Long Wherewithal Poems
Long Wherewithal Poems. Below are the most popular long Wherewithal by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wherewithal poems by poem length and keyword.
So many sick rivers
Of pain, shock and shiver
Flow from longstanding wounds
Of soul-chopping depression that surround
Many islands next to you and me
As a consequence of the malady
Our development system is trapped in
Because of the flaws within
In Kolkata the other day
Collin in sheer dismay
Accepted the unacceptable truth
That his son cannot have the fruit
Of higher education in a star college
As he cannot afford the package
He could have been
Another Stephen Hawking
Phillip in Nairobi
Is forced to lobby
With corrupt controllers of the system
For his free cancer treatment
Nevertheless stays encumbered
His days are numbered
He has no wherewithal
To go to a better hospital
In Mexico
The blue sky of girls destitute
Get imprisoned in dark cells
No, actually sheer hell
Of flesh trade
A huge global population Is demented
The world is fragmented
Gravely disproportionately
Right from the ages of amoeba
Till today’s human ova
Trees are stripped of their bark
Stark naked a major part of the world
In frustration I sometimes do scream
Nevertheless dream too
For a perfect world
Enabling all to unfurl
Leaving none deprived
Of a health-packed miniscule yellow sun
On every breakfast dish
And no hashish
May be it will take
Many more centuries to make
An even ground
For Prometheus unbound
------------------------------------------
Dear, can’t you recall
how we’d thought our love would grow?
Your touch would enthrall
me through long days; moon’s warm glow -
Where did summer’s solstice go?
How will I ever find the wherewithal
to hold on through each coming lonely night?
My heart is hollow now, but holds no light,
and autumn’s sky too soon will cast its pall.
Abounding love and sun are gone. How small
will be the days to come. How much less bright!
How will I ever find the wherewithal
to hold on through each coming lonely night?
In fragrant blush of June, to garden wall
I’d run, your sunflower smile in my sight.
How can I stop my mind from taking flight -
so lost in thought of when we had it all;
how will I ever find the wherewithal?
Form:
Darkness
In a quiet room the darkness encircles all
The slightest of shadows seemly abounds
Your eyes grappling to focus wherewithal
You become attuned to all the subtle sounds
Within the shadows lurk your deepest fears
In childhood memories of forgotten tales
Once again fearsome efficiencies appears
In your imagination, within all gruesome details
Deep within the psyche of the blackest hearts
There is this darkness where hate controls
Somehow hurt turning into anger imparts
Buried deep within their tortured souls
Perhaps that they not know the harm that they do
When consumed by only hate in their tortured souls
Controlled by past events they have lived through
Deep seated anger and hate takes many tolls
Darkness takes on form in many strange ways
Be it the void of all light, in a black, lonely space
Or the blackest of souls, of all those that betrays
Darkness can change into light within a loving grace
Written: August 07, 2023
______________________________________________________________
Within the depths of soliloquy,
A voice unfolds in a sempiternal plea,
Seeking solace in the scintilla of rhyme,
Guiding us through the corridors of time.
In surreptitious whispers, it speaks,
Through every word, a story leaks,
A wafture of emotions, raw and true,
Revealing secrets, hidden from view.
With every verse, it finds the wherewithal,
To heal the wounds, both vast and thrall,
To mend the fragments of a woebegone heart,
And bestow solace to those torn apart.
Yet, some may anathemize its power,
Dismiss it as mere words, fleeting and sour,
But in the hush of its aphonic grace,
Lies the strength to heal and embrace.
Whispers of the soul, they hold the key,
To unlock the chains that bind us free,
To transcend the boundaries of the mind,
And find sanctuary in the words we find.
In the soliloquy of our deepest sought,
The sempiternal whispers cannot be bought.
They are the scintilla of truth and light,
Guiding us through the darkest of nights.
With surreptitious grace, they dance,
Leaving behind a lasting trance,
A wafture of hope, love, and peace,
Easing the burdens that never cease.
I am no saint at all, but still I think my good
outweighs my bad. These are some gifts God gave to me:
Loyalty, resilience, and tolerance (many trials I have withstood).
I’m conscientious, and I have the nice ability
to hear and understand. Bearing no grudge, I forgive most easily.
The bad in me I also can easily confess.
I value my alone time, so never will you see me crowned
with glory for much service work; in fact, my laziness
extends to my own housework. Lastly, I let myself get pushed around,
so there are times I really wish that I had stood my ground.
A neighbor once observed me when I was very small.
She told my mom, “That child’s special.” Mother thought so too.
Hearing this repeatedly gave me the wherewithal
to persevere and be consistent, always striving to be true
to who I am; I hope it shows in things I say and do.
2/28/2020
Written: July 5th, 2026, for a contest sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
*****************
Line of inquiry:
“Of the fact we are alive, we are sure
All else scriptures say, may or may not be
So presence vibrant, heart pure and demure
As formless awareness we become free”
******************
Hagioscopic hymn to the Divine kernel
We keep God-search accessible,
yet the cosmos cleaves yield when we gaze —
a hagioscopic hush, an oculus of golden light
thrumming over the welkin as an ariose aria.
All else may fall asunder,
but the Divine remains the ductile, eternal nexus
where every archetype melts into exegesis,
where endogenous ardor swells to a plexus.
Call it aurora, call it elixir, call it Elysium —
the Source supervises every epoch,
collocating our chaos with its capacious calm,
turning our dismal nest into blithe, balmy rising joy.
We are peripatetic flâneurs,
panting through labyrinthine days,
beleaguered by ephemera, beset by fatuous fears,
yet happiness morphs only when we aurify the heart
and let the Divine’s mirific mettle press into our clay.
For without that empyreal embrocation,
we writhe in desuetude —
a ruinous simulacrum of ourselves,
gripped by gnawing doubts,
careening through the clamor and clangor of the world.
But with it —
with that svelte, sylphlike, shimmering connection —
even the stygian gloaming grows gossamer,
even weariness winnows into wistful felicity,
even our molten moiety of sorrow turns comfort.
So let the Divine be our vade mecum,
our velvet panacea, our veridical panoply of peace.
Let its sonorous ardor regale our spirits,
its mellifluous mercy inure our wounds,
its lapidary light aurify our days.
For happiness is not a clod of chance,
nor a knavish chimera,
but the salient, sacred truth:
we thrive only when we tether our hearts
to the empyrean wherewithal that made us.
And in that connection —
that luminous, living nexus —
we become blithely, buoyantly,
free.
A smile is a dozen roses,
Given to the one who sits beside,
Eliciting a different mood,
A ray of light filtering through a dark room.
A smile is a box of chocolates,
Given to that one who sits alone,
Homeless and hungry,
Waiting to be embraced.
A smile is an umbrella,
Over that one caught in the open,
The windows open for a down rush,
No shelter in sight.
A smile is a helicopter,
Brought to rescue someone lost in a desert,
Parched and spent,
Hope is frail and threadbare.
A smile is a scholarship,
Given to the indigent,
Desirous to be enlightened,
The wherewithal is not at reach.
A smile is sitting in a garden,
Surrounded by nature's beauties,
Basking in their fragrance,
Enthralled by their pigment and hue.
A smile is giving someone a lift,
Stranded and distraught,
Held up in the middle of nowhere,
The journey is a lengthy mile.
A smile is turning the corner,
Ravaged by a debilitating illness,
Comfort and joy stole,
The mind is in desperate search of an escape.
A smile is a return home,
Peace has pulled apart the curtains,
It has made its grand entry,
Turmoil has taken a bow.
A smile is embracing our differences,
Weaving our fabrics together,
Mixing our colours,
To make a beautiful portrait.
October 8, 2022.
Our children
By Franklin Price
12/30/2015
Our children are our legacy
They are what we have raised
If they do well because of that
It is they who should be praised
We must give all we can to them
Not claim we did it all
For when they reach a certain point
It's for them to rise or fall
They either have the wherewithal
Or may fall a little short
It's theirs for them to do or not
The ball is in their court
Don't ruin being part of it
Trying to control just how they act
They're grown and they are on their own
With them you should make a pact
Support them every way you can
Not for any selfish need
Give because you love them
And help the tree grow from the seed
They'll always be your babies
But you have to let them go
Or you'll end up having nothing
From a child you don't even know
Eldest daughter – I Praise
Twenty two years ago
December twenty second,
two thousand eighteen
"star student" born
this papa (and most
likely thee birth mother)
initially felt ecstatic,
dramatic (yes frenetic),
and careworn
as freshly minted parents,
but gifted with a daughter,
whose existence far
more precious
than any Earthborn
rare widgets, gewgaws,
gems, et cetera, despite
evoking unsolicited,
unpleasant, and
unmanageable forlorn
communication "dirt poor"
living (at least ten years
of wretchedness at 1148
Greentree Lane) unable
to toot your horn,
cuz unbearable, undesirable,
unforgettable, et cetera,
and manifold challenged ,
when beloved Shana
Punim evinced inborn
developmental delay,
(which severe electric
koolaid acid test
patience of this father),
much more difficult
than playing krummhorn,
now after tendering the trials
and tribulations, an
amalgamation of
poignant affects,
whereat your
permanent presence...
(must never NOT precede mine),
cuz..., I would definitely mourn,
your absence, thus felt the timely
opportunity to dash off
a birthday poem to you
in tandem with sharing,
(while comfortably numb
and figuratively licking war
torn psychological wombs) - torn
and ripped, queued,
peppered natty psyche
pockmarked with scorn
from self, (and those lives,
this dada immediately
impacted) particularly
your person roar'n
with cumulative anger toward
this insightful fellow,
(who claims to know
what thee feel toward me),
especially when ****
hours of valuable
time, now caught
(say, eh...approximately, fraught
upon the half life of rare Earth
element Eden), not
just strictly naught
heard thru the grapevine,
but forcing Math (hew)
analysis, via meditation, poetry
writing therapy, et cetera.
Hence...I apologize,
asper unasked for pain wrought
thee, sans being unemployed,
demeaning "mother Abby,"
bumbling, horrid house
keeper (Hagrid himself,
would turn down invitation),
plus Facebook fiasco,
imbroglio, and locomotive -
complicit in behavior
comparable to pedophile,
yet please let me conclude
by admitting total lack
of wherewithal.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR DAUGHTER!
*Image of Hellboy II: The Golden Army by Wallpaper Flare.
AUDIO: Tip; Right-click on volume then click on Loop of the drop-down menu for continuous play.
The Gret of Regret, Soliloquy
I remember, but naught too well, the first time of Hellboy, an earthy creature, a-must-be, heaven would naught have created a being such as he, and after all, he's naught an "it", oh no, for he thinks -- methinks, much too straight-forwardly and on his feet to boot. Move before they do and always get to the upper hand of things, seems to be his John Madden playbook of the '70s. Why bother with logic and reason when Hellboy is dealing with fragile minds bent on world conquest.
The Golden Army, the Hellboy movie I've seen some years ago when my kids, were kids -- and I being the eldest. Vagueness plagues me to no end, but the inkling gist was a brother and sister duo, but sadly, naught so much so, for sister played her own brother and teamed with Hellboy instead. The telltale sign envisioned in the frat's eyes, being the wherewithal, their Ides of March to be -- in arrears, of betrayal. To be undone by the one, by the very one.
Life can be fleeting but we came to know that honor fleets faster. Though the appearance of its angle for the perspective of the movie was considered simply as a sidetrack sorta thing, yet in and of itself, became the films main attraction, piquing interest within the audiences already situated in full enjoyment of the twist, and how it will all play out in that, edge-of-the-seat moment. Alas, ambiguity wins at the end, for death did occur, but whose? Naught Hellboy, I'm certain of that!
2022 January 28
*2nd Place*
Mignolaverse
~~Robert James Liguori: Judged 2022 January 31