Long Wincing Poems
Long Wincing Poems. Below are the most popular long Wincing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wincing poems by poem length and keyword.
“Simon, do you love me more than all these?”
“Yes Lord,” he replied while sensing a tease,
“You know that I love you.”
“Feed my lambs if you do.”
Peter then began to feel ill at ease.
“Simon, can you be sure that you love me?”
“You know that I love you, won't you agree?”
“If you will be my friend,
then to my sheep attend.”
Peter was wincing but could not foresee –
a third time Jesus would lower the bar.
“So do you like me. Can you go that far?”
Now Peter was hurting
and suddenly blurting,
“You know I love you, to ask seems bizarre.”
Again Jesus said to him, “Feed my sheep.
Now truly I tell you, once you could leap,
but when you are older
you'll lean on the shoulder
of someone who'll take you into the deep.”
John 21.15-18
Twin “Tee” Poems for a twenty-dollar bet, yet better than the setup in this setting
Begin
You have hurt feelings
Been in shady dealings
The consequences
Fence us in
Abuse
Something strangely
Is deranged
How will my baby
Be the same
Ambition
Somewhat crazy
Out of use
I am NOT lazy
I will NOT lose
Loss
In a dark existence
It seems like no one listens
Losing so much power
Hour after hour
Good life
Rock and roll and women
The gifts we have been given
Poetry for our souls
None of it ever gets old
Poetry NOT proses
Finding out the meaning
Of what a video is streaming
While children run around screaming
I sit with a finger up my nose
Game
Being a teacher
While standing in the bleachers
Cheering on students
Doctor
Sick as a damned dog
Going to the appointment
It is somewhat a relief
Overwhelmed
I have a few followers
Appreciation comes after creation
There is always a new realization
Favor
I took some pictures
I wrote a book for my mother
It did not help myself or my brother
Yet it still worked wonders
The gift
Her Mom is NOT hot as a soul
This is what I have allotted I have been told
Still, what can be brought?
Sharp
Putting on a suit,
Learning to tie a tie,
Just being a guy...
Fate
Waking up late
I have an important date
Just one more mistake
New Love
Hitting second base
A pretty girl in my face
All I do is chase
Starving
Playing guitar
Feeling like a star
So far,
It has been very hard
Queen
Prince’s wincing,
At the messed-up world,
Someone is hinting,
On what can be unfurled...
Teacher
Slowly scraping
Across the blackboard...
It is like being raped as a whore...
Behavior
Say, “Yes ma’am...”
I say, “God damn!”
Is this a sham???
Or part of another scam...
Blackout
Strip club member
You do NOT remember???
What you did?
You are a ed-up kid...
Fake
Friends turn on you
You can barely trust anyone
All you can to is to pretend
In the end
On gin we depend...
Mere faith in oneself
is not enough to build strength,
confidence makes one thrive;
leave all failures on the shelf!
Fear makes a liar shrive,
he's afraid of a wavelength!
Survival is not frivolity,
rather a required amenity
to instill confidence in us;
take grit and defy doubts!
Plan ahead your long-dreamed journey,
either in outer space or on high seas;
captains are never afraid of dangers:
how thrilling can be a new discovery!
Do I have an unabating regret to promptly confess?
It lies in this wincing and baffled soul so restless!
Adventure should have evinced my true excitement;
did anyone perceive the eagerness that wasn't silent?
I set the table; I did not.
The pourer did. The poor did not.
The seats are cold; merlot is warm.
The pourer asks; there are replies,
sips, guzzles, sighs, manners.
I am satisfied as each one’s drunk.
The pourer leaps from spot to spot,
wincing, squinting, craving approval.
I smile; I nod; with each intonation, accent,
sound of a lady and a gentleman.
The table is set quite elaborate; each course,
choice: salad, pork, dessert.
The hour becomes late;
drunkenness from each glass poured.
I am satisfied by the pourer; rich
with the scent of merlot and more.
He’s the only one left of my friends.
The seats are cold; he is warm.
My eyes are half closed for I fear to see
what worry and anxiety have made of me.
All day I have been twisted out of shape,
wincing at my disheveled appearance.
Life has taken a toll with its interference.
My mirrored face is a prism, a color spectrum,
frazzled reflections of the paths I've traveled.
It's no wonder I look completely unraveled
and seem to be moving in opposite directions.
I'm an abstract work of art, hastily brushed
with my own hand when I'm feeling rushed.
Blue when sadness tears my world in two,
Cadmium yellow on days when I feel mellow.
When anger tints darkness on my soul, my cheeks
are flushed with shades of pink. It's been weeks
since I've felt bold enough to paint with oils.
Misfortune leaves me feeling like used tin foil
or memories that should be buried in the soil.
I have need to gather all of my frazzled thoughts
and loosen them from the ropes that tether me.
Too many worries have wrinkled my facial parts
and from spying eyes that I despise, I need to be free.
I hate that I can write this
Because it means on one level or another
One of us failed the other
Or perhaps we failed ourselves
Did I ever know I'd be your tragic hero?
It's hard to predict when digging oneself out of mud takes precedence
Exhuming myself from my then-current title
And plot points that led me to be buried
It's astounding how a porcupine can truly live
Where the two stand at quill's length
Cautious yet enamored
Wincing as small wounds get deeper
It's further astounding that I parade myself as God
And that I've convinced myself so thoroughly of the lie
That even when hiding the simplest thought as deep as possible
You still managed to cling to the belief
Follow the god that failed you
Or is it you who has failed God?
Has any slight actually been committed
Or are we both so hopelessly tangled in our own stories?
Did I ever know you'd be my tragic hero?
Equal parts pity, equal parts fear
And I let my sun shine bright
With the basic facts of what you are
To fetishize the basic tenants of human courtesy
Did I unintentionally put you on a pedestal?
But I know you've always subscribed to the same flavor of fear
With its ever more generous delivery dates
Perhaps I'm the one being infantilized
How strong are your convictions that you're so convinced you could kill me?
Through daring to show emotion when I beg you to be flamboyant with it
Exactly how hard are you worried you'll hit me?
Thus in the end, we are tragic heroes
You mistake silence for a child's crib
A permanent safe spot for me
To sleep when you're afraid to open up
So here I am, again a tragic hero
Is my mistake thinking that love is for me?
When simply existing is enough
To turn the brightest dawn into dusk.
One glorious, sun-drenched, thirsty December day,
I sat, numbed with the agedness of a visitor, and
Fumed eloquently with joy for the benefit of the
Seine – the ointment of Paris.
Somewhere along the gritty line laid bare by sere weeds
Of winter,
A restless tranter eulogised:
“Ce est Paris!”
From the whistling, grating metro to the navel of
Elevated Eiffel, the tall, metallic maiden,
I saw frantic beauty.
I inhaled the peace of the atrium, sighting
Our Dame....
“Ce est Paris!”
The voice, girly, and with the earnestness
Of chivalrous youth, came again, cold and soft,
Just the way of a sprightly winter.
Turning, I saw Paris in full nakedness of her beauty, like
A priceless fresco hanging from the sky.
“Do you need company?” The tranter anglicised her French.
In one gulp I swallowed the pride of Paris.
“Hmmm!” I grunted, wincing loudly from brio,
Counting my woes should I plod away to the red light areas,
“Give me Shakespeare and Company”.
Anti Establishmentarian - hashtags himself as antithetical
I stand, (albeit figuratively) athwart
current mainstream popular opinions concluded
(i.e. swirling) within
metaphorical eddies storied Senate high court
case in point constituting acquittal regarding
good and plenti jinxed
high crimes and misdemeanors
purportedly linkedin quid pro quo
president Donald John Trump,
whereby Republican partisan tipping point
ultimately decreed triumph
able, eager, ready, and willing to escort
kickstarting naysayers, rebel rousers,
and woebegone yawping zealots
(think Democrats) courtesy,
a fictional humanoid robot christened Gort
first debut appearance in 1951
20th Century Fox American science
fiction film The Day the Earth Stood Still.
Smug mugshot depicts
victorious commander in chief with jutting jaw
can now figuratively wring his hands
(more resembling puffed wheat bear paw)
whereat he reveals sharp glistening
barbed freighted, galvanized pointed claw
daring any elected official to follow scofflaw
(think Nancy Pelosi, who got hustled off -
her role as speaker of the House
security details immediately did withdraw
faster than greased lightning,
and/or Quick Draw Mcgraw
after she ripped Trump’s
State of the Union speech),
she definitely decreed guilty of fas paux
undoubtedly wincing how she got raw
end concerning high stakes Art of the Deal.
Drama under domed capital suddenly
(hello kitty) meow my
tectonically shifted analogous
to hydrogen bomb that fell out of sky
starring loose cannon shot
supremely above United States government law,
oh my dog I wanna die
versus enduring four more years,
one garden variety generic guy
who doth agonizingly decry
what will become of truth tellers forced to lie
thru their teeth...
er (yours truly) dentures, whereby
that will pose no deterrent for bluetooth to spy
every painstaking action cumulative data
nowhere off limits, yupper even
becoming American as apple pie
plus embedded into skein of ordinary house fly,
thus essentially fomenting grassroots
freedom fighting militia to stave off doom...
analogous as one after another protesters
dangle over the River Kwai.
Elle laissa tomber une de ses pantoufles de verre, que le prince ramassa bien soigneusement. (Perrault’s tale)
SOUL SLIPPER
magnificent her slipper —
slender, arched, flawless,
resplendent of soul (embodied
the right) a drift of gentle snow
fell as the midnight hand stole
a moon-pale foot, forgiven
of its comfy glass —
with a swarovski sparkle,
possibility of forever-after,
if found and delivered
to the lass with platinum hair —
long and luxurious; diamondiferous
cascade of gown - ankle-sweet.
the royal hound buried it...well
he should have, according to
the snooty stepsisters and their
mother, but instead the perfect soul
at the top of the landing, reminder
of Ella’s smile that bewitched
the adorable prince charming.
curious, he coddles the scenic
looking glass of remembrance —
in love with her tootsie reflection.
the royal hound hunts her down,
sniffs out her kissable perfume,
snarls at the frankenstein-family.
a clever mouse knocks over
a lovely bouquet of wildflowers,
sheltered upstairs where nobody
cares, except the cheese nibblers
well cared for by the classy lass.
released by the princely command,
posed beside the wincing sibs,
she patently slides on hers.
8/28/2020
Contest - Soul Slipper
Sponsor - Kai Neumann
Watch out,
the corners of our eyes are in danger
of being nakedly exposed.
Evening dropped out of the sky
a lot quicker today.
A slap-dashing gush of last minutes,
as shoppers charged around each other.
The season demands good cheer and
a tightly wrapped hysertia.
The shop lights pull us in,
but out here where the cars
are edging in and out,
rear mirrors
and on-board computers
are our only life rafts.
We dodge the rushing shadows,
still wincing from the too happy laughter,
backing away ever so carefully
and as hurriedly as we dare,
into the electronically
flickering night.