorrow
And will joy and contentment stifle its future?
And what will become of our stays and culture?
I say poetry has been victimized
Vilified, chastised, castigated and ostracized
Only perceived as a tool for struggle
Truths coded for smuggle
Yet poetry is just song void of tune
From the same rock hewn
For the lyrics that ride on the harmonies
Are sponsored by poetic abilities
Only poetry captures life’s odysseys
In whose form is crafted psalms and prophecies
If you want to know an expanse exceeding now
Poetry is the where and the how
Poetry in its recitation
May not cause rhythm and gyration
Care free melodies and chimes
That people seek in easy times
Until hard times force the weaning
Where people gain taste for meaning
A complementary aid for soul searching
To set the conscience forwardly marching
If poetry must fail in the market
Then it proves not to aim for your pocket
But a stinging dart to awaken your souls
When woes and lows purge all else from their roles
K. Muitherero
Weaning away feral instincts treasured
Soul’s eye is now mindful and touch gentle
The pilgrim’s progress is by mind measured
With scent of love lost in labours mental
The vibrant void records every heartbeat
Our desire to sing and dance in the rain
Rise of bliss heat when polarities meet
Restrained by thought, which once boon is now bane
Epiphany dawns when nonchalance yawns
Recognising life’s play as but a dream
Divine magnetism love pheromones spawns
We’re then both the sun ray and the moonbeam
Watch illusions appear and disappear ~
Why nurture fear when there is no one here
Nothing
Two o'clock this Wednesday afternoon
protected by tall walls, but I have to go
inside
the sun is too hot
It is about getting a deep, lasting tan
my vanity has no limit
gave me skin cancer
I will not write anything today,
weaning myself from this feverish addiction
My internal conversation is as argumentative
as the old Jew I met in Leeds
I will think of nothing!
Sadly, I fail to stop this stream of consciousness
a lava bubbling from its crater
The smell of sulphur of rejected thoughts
that will prove me wrong
and plants shall grow.
What is nothing as it has no shape or form
no aroma or colour
I get up from my chair too quickly, collide
with the door and fall unconscious
into a void
All I now know is that nothing,
is a headache
Which pair of shorts to wear today
What color T-shirt best romps around and plays
Should I sleep in 'til eight, eight-thirty, or nine
How about 9:30, Central Daylight Time...
Hmm. It's ten already. To heck with breakfast
Before you know it, the sun'll be heading west
Think I'll mosey out back and catch a few rays
What a way to start another lazy summer's day...
Huh? I have a job to do? The toilet needs cleaning?
Oh, well. From useful work I thought I was weaning
Alright. OK. I'm on it. Give me about half an hour
Then it'll be time for my morning shower...
Ah! Nothing like luxuriating, using up all the hot H2O
So much for the laundry in the washer. That's the way it goes
And now, let me see. Oh, my! It's nearly one!
Time for lunch. And then my morning will be done...
As you see, I've got it really rough
When the tough got going
They left me behind ~
America's #1 Cream-Puff
There is beauty in your absence
there is greatness in your silence
there is pain in your wishes
In your innards, there are dreams
Poetry and you are synonymous
I am synonymous with love
how I love you both.
Poetry is a susurrus
that tickles the nooks
and crannies of resourcefulness
every recourse, every nook
and cranny, and life itself
the shadow lives inside me
an almost flawless replica.
It moves when she moves
smiles when she smiles
all is well, a shadow says
shadows from the past
stretch longer when the sun sets.
Weaning from the breast
of grief and tears
becomes starker and harsher
Mother, you are long gone
yet in the fading light
I suckle on your memories.
5th place contest winner
Written: January 28, 2023
Your Pick Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
"She reassured me with an unfamiliar line."
Love is a mystery school, yearning for sages
well able to reckon sixes from nines.
True wits should elect sin's disbursements
rather than reflect on love's scenes of rushing bunglers.
Love is sick, blind, unkind. Aren't we cruel?
She chided: brush your flapper, dying blue
between that pair of cheese crackers.
Remove the Devil's Pitchfork from your hair.
Doubling as Dracula, your zeal repealed
by loving an unpersuaded other.
Stay not inconsolable, my weaning one!
She knelt beside me, interpolating my orations.
Entreat for veritable blindness to take better blame.
Apathetic to any flame, resisting even sipping sunshine
interred in the long night of voluminous drapes,
pray for cardiac arrest to efface 1700 hours of shadows.
Perhaps, pray you would love me, and I shall say something of it.
Maurice Mc Muffin ate nothing but stuffin’
He wouldn’t eat meat fruit or veg
His mother went potty it turned her quite dotty
And was tipping her over the edge, so
She thought up a plan to provide the young man
With food both nutritious and yummy
Using her skill and determined to fill
That unhealthy space in his tummy
In her kitchen domain she vowed to remain
Whilst weaning him off of his diet
Trying all recipes and hoping to please
And praying that he would just try it
One day she was cooking and when she weren’t lookin’
Young Maurice crept in through the door
He tasted some pud and he found it was good
Saying “Mum can I please have some more”
Mum jumped for joy because her little boy
Found some food that he wanted to eat
Now he’ll scoff anything that his mother can bring
As long as it’s sticky and sweet
Form:
I hear a muse
who speaks
and sometimes sings
and dancing leaps
only through my dreams
Whether mine is lonely
or one of many
we share at night,
I wonder
Where dark certainties
and sometimes starlit celebrations
unfold
dim as old dismembered bright
I suppose S/He might respond
to this humbling humane question
asked while fading off to play
and work
on Earth's re-spinning days
Frays and plays of relentless unresolve
becoming morning's clarity,
a puzzle solved
Just for me?
or for eternity
From all of us?
growing lunar waxing
knowing waning
weaning culture shifts
Communal waking
to whom we long to be
woke together ecotherapy
inhaling healthy democracy
sonorously snoring
once again.