Long Weathering Poems
Long Weathering Poems. Below are the most popular long Weathering by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Weathering poems by poem length and keyword.
3/2/17
Molded ceilings
With the paint peeling
Revealing
Something unappealing
A building long forgotten and forlorn
Rotted floorboards
Broken and torn doors
In a bad condition and poor form
Large amounts
Of trash strewn about
All throughout
The house
Due to weathering, bad habits and tendencies
No longer sitting steadily
Foundation in jeopardy and the whole structures integrity
From an accident that happened chemically
By the incorrect use of chemistry
All around the ground grime and filth
Many different types of liquids spilt
Left there with little if any kind of guilt
Most of the fence is bent
Regardless of the intent and no harm being meant
It all left quite the hefty dent
Such a pungent smell, without a mask, you could not adjust
The whole entire place riddled with dust
And far too much junk and "stuff"
Stored improperly collecting rust
Just about on the cusp
Of falling completly apart in a way that is abrupt
A path was taken
And the damage changed it
Leaving it dilapidated
No longer accessible, but at one point it had a basement
By: Dalton Ogletree
Automobile blues fuels exhausting lament...
Indicator light signaling door(s) ajar
least significant issue concerning
2009 Hyundai Sonata car
applauded craftsmanship darn exemplar,
thus said vehicle deserves favorable avatar,
nonetheless vehicular maintenance
exceeds king's ransom by far
takes lion's share comprising regular
costs of living bar
none versus stream lined budget
regarding: accommodations,
food, medical coverage... far,
and away much more amenable
regarding no frills bizarre
lifestyle of yours truly plus costar
ring the missus, (who lacks
income unearned or otherwise)
our saving grace courtesy avuncular
Uncle Sam, he electronically deposits
social security disability embar
hissing mendicant wannabe
mental illness exacerbated
meting scant monies weakens flimsy pillar
buttressing minimalist existence par
for the course financial angst
ratchets psychological radar
impending crisis looming me... war
reed upkeep with automobile
which additionally includes... Omar
dog: lapsed emission/ inspection
passenger right side tire slow leak,
like gray matter of former scholar,
whose accomplishment
less substantial than agar
on petri dish loathes
his tractless doomed station,
nor his he advocate being a beggar,
yet series of unfortunate events
(thank ye Lemony Snicket)
bedrock steadfast credo secular
humanist never doth waver
amidst adversity though
perpetually unmoored buoy
weighed and zee gull live insular
lives bitterly weathering
psychic pestilential buggar.
I want to be like a spirit free
Of hazel hypocrisy like helium
Blowing up egos and
Puffing up chests
I want to be more but I am not
Born in sin of faulty men
And women who love them
Until they don’t
Then the scales fall from their eyes
Wails build walls tall and emphasized
Love is a crime of passion
Cranberry flavored and rationed
To the green eyed monsters of envy
Seeking what they think is romanticism
Reeling after a taste of pickled realism
For to cherish truly is to sacrifice
Thinking acting in the interest of
Lover despite all the cherry challenges
Keeping vows weathering clouds
With a lavender lyric hidden in heart
I watch the amazing feat of such beauty
And respect realizing I may never really
Destroy the thorns around my red heart
That I’ve decorated and celebrated as
Amethyst art
I am cowardly set in my own ways
A phantom of licorice streets old days
Freely loving old roses pressed pages
For they speak to a heart of safe places
Memories sweet as marmalade
Draped in silent fog, is a reservoir of dreams
weathering each season, with a mystifying scheme …
On a wind-swept shelf, she is silently sleeping
Where secrets are guarded and are hers for the keeping
Looking out at the tide, where the seagulls are sweeping
In her moldering courtyard, where quadrivial paths meld,
Among ancient arches of an old Spanish style
Names locked in history, many stories revealed
Etched in the headstones, where angels have dwelled
The cracked marble fountain with polished ligures,
Above the church doorway, vines are withering, bare
Aloft from the steeple, are the four watchful eyes
Looking out to the sea, and the deep crimson tide
Three vestige bells dangle from loft, overhead
Their voices are quiet, with pericopes spoken
Soft hymns of doves, fill the rafters, instead
From crumbling ruins, bricks humbly laid
There are shadows of saints...and moss covered jade
A weeping old willow, with leaves crackling dry
I drink with my ears, and listen with an eye
Of all those who prayed, for those who passed by
Unbelievable echoes, the tolling of the bells
Making sense of the senseless, I can hear what it tells
Giving voice to my feelings, and new hope to my eyes
A peace in my heart, where the holy grail lies
Are heard in the voice, in the church of blue tides
____________________________________________________________________
For The Contest Sponsored By Shadow Hamilton "Any Subject"
Using Words: unbelievable, mystical, ligure, pericope, reservoir, quadrivial,
7/22/13
When I look into a mirror these days…my old face is what I see…
and many is the day I wonder…how this came to be.
As I look a little closer…I touch my face and say,
“Where did all these wrinkles come from…and what’s with all this gray?”
For me…what makes this seem so unbelievable, so dreamlike…so unreal
is the me I see in the mirror often looks so much older than I feel.
Which leads me to wonder…
every time I see that old man’s face staring back at me
if our bodies on the outside and how we feel on the inside…grow old differently.
What if our old age shows up on the outside…
hence the color gray and the wrinkles on our skin…
but what if our youth…protected by our body…ages more slowly…from within.
What if we’re more like a book and our body is the cover…
a cover that as we age has weathering we can’t hide…
but what if our cover is there to protect and preserve
our youthfulness and our story that’s inside?
What if, understanding this, as we age…
we open our cover a little more slowly…gently…with great care…
knowing memories of when we were younger…are waiting for us there.
And for a while as we visit the memories we find inside the pages of our book
For a moment as if by magic…we are younger than we look.
Which is why most times when I pass a mirror today
and see that old man with all those wrinkles on my skin…
I open the weathered cover of my book…to find the younger man within.
This weathering vessel that casts about
A barge adrift in the river of lies.
My crumbling ship, my hopes all cast in doubt
I navigate past cults of crying eyes.
This rusting old tanker betrays my flame
My boy joy driving fervent flaring glare.
I’m no match for terror by any name
Scant my Ali fist-words striking the air.
This floating worn casket my last cradle
I can’t go while hate burns from the sewers.
And Earth seethes and chokes fumes unnatural
But who breathes once guns fire from hate’s snipers?
I cruise this clumsy tub to open sea
And give my dwindling days to speak freely.
People, we are the pulsing heartbeats,
Pumping life through this world's veins.
Our words, the rhythmic thrums,
Echoing through endless plains.
Poems, they are the arteries of connection,
Channelling thoughts from mind to mind.
Conversations, the capillaries of communion,
Weaving bonds that intertwine.
Life, it's the ever-flowing river,
Carving paths through rocky terrain.
Concerns, the rapids that threaten to sever,
Tossing us, testing our will to regain.
But communication, ah, that's the lifeblood,
Coursing through, keeping us alive.
It's the oxygen that our spirits so crave,
The sustenance that helps us thrive.
So let your poems be the heartbeat's cadence,
Syncing with others at the perfect time.
Let your words be the arteries of compassion,
Bridging the gaps, making connections sublime.
For in this tapestry of life's conversations,
We are the threads, interwoven as one.
Each voice, each thought, a vital pulsation,
Keeping this grand symphony forever begun.
People, we are the heartbeats of existence,
Poems, the very blood that gives us form.
Let's flow together, in perfect persistence,
Weathering life's every storm.
Flood of anonymous agony
inundates the debris of hope,
weed-webbed wasteland
of receding reverie
erodes in delirium
within turbulent essence,
wreckage of life piles up,
unlived,
transforms rapture garden
into winter badland
of foreboding discontent,
perceived.
Future meadow waits
to be sauntered
sanguine,
invents fantasy alchemy,
making magical gold
from ferrous aspirations,
gilding rusted crust
of weathering present,
metamorphosed,
marigold ecstasy blooms
in the Midas-touched mind,
mesmerized.
Wrapped by golden rays
of garnet sun,
setting sublime
beyond the content ocean,
entranced mind rolls
in twilight zone
on sapphire life waves,
broken,
yearning psyche is drawn
within the anguish trough,
crashes on existential shore,
shaped by the shadow
of pearlescent past,
petrified
in the collapsed sandcastle
on the beleaguered beach
of the stilled time,
enfolding the blanched grains
of aureate dreams,
d i s i n t e g r a t e d…..
Gentle as a dove,
Eyes mirroring the vast ocean.
They dwell in solitude, their thoughts veiled.
Giving more than taking,
They seek and dream through life's commotion.
Unraveling the secrets it has woven.
Their place lies amidst nature's embrace,
Gifted by God with music and grace,
Endowed to mend souls, to heal and embrace.
An aura of zest and zeal they exude,
In worlds of fantasy and imagination, they elude.
Driven not by demons, but a desire to heal,
To share their unique view of a mundane ordeal,
Breathing fresh life into the mundane and surreal.
Sacrificing all for the sake of art,
Weathering life's lightning storms with a fiery heart.
Lovers of words, architects of thoughts they prove,
Aiding hearts to mend, souls to move.
They are the healer of Souls.
Dedicated to all poets.
Mirror, Mirror on the wall..
Secrets told, to enthrall.
If walls could talk of stories foretold.
The truth and lies, of the young and the old.
Creaky floors, heave a sigh.
In the purlieu, where feet danced spry.
Doors held on by rusted hinges.
Swung open and closed through the ages.
Cobwebs interstice between unknown entities.
Invaders tip toe; the enemy retrieves its bounty.
Closets full of untold skeletons.
Of ambiguous answers of their wantons.
Cracks finger up and down, the old white ceilings.
Weathering takes its toll around the old dwelling.
The eyes of the house have seen many things.
Through the decades of beatings and blessings.
Dust has settled upon the dilapidated edifice.
Waiting to be reintroduced and resurrected.